Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNETGYSJP9XB507BQGK772G

Thebrass knocker on Eva’s flat thudded twice, sharp and insistent. Aurora Carter, leaning against the counter in the tiny kitchen, paused mid-sweep of crumbs from the worn linoleum. Her eyes, bright blue and sharp, flicked towards the door. She didn’t move immediately, her expression unreadable. The flat above Silas’ bar was a fortress, its front door secured by three deadbolts. She’d installed them herself after Evan. The third bolt scraped home with a final, definitive click, and she turned, wiping her hands on a flour-dusted apron. The door swung open. Lucien Moreau stood framed in the doorway, the late afternoon sun catching the platinum sheen of his slicked-back hair. He didn’t smile. His gaze, one amber and one black, swept the cramped space with detached appraisal. His tailored charcoal suit looked impossibly crisp against the faded wallpaper. He held an ivory-handled cane, its tip tapping a precise rhythm on the worn floorboards. “Aurora,” he said, his voice smooth as aged brandy, carrying a faint French lilt. “Or should I call you Rory? Laila? Malphora?” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed in the small flat. The scent of curry from Silas’ bar below mingled with the sharp tang of old paper and dust. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, leapt from the sofa, tail bristling, and skittered towards the door, hissing softly. Aurora didn’t flinch. She crossed her arms, her black hair falling straight past her shoulders. “Lucien.” Her voice was cool, precise. “To what do I owe the... unexpected pleasure?” He inclined his head, a gesture of respect that felt entirely out of place in the chaos of her flat. “Unexpected is a relative term, I suppose. I needed information, and you’re the only one who can provide it.” He gestured vaguely towards the wall lined with books and scrolls. “Your flat is... well-documented.” “My flat is my sanctuary,” Aurora countered, her eyes never leaving his. “Not a library for your convenience.” She moved past him, heading towards the kitchen. “Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?” “Tea,” he replied, his gaze lingering on the scar on her left wrist, a small crescent moon of pale skin against the dark. “Black, no sugar.” He settled into the worn armchair, his cane resting beside him. The ivory handle gleamed. “I understand you’re working for Yu-Fei Cheung now. Delivery driver. Quite the career pivot from Cardiff.” “Life’s about pivots,” Aurora said, pouring boiling water into a chipped mug. “And avoiding ex-boyfriends with a taste for violence.” She set the mug down in front of him. “What information?” He took a slow sip, watching her reflection in the dark liquid. “A lead. A name. Someone connected to the recent disturbances in the East End. A man named Silas Thorne. You know him?” Aurora stiffened. Silas Thorne was the owner of the bar below her flat. A man with a reputation for being tight-lipped and dangerous. “I know the bar,” she said, her voice tight. “What about him?” “He’s involved,” Lucien stated flatly. “Deeply. And he’s looking for someone. Someone who knows things.” He leaned forward slightly, his amber eye locking onto hers. “You know who that someone is?” The air crackled. Aurora felt the familiar heat of old attraction, the sting of old hurt. “I know people,” she said, her voice low. “But I don’t know Silas Thorne’s business.” She picked up a stray book from the floor, brushing crumbs off the cover. “And I don’t know why you’re here, Lucien. Not really.” He stood, his movements fluid, and walked to the window overlooking Brick Lane. The city lights were beginning to twinkle. “Because, Rory,” he said, his voice soft but carrying, “sometimes the past refuses to stay buried. Sometimes it walks right up to your door, demanding answers.” He turned, his gaze sweeping the cluttered room. “And sometimes, the only person who can help you face it... is the one who helped bury it.” Aurora felt the familiar ache, a physical pang in her chest. The attraction was still there, a raw nerve. The hurt was a scar, still tender. “What do you want, Lucien?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. “Truth? Revenge? Something else?” He didn’t answer immediately. He looked at her, really looked at her, the cool blue eyes meeting his heterochromatic gaze. “I want to know if you’re still running, Rory. Or if you’ve finally stopped.” The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Ptolemy, sensing the tension, retreated to the safety of the sofa. Aurora stared at the steam rising from her tea, the weight of the past pressing down. Lucien Moreau, the half-demon fixer, had come to her door. And the game, whatever it was, had just begun.