Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNEYQ0SRDM06G7G11VWJFHE

The brass knocker echoed like a gunshot in the cramped hallway, making Ptolemy, the tabby cat curled on the faded rug, bolt upright and stare with wide, accusatory green eyes. Aurora Carter, her back pressed against the doorframe of Eva’s flat, flinched. The knock wasn’t unexpected—she’d known he’d come—but the sheer, brutal force of it still made her heart stutter. She wiped her hands on her apron, the fabric rough against her skin, and took a deep breath. *Cool-headed, intelligent, quick out-of-the-box thinking.* She squared her shoulders, the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a souvenir from a childhood fall, tightening beneath her skin. She opened the door. The hallway light, weak and yellow, fell on Lucien Moreau. He stood framed in the doorway, an imposing silhouette against the gloom. His platinum blond hair, slicked back with an almost unnatural precision, caught the light, gleaming like spun silver. His tailored charcoal suit looked immaculate, untouched by the London grime. He didn’t smile. His amber eye, sharp and assessing, swept over her, lingering on the scar, then flicked away. The other, black and unreadable, held hers. He didn’t move forward, just stood there, the ivory-handled cane resting lightly against his thigh. “Aurora,” he said, his voice a low rumble, smooth as aged whiskey. “Or should I say, Rory? Laila? Malphora?” The names rolled off his tongue, each one a shard of a past she’d tried to bury. “I know you’re here. Eva’s flat is… well, it’s not exactly a fortress.” He gestured vaguely towards the door, his gaze never leaving hers. “Three deadbolts, but they’re not designed to keep someone like me out.” She didn’t flinch. Didn’t let the ghost of a smile touch her lips. “And what brings you here, Lucien? To the flat of a woman who left you? Or to the flat of a woman who’s trying to rebuild her life after a very public… departure?” She stepped back, holding the door open just enough to let the smell of curry and old paper drift out. The cat, sensing movement, padded silently into the hallway, its tail held high. “Public?” He followed her inside, his boots clicking on the worn linoleum. “I believe the term is ‘spectacularly messy.’ But that’s neither here nor there.” He paused near the small kitchen, his eyes scanning the clutter of books and scrolls that covered every surface. “You’ve changed your name again. Malphora. Interesting. Evocative.” He picked up a leather-bound tome, its spine cracked, and flipped it open. “Still chasing ghosts, I see. Or perhaps you’ve found a new quarry?” Aurora watched him, her cool exterior cracking just a fraction. The scent of old paper and something faintly metallic—his presence—filled her nostrils. She remembered the heat of his touch, the dangerous intelligence in his eyes. The scar on her wrist throbbed, a reminder of the fall that had ended their last, disastrous encounter. “I’m not chasing ghosts, Lucien. I’m delivering food. For a restaurant. Part-time. It’s… grounding.” She gestured towards the small table where a half-eaten plate of curry sat cold. “Would you like some? It’s cold, but it’s edible.” He closed the book with a soft snap, his amber eye meeting hers again. “Edible is a high bar, Rory. But I’m not here for curry. Or for your culinary skills.” He took a step closer, the ivory cane clicking softly on the floor. “I’m here because I need something. Something you might have.” His voice dropped, becoming a whisper that seemed to vibrate in the air. “A key. A code. Something Eva wouldn’t give me, but you… you always had a way of finding things.” Aurora felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks, a blush that had nothing to do with the curry. The memory of his hands on her, the intensity of their last argument, flooded back. The hurt, the betrayal. She clenched her fists, the knuckles white. “And what if I don’t have it? What if I never did?” She took a step towards him, her voice low and dangerous. “What if I just… want you to go?” He didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. He simply raised his cane, the ivory handle glinting in the dim light. “Then I’ll take it.” His smile was cold, predatory. “Or I’ll find someone who will tell me where it is. Someone less… stubborn.” The air crackled between them, thick with unspoken words and lingering desire. Ptolemy, sensing the tension, retreated to the safety of the bookshelf, his fur bristling. The deadbolts on the door seemed suddenly irrelevant. The world outside faded away, leaving only the sharp scent of Lucien Moreau and the ghost of a past that refused to stay buried. The door was open, but the path forward was a minefield. And Aurora, cool-headed though she was, knew she was standing right in the middle of it.