Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR7EHMG824XQK5K1H3SAMP

The knock rattled the door with an unrelenting streak of impatience. Aurora Carter, lounging on a threadbare armchair in the cluttered chaos of Eva’s flat, glanced toward the doorway, her pulse quickening despite herself. The tiny space was thick with the scent of cumin and old paper, Ptolemy’s tabby silhouette curled atop a stack of research notes. She lifted her chin, steadying her nerves, and then reluctantly pushed to her feet. The knocking persisted, louder now— deliberate, almost insistent—as if whoever stood outside refused to be ignored. Aurora hesitated, her fingers tightening around the worn edge of the table. She knew who it was. But knowing didn’t soften the ache that curled in her stomach. She moved to the door, her boots silent on the uneven floorboards. The chain was long gone, replaced by the three deadbolts—an added layer of security after Evan had haunted her dreams for too long. With a slow breath, she unlocked the first bolt, then the second, and finally the deadbolt clicked free. The door swung open. He was standing there in the dim light—a man wrapped in an air of cool confidence, tailored charcoal suit impeccably pressed, platinum blond hair slicked back as if he’d stepped straight out of some noir film. His cane rested against his leg, ivory-handled blade concealed within; even in the shadowed doorway, his eyes gleamed with sharp alertness, one amber, one black. Lucien Moreau. Aurora’s breath hitched. Not because she was surprised—no, she’d seen him arrive unannounced before—but because of what that unannounced presence always did to her. Her skin prickled with a mixture of apprehension and something else. Something she would never quite allow herself to call hope. He studied her in silence, those mismatched eyes flickering like blinking lamps. The briefest hint of a smile tugged at his lips, but he said nothing. A flicker of disbelief, perhaps—surprise that she was there, that she was still standing, still breathing, after everything. “Lucien,” she said, her voice calmer than she felt, cool enough to coat her discomfort in coolness. “What are you doing here?” He stepped inside just enough to block the doorway, that tailored form exuding a subtle danger. “I could ask you the same thing,” he replied, voice velvety but edged with something unreadable. “Haven’t seen you around for a while. Thought I’d check in.” Aurora closed the door behind him, quietly but firmly. Her eyes darted over his face, searching for clues she refused to acknowledge might still linger beneath that polished veneer. Her mind cataloged memories—the way he’d looked at her once, the way his voice had made her stomach tighten—long buried beneath layers of bitterness and survival. “I’m not sure what you expect me to say,” she managed, voice faint but steady. “I’m busy.” He smirked slightly, stepping closer, and for a moment, she caught the faint scent of citrus and something darker—demon’s blood, maybe, or just the perfume of a man who lived on secrets. “Busy isn’t exactly the word I’d use. But I get it. People change.” Her lips pressed into a thin line. “People hurt each other too. That’s what I remember.” He paused, eyeing her with an intensity that made her shoulders stiffen. “I didn’t come here to reopen old wounds. Well, not entirely. Just… to see if you’re still the person I knew.” Aurora’s gaze hardened. She didn’t want this—didn’t want the weight of those past memories pressing down on her. “What do you want, Lucien?” His smile grew, slow and deliberate, as if tasting her words. “Truthfully? I want to know why you walked away. Why you’ve been hiding behind this”—he gestured vaguely at the small space, the cluttered tables, the books—“world of research and solitude. Because I haven’t forgotten what we had. And I don’t believe you have either.” Her eyes flickered with defiance, but beneath that, something softer—hazards of old history. She shifted, stepping away from the door and into the cramped room. “What I wanted… what I need… isn’t what you think it is. The past, Lucien — it’s better left where it belongs.” He tilted his head, the faint curl of a smile playing around his lips. “Better left buried? Or better ignored?” His tone was almost gentle—an unspoken challenge. Aurora looked away for a moment, eyes catching on Ptolemy, the tabby curled silently on a heap of books. Her heart thudded, uneven, as she grappled with this mess of feelings—the unspoken longing, the years of loss, the anger she kept buried so deep she barely remembered how to feel anything else anymore. And then she drew a breath, steadier. “I’ve changed, Lucien. Maybe I was someone else before. Someone who believed in things—people—who could hurt you in ways you don’t even understand yet. I can’t go back to that. Not anymore.” He stepped closer, invading her space without seeming to do so, his gaze steady. “We don’t have to go back. Just… tell me what’s real now. That’s all I want.” A cruel part of her wanted to push him away, to slam the door shut on all those memories threatening to surface. But another part—one she thought she’d crushed long ago—wanted this, wanted to hear some scrap of truth, some fragment of the person she’d once almost believed she was. Her voice was quieter now, almost resigned. “Some things are better kept secret. Some ghosts… they don’t stay dead no matter how much you wish they would.” Lucien’s eyes softened just slightly, as if in acknowledgment of her pain. He reached into his coat pocket, producing a small object—something shiny, wrapped in a cloth. “Just… for a moment. A reminder,” he said softly. “No matter what’s happened, I haven’t forgotten what we shared. Or what you mean to me.” He extended it toward her, a fragile offering, and she hesitated—caught between instinct and surrender. Her hand fluttered up, trembling slightly, before she reached out and accepted the gift. Her fingertips brushed against the cloth as she unwrapped it cautiously. Inside was an old, silver locket—familiar, battered, bearing the initials they’d carved into it as teenagers. Her breath caught, eyes watering despite herself. “Don’t pretend,” he said quietly. “That it doesn’t still mean something. Because it does. To both of us.” Aurora swallowed the thick lump rising in her throat. Her fingers brushed the tiny scar on her wrist, a childhood accident that still echoed in small, silent ways. She looked back at Lucien, her eyes bright with unshed emotions she refused to name. For a moment, the world outside the cramped flat seemed to hush. The noise of London dimmed, and in that fragile silence, she wondered if maybe—just maybe—some ghosts weren’t meant to be buried forever.