Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMRA2MQ22NEA9ZJY1N2JA33

The three deadbolts clicked in quick succession as Rory unlatched the door. She pulled it open, a question already forming on her lips, but the words died in her throat. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, framed by the pale glow of the hallway light. His platinum blond hair was slicked back as always, refusing to be mussed by the damp London air, even if his tailored charcoal suit jacket carried the faint sheen of moisture. His heterochromatic eyes — one amber, one black — landed on her, unblinking. The ivory-handled cane, a familiar extension of his hand, rested against his thigh. He looked exactly as she remembered, and utterly out of place on the grimy landing above a Brick Lane curry house. “Lucien,” she managed, the name a rusty sound on her tongue. It had been months. Nine, maybe ten. She hadn't seen him since the night she’d nearly died, the night he’d saved her, and then the night she’d told him to leave and never come back. A ghost of a smile, more a tilt of the lips than anything genuine, touched his face. “Aurora. Or do you still prefer Rory when in your domestic setting?” His voice, a low rumble with that familiar French lilt, sent a shiver down her spine. The old current, still there, despite everything. She folded her arms across her chest, suddenly aware of her paint-splattered jeans and the worn band t-shirt she’d pulled on after her shift at the Golden Empress. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” Her gaze flickered past him, scanning the empty hallway. No ominous shadows, no hint of trouble. Puzzling. “A simple visit, perhaps?” He raised an eyebrow, that amber eye seeming to glint with amusement. “You don’t do simple visits.” Rory leaned against the doorframe, not quite inviting him in, not quite shutting him out. Her flat, technically Eva’s, was a sanctuary. Books piled high, an ancient tabby cat named Ptolemy usually curled on the worn armchair. It felt too exposed with him standing there, a predator perfectly camouflaged in a bespoke suit. He sighed, a soft expulsion of air that still managed to convey a hint of long-suffering. “Must we always be so… direct, Aurora?” “It saves time.” He actually chuckled then, a low, rich sound that echoed in the narrow space. “Indeed. Very well. I require your assistance.” Rory pushed off the doorframe, a new wave of suspicion washing over her. “My assistance? For what?” Her mind raced. What could a fixer from the supernatural underworld possibly need her for? Since she’d been free of Evan, free of the magic that had clung to her like a shroud, she’d tried to stick to the mundane. Delivering dumplings for Yu-Fei, living quietly above Silas’s bar, avoiding anything that smelled of brimstone or ancient rites. “A… delicate matter has arisen. One that necessitates a particular set of skills which, regrettably, few possess. And you, ma chère, are among that select few.” His eyes, those mismatched windows to a world she’d tried to forget, held hers. An invitation, a challenge. “I’m out of it, Lucien. I told you.” Her voice was firmer now, a wall going up. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a faint white line from an old childhood accident, tingled. It was a phantom sensation, but a reminder of how easily life could take an unexpected turn. “I am aware of your… retirement. However, this is not a matter for the feckless or the faint of heart. It involves a rather powerful acquisition, shall we say, that has gone missing.” “And it concerns a half-demon information broker because…?” He took a step forward, and Rory instinctively stepped back, widening the opening. Her flat might be cramped, but it felt suddenly smaller just by his proximity. Ptolemy, sensing a disturbance in his feline world, let out a low grumble from the depths of the flat. “Because its retrieval could lead to… considerable complications if handled improperly. Complications that would affect the fragile ecosystem of London’s supernatural community. And by extension, even your quiet corner of it.” Her bright blue eyes narrowed. “You’re trying to scare me.” “Only into being pragmatic.” He finally moved, stepping across the threshold, his gaze sweeping over the stacks of books, the overflowing shelves, the general academic chaos that was Eva’s life. “Your friend is not here, I presume?” “No,” Rory said, shutting the door with a soft click, the deadbolts remaining untouched. She knew she should have closed it in his face, but a part of her, the part that had always been drawn to the sharp edges of the world, couldn't quite force itself to. “She’s at a conference in Dublin.” Ptolemy, with his usual regal disdain, finally emerged from the bedroom, weaving between the piles of books before rubbing against Lucien’s expensive trousers. Lucien, to Rory’s surprise, bent down and scratched the tabby behind the ears. Ptolemy purred, a loud, rumbling sound that filled the sudden silence. “So, you’re here alone,” Lucien murmured, not looking at her, his fingers still stroking Ptolemy's fur. The air in the flat thickened. The specific, unspoken history between them, the reason she’d told him to leave, suddenly palpable. It wasn’t just about her decision to step away from the supernatural. It was about the night he’d held her, bloody and broken, after the confrontation with Evan. The way his breath had ghosted over her skin, his amber eye dark with something she couldn’t quite decipher. The kiss that had followed, fierce and desperate, a promise of something intense and all-consuming that she hadn’t been ready for. Or maybe, she’d been too ready, and that was the problem. “I am.” Her voice was tight. He straightened, Ptolemy twisting around his ankles before settling on a stack of grimoires. Lucien’s gaze, now fully on her, was intense. “Aurora.” The way he said her full name, the soft French inflection, made it sound like a secret, a challenge. “The artifact in question. It possesses a volatile nature. In the wrong hands, it could be… catastrophic.” “Define ‘catastrophic’,” she said, trying to regain some control over the conversation, over herself. Her heart was thrumming, a frantic bird trapped in her ribs. “A ripple effect. Uncontrolled magical discharge. Possibly even an opening between realms, a tearing of the veil.” Rory ran a hand through her shoulder-length black hair. “An opening to Avaros?” Her father’s words, from a lifetime ago, echoed in her head: *Curiosity killed the cat, Rory, but satisfaction brought it back.* But this wasn't about curiosity. This was about survival. Lucien merely inclined his head, confirming her unspoken fear. “Precisely. And given your… unique ability to perceive such breaches, to navigate the interstitial spaces…” He let the thought hang, unspoken. Her gift, or curse, for sensing the subtle shifts in reality, for seeing the cracks in the world. She walked past him, needing to put some distance between them, and went to the window, pulling aside the worn curtain. The street below was a blur of activity, the comforting thrum of urban life. A world away from demons and missing artifacts. “I won’t do it, Lucien.” The words felt like a lie even as she spoke them. He came up behind her, close enough that she could feel the faint warmth radiating from him. The scent of him — cypress and something else, something sharp and dangerous, like ozone and old parchment — filled her senses. “You would allow London to be plunged into chaos, Aurora? For your peace of mind?” His voice was soft, persuasive, a silken cord wrapping around her resistance. She spun around, facing him. Her blue eyes blazed. “Don’t you dare try and guilt me, Lucien Moreau. I earned my peace. I earned it in blood and fear. And you know what it cost me.” The light in his amber eye seemed to dim, a flicker of something that might have been regret crossing his face. “I do. And I would spare you further turmoil, if I could. But this… this is beyond my purview alone. It requires a singular touch. A human one, with a touch of the Sight.” He reached out, his hand hovering inches from her left wrist, near the small crescent scar. She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away, even though every instinct screamed at her to do so. The potential energy between them, the unspoken words, hummed in the air. “What if I fail?” she whispered, the question raw. His hand finally settled on her wrist, his thumb gently tracing the scar. The touch sent a jolt through her, a memory of other touches, other nights. “You will not. You are the most intelligent, the most resourceful person I know, Aurora Carter. And you are not afraid.” He was wrong. She was terrified. Terrified of what accepting his offer meant. Terrified of the world she’d tried to leave behind. And terrified of him, of the way he saw past all her defenses, directly to the beating heart of her. Her gaze lifted to his, the one amber eye, the one black. He always seemed to know more than he let on, always had a card up his sleeve. “What’s in it for you, Lucien?” A genuine smile, this time, slowly spread across his face, revealing a flash of white teeth. It was a dangerous smile, a charming smile. “Survival, ma chère. And perhaps, a renewed… acquaintanceship.” The last word hung in the air, weighted with layers of meaning she wasn’t ready to unpack. But the threat of a rift to Avaros… that she couldn’t ignore. The image of the city she’d grown to call home, engulfed in something monstrous, was a powerful motivator. She took a deep breath, the scent of cypress and ozone filling her lungs. “Fine,” she said, the word a reluctant surrender. “But on my terms.” “Naturally,” he replied, his hand still on her wrist, his thumb still tracing the scar. The contact, familiar and electric, held them suspended in that moment, the weight of their complicated history pressing down on them. A new chapter had just begun, whether she wanted it to or not. And this time, she knew, it wouldn’t just be about saving London. It would be about saving herself, from him, and from the treacherous pull of something she’d tried so hard to deny.