Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR3MJ8C4CJSVWVC6AY5BD9

The insistent rap of knuckles against her door vibrated through the cheap wood, an unwelcome intrusion into the late-afternoon quiet. Aurora Carter, or Rory as she preferred, sighed, pushing aside a stack of overdue bills on her small kitchen table. She glanced at the clock on the microwave: 4:17 PM. Too early for a friendly knock, too late for most deliveries. Her mind immediately went to Silas, her downstairs neighbor, always forgetting his keys. She padded barefoot to the door, her black shoulder-length hair falling across her face. A quick glance through the peephole revealed not Silas’s rumpled uniform, but a stranger. He was tall—taller than her five-foot-six frame—with a shock of platinum blond hair slicked back from a sharp, angular face. His eyes, even through the distorted lens, seemed to catch the dim light of the hallway, one a startling amber, the other a void of black. She didn’t recognize him. But there was something about the cut of his charcoal suit, the way he held himself with an almost feline grace, that snagged her attention. He rapped again, a little harder this time. Rory hesitated. It was probably a mistake. Some salesman, or worse, someone looking for the previous tenant. Still, the relentless knocking felt like a challenge. With a final, decisive breath, she reached for the deadbolts, flicking them open one by one. The third one protested with a rusty groan before yielding. The door swung inward, revealing the man in full. He was even more striking up close. The heterochromatic eyes, now in clear focus, were mesmerizing, unsettling. A thin, knowing smile played on his lips, hinting at secrets and amusement. He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over her, taking in the worn band t-shirt, the faded jeans, the stray strands of black hair escaping her ponytail. “Aurora Carter?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, tinged with an accent she couldn’t quite place. French, perhaps? Rory’s brow furrowed. “Who’s asking?” she replied, her voice tight. She kept her hand on the doorknob, ready to slam it shut if necessary. His smile widened slightly, a flash of white teeth. “A… concerned party. I was told you might be able to assist me.” “Assist you with what?” She wasn’t in the mood for vagueness. Besides, the way he looked at her… it wasn’t aggressive, but it was intensely appraising, like he was cataloging every detail. It made her skin prickle. He took a half-step forward, stopping just short of crossing the threshold. “Information. Of a particular kind. The kind that doesn’t find its way into public records.” He gestured vaguely with a gloved hand, and Rory noticed, for the first time, the ivory-handled cane he carried. It looked more like an accessory than a walking aid. Rory’s mind raced. Information? She delivered Pad Thai and Kung Pao Chicken for a living. The most sensitive information she handled was the best route to avoid traffic on a Friday night. “I think you’ve got the wrong person,” she said, her tone firm. She began to close the door. “Ah, but have I?” he countered, his voice almost a purr. He produced a small, embossed card from within his suit jacket and held it out. Rory’s eyes flickered to it, but she didn’t take it. The embossing was intricate, a stylized crest she didn’t recognize. “Lucien Moreau,” he read, as if sensing her hesitation. “At your service.” Lucien Moreau. The name meant nothing to her. “I don’t deal in… whatever it is you’re selling,” she insisted, pushing the door a little further. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping conspiratorially. “I’m not selling, Ms. Carter. I’m acquiring. And I believe we have… common interests.” The phrase hung in the air, loaded with implication. Common interests? What could this immaculately dressed stranger possibly have in common with a law school dropout working at an ethnic restaurant? Unless… Unless he knew about Silas. But Silas kept to himself, a shadow who dealt in shadows. This man, with his unnerving eyes and tailored suit, seemed to operate in a different stratosphere. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she repeated, her hand tightening on the knob. She could feel her heart begin to pound, a frantic bird trapped in her chest. His smile softened, losing some of its sharp edges, replaced by something that might have been regret, or perhaps just weariness. “Eva’s flat was… rather difficult to locate. The old numbers are no longer in use, it seems.” The mention of Eva’s name pierced Rory’s carefully constructed indifference like an icicle. Eva. Her best friend, the one who’d pulled her out of Cardiff, out of Evan’s orbit, out of her own suffocating despair. Eva, who lived in that impossibly cluttered flat on Brick Lane, surrounded by books and arcane symbols. “You know Eva?” Rory blurted out, forgetting for a moment her caution. Lucien’s eyes seemed to darken, the amber deepening, the black becoming an abyss. “Eva. Yes. A… mutual acquaintance.” He paused, his gaze flicking back to her. “And it is because I know Eva, and therefore know of you, that I believe you can help me. Eva mentioned you might be in London. Working. Discreetly.” Discreetly? Was that what Eva had called her? Rory felt a flush creep up her neck. Discreet work and late-night deliveries were hardly in the same category. “Eva talks too much,” she said, trying to regain control of the conversation, to push him back out into the hallway. “Perhaps,” Lucien conceded easily. “But she is also remarkably observant. And she worried. About you.” Worry. The word landed like a stone in Rory’s gut. Eva had always worried. Rory had tried to assure her she was fine, just… finding her feet. But “finding her feet” still involved dodging bill collectors and counting pennies. “Look,” she said, forcing a brittle smile. “I appreciate the concern, sincerely. But I’m doing okay. You’ve clearly mistaken me for someone else. I’m just—” “You’re not, Aurora,” Lucien interrupted, his voice losing its suave veneer, a hint of exasperation creeping in. “You’re Rory. Eva told me about Evan. She told me how you refused to let him break you. And then you vanished. She’s been looking for you ever since.” Evan. The name made Rory flinch, a phantom echo of pain. She hadn’t thought about him in months, had deliberately buried him under layers of late nights and greasy takeout menus. How did this stranger know? “I told Eva everything was fine,” she said, her voice dangerously quiet. “And Eva, bless her chaotic heart, believed you. But I don’t always do well with ‘fine’ when ‘fine’ involves a young woman working herself to the bone to escape a rather unpleasant past and a rather dangerous ex-boyfriend. Especially when that young woman has… potential.” Potential. What potential? She was a delivery driver with a law degree she’d never use. She lived above a bar and her closest companion was a tabby cat named Ptolemy, who belonged to Eva anyway. “What do you want?” she asked, the question raw and sharp. Lucien looked at her, his expression unreadable. He seemed to weigh his next words carefully. “There are… currents beneath the surface of this city, Ms. Carter. Forces that most people never glimpse. Eva treads these waters. So, it seems, do you. Perhaps without realizing it.” Rory’s gaze fell to her left wrist, the pale crescent scar a faint ghost from a childhood tumble. She’d always felt drawn to the unusual, the unexplained, the things that lurked just beyond the ordinary. Eva had been the one to finally give shape to those feelings, to introduce her to a world of which Rory had only had vague intuitions. “I’m not looking for trouble,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Trouble, it seems, has a way of finding us all,” Lucien replied, his gaze never leaving hers. He gestured with his chin towards her flat. “May I come in? The hallway light does little justice to the… intricacies of your situation. And I have a rather pressing need for accurate intelligence.” Her mind screamed at her to bolt the door, to pretend she hadn’t heard him, to run from the unsettling intensity of his presence. But Eva’s name, her worry, echoed louder. And the mystery of this man, his unnerving knowledge, his implied familiarity with the hidden world Eva inhabited… it was a lure she couldn’t quite resist. She stepped back, leaving the doorway open. “Just for a minute,” she warned, her voice tight with apprehension. Lucien Moreau inclined his head, a silent acknowledgment, and stepped inside. The air in the small flat seemed to shift with his presence, growing denser, more charged. He paused, his gaze taking in the cramped living space, the worn sofa, the overflowing bookshelves that had “migrated” from Eva’s—a testament to their shared history. He took in more than she expected, his sharp eyes missing nothing. “This is not where Eva lives,” he stated, his voice even. He wasn’t asking. “No,” Rory admitted, closing the door behind him, the click of the lock a small, almost defeated sound. “It’s mine. I live above Silas’s bar.” Lucien glanced at the door, then back at her. A flicker of something that might have been amusement crossed his face before vanishing. “Ah. Of course. The… establishment.” He ran a gloved hand along the edge of her table, his touch light. “Eva mentioned you were trying to keep a low profile. After… London?” After Evan. The unspoken accusation hung between them, a ghost from the past. Rory’s jaw tightened. “I’m not evading anyone,” she said, her voice deliberately flat. “I’m just… here.” Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes finally settled on her, holding her gaze. There was a keen intelligence in them, a depth that made her feel as though he could see past the delivery uniform and the carefully constructed facade. “Indeed,” he said, his voice softening. “And I have a suspicion that ‘here’ is far more complicated than you let on, even to Eva. Especially now that you’ve stumbled upon… certain things.” He gestured vaguely with his cane. “Things best discussed in private. By people who understand the stakes.” Rory felt a prickle of unease, a premonition she couldn’t quite define. This man, Lucien Moreau, was a danger. But he also held a key, she suspected, to a world she had only glimpsed with Eva, a world filled with the very things that both fascinated and terrified her. And he knew her name. He knew about Evan. He knew about Eva. He knew she wasn’t just a delivery driver. He knew she was Rory. And that, more than anything, was what made her stay.