Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR9D2EVQ3YS2926X4WCP8B

The sharp rap on the door sent Aurora jolting, nearly dropping the steaming mug of tea she’d been cradling. It was late. Much too late for unexpected visitors. Her flat, perched above Silas’s bar, usually settled into a comforting, low-frequency rumble of distant voices and clinking glasses by this hour. But this was a solid, insistent sound, out of sync with the usual rhythm of her life. Setting the mug down on a precarious stack of books, she smoothed the front of her oversized band t-shirt and glanced at the warped reflection in the dark glass of the oven. A quick tug at her shoulder-length black hair, a swipe of a hand over the faint crescent scar on her left wrist she always felt was more prominent than it was, and she was padding across the worn floorboards. Three deadbolts, Eva had insisted, were necessary. Aurora had never argued. Eva’s insistence had saved her once. She peered through the peephole, heart giving an awkward lurch. Against the dim glow of the hallway light, leaning casually, impeccably, against her doorframe, stood Lucien Moreau. His platinum blond hair was slicked back as always, revealing the sharp planes of his face and the improbable contrast of his heterochromatic eyes – one amber, one black – that seemed to draw the very light from the hall. Even in the grainy distortion of the peephole, he looked like he belonged in a fashion magazine, not on the grimy landing outside her London flat. He held his ivory-handled cane, the smooth curve of the handle a familiar, unsettling presence. Aurora swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. Lucien. She hadn’t seen him in… what was it? Six months? Seven? The number felt both impossibly long and shamefully short. He’d vanished as abruptly as he’d arrived, a whirlwind of sharp words, unexpected tenderness, and a danger that had coiled tight in her gut from the moment they met. She’d told herself she’d been relieved. That the complications he brought were too much for her already precarious London existence. That she was safer without him. With a sigh that was more resignation than frustration, she unlatched the first deadbolt, then the second, the metal groaning in protest. The third clicked open, and she pulled the door inward. He straightened, her movements mirroring hers with a disquieting grace. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, a purely performative gesture that didn't quite reach those unsettling eyes. “Aurora,” he said, his voice a low, resonant murmur that never failed to send a shiver down her spine. It was tinged with the faintest of French accents, a subtle melody that made even his name sound exotic. “Lucien,” she replied, her voice carefully neutral, betraying none of the sudden tremor in her hands. She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to project an air of calm she was far from feeling. “What a surprise. And at this hour.” He took a step forward, and she instinctively flinched back, though she told herself it was just the limited space. He didn't push, blessedly. Instead, he gestured to the overflowing bookshelves that lined her small living room, the scattered scrolls, the general organized chaos that was Eva’s domain. “I was told you might be here. Or rather, that Eva might be. And that you often… accompany her.” Aurora’s brow furrowed. Eva. Of course. Eva, with her uncanny ability to sniff out trouble, and her unwavering loyalty that had pulled Aurora from a life she’d desperately wanted to escape. “Eva’s… indisposed,” she said, choosing her words carefully. She hadn't seen Eva in days. Her friend had mentioned taking off on some arcane research trip. “And I’m currently occupied. With tea.” She gestured vaguely at the mug still sitting on the books. Lucien’s gaze swept over her, lingering for a fraction of a second on the faded logo of the Golden Empress restaurant printed on her t-shirt. He knew her routine. He knew these small details of her life, just as she knew the precise angle of his jawline, the subtle way his finely tailored suits never seemed to wrinkle, the faint scent of expensive cologne that always accompanied him. “Occupied with tea,” he repeated, his tone arch. “A formidable occupation, I’m sure. Especially after a night of delivering… what was it? Kung Pao chicken?” The jab, so casual, so typically Lucien, hit its mark. It was a reminder of their divergent worlds, of the gulf he so easily bridged and she felt so keenly. “Someone has to pay the rent,” she said, her voice hardening. “And unlike some people, I don’t have a… a clandestine network of informants and a platinum card to fund my lifestyle.” His eyes narrowed, the amber one seeming to catch the dim light with an almost predatory gleam. “And yet, my dear Aurora, here I am, seeking *you*. Not Eva. Not her occult library. You.” He took another slow step, closing the distance between them, his cane tapping softly on the worn wood. He was taller than her, and in this cramped space, his presence felt… overwhelming. “There’s a matter I believe requires your particular, shall we say, *unique* skillset.” Aurora held his gaze, refusing to back down. His words were a siren song, a dangerous lure. She’d made a promise to herself in the quiet darkness of her London flat, a promise to stay away from men like him, men who dealt in shadows and secrets, men who could so easily unravel her. But the flicker he ignited in her, the spark of curiosity, of something far more potent and terrifying, was hard to extinguish. “My skillset,” she echoed, a wry smile finally touching her lips, a genuine one this time, if a little sardonic. “You mean my ability to notice things other people miss? My knack for finding the most unlikely solutions?” “Precisely,” he purred, his gaze dropping to her scarred wrist, a subtle acknowledgment that sent a fresh wave of heat up her arm. He remembered. Of course, he remembered. “And your… admirable composure under pressure? Your refusal to be overly dramatic?” He glanced pointedly at the half-dead spider plant wilting precariously on the windowsill. “When faced with even the most… common of garden pests.” She resisted the urge to swat his arm away. “What is it, Lucien?” she asked, cutting to the chase. The dancing, the veiled insults, the echoes of their past – it was all a preamble. They both knew it. He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper, the scent of expensive cologne and something else, something dark and ancient, filling her senses. “There’s a new player in town, Aurora. A rather unpleasant individual. He thinks he can waltz into London and start shaking things up. And he’s made the mistake of… interfering with certain arrangements that happen to involve people I care about.” Her mind, always quick to process, was already running through possibilities. Interfere with who? What arrangements? Lucien Moreau wasn't the type to care about ‘shaking things up’ unless it directly affected his meticulously constructed empire of information. “And how do I fit into this grand scheme of yours?” His amber eye seemed to deepen. “You owe me a favor, Aurora.” The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken history. A favor. Yes, there was that. A life-debt, really, though he’d never framed it that way. He’d pulled her out of a truly desperate situation in Marseille with a calmness that had unnerved her, and then had simply… disappeared, leaving her with a strange mix of gratitude and a gnawing sense of unfinished business that had haunted her ever since. She’d never had the chance to repay him. And he’d never asked. Until now. “That was a long time ago,” she said, her voice low. “Time is a relative construct, wouldn’t you agree?” he countered, his smile sharp now, predatory. “Especially for those of us who exist… outside of its conventional confines.” He stepped back, giving her a sliver of much-needed breathing room. “This new player. His name is Viktor Thorne. And he has something that belongs to me.” Aurora’s mind raced. She’d heard the name Thorne whispered in hushed tones in certain corners of the supernatural underbelly – a collector, a dealer in rare and dangerous artifacts, more ruthless than anyone. “You collect more than just information, don’t you, Lucien?” He shrugged elegantly. “One could say that. Thorne is… ambitious. And he’s decided to make his mark by acquiring things he shouldn't. A certain grimoire, to be precise. One that, as it happens, contains a spell I’ve been looking for.” A grimoire. That explained Eva’s research notes, the esoteric texts that filled the flat. Eva had been studying ancient spells, protective wards, anything to keep the encroaching darkness at bay. Had Thorne somehow stumbled upon Eva’s work? “And you think this Thorne has it now?” “I believe he recently acquired it. From a less-than-reputable source. And my… sources indicate that he had a brief encounter with Eva recently. Involving a rather heated discussion about the ownership of said grimoire.” Aurora’s breath hitched. Eva. Of course, it involved Eva. Her friend, perpetually in the thick of it, always a step ahead, or a step behind the most dangerous forces at play. “Has Eva…?” “Eva is quite safe,” Lucien interrupted smoothly, seeing the alarm in her eyes. “For now. Though Thorne is persistent. And I suspect he’ll be less inclined toward polite conversation on his next visit.” He met her anxious gaze. “Which is why I’m here. Thorne is cunning, Aurora. But he’s not you. You have a way of seeing the… angles. The blind spots. You find the overlooked details. And I need you to find where he’s taken that grimoire.” She looked at him, at the polished veneer of concern beneath the calculated charm, and felt a weary familiarity settle over her. He always showed up when things were most dangerous, when the stakes were highest. He always presented a riddle and expected her to solve it. And she, stupidly, always seemed to oblige. “You know I can’t,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Not after… not after everything.” Lucien’s gaze softened, the slightest crack in his practiced facade. For a moment, the ice in his eyes melted, revealing a flicker of something raw and unguarded. He reached out, his fingers hovering inches from her cheek, then withdrawing before they made contact. “I know it’s complicated, Aurora. Believe me, I do. But Thorne is a danger not just to my interests, but to people like Eva. People who get caught in the crossfire.” He tilted his head, his heterochromatic eyes holding hers captive. “And you… you have a very particular way of handling danger that I find myself… missing.” The unspoken hung in the air between them – the unspoken attraction, the sharp sting of betrayal he’d inflicted, the tangled mess of their history that neither of them had ever truly resolved. He’d walked away without a word, leaving her to pick up the pieces of her fragile peace, yet here he was, back in her life, speaking of favors owed and dangers faced. And in that moment, standing in the cluttered flat that Eva called home, Aurora knew she was already lost. The pragmatic part of her screamed to slam the door, to lock all three deadbolts, to retreat into the quiet safety of her delivery job and predictable routines. But the other part, the part that had always been drawn to the dangerous, the unknown, the part that thrummed with a reckless defiance, felt a dangerous thrill. Lucien Moreau had always been her undoing. And tonight, it seemed, he was determined to be it again.