Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNG0YWZV8DHXKY1NFF0WNT6

The three deadbolts clicked open in quick succession before Aurora could think better of it. The scent of curry from downstairs clung to her clothes as she stood there, one hand still on the knob, suddenly uncertain. The man on the doorstep hadn't changed. Not really. Still that same platinum blond hair slicked back, the same too-perfect posture that made her think of old film reels—gentlemen thieves and wartime spies. His heterochromatic eyes caught the dim hall light—one amber, one black—and for a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe. Lucien leaned lightly on his cane, lips curling in that faint, infuriating smirk. "Hello, Rory." The sound of her nickname on his tongue sent an unwanted warmth through her chest. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. "You’re supposed to call first." "I would have," he said smoothly, adjusting his cufflinks, "but last I checked, you changed your number." She had. After the argument. After the way he'd looked at her when she walked out—like she was the one who'd turned into a stranger. Downstairs, the curry house radio blared something Bollywood and bright, a sharp contrast to the sudden silence between them. Ptolemy wound between her legs, purring audibly, then sauntered right up to Lucien as if he hadn't been gone for months. Traitor. "That cane new?" she asked, flicking a glance at the ivory handle. "A gift." His thumb brushed over the carved detail, casual. "From an admirer." Of course he had admirers. Aurora rolled her eyes. "You honestly expect me to believe you just happened to be in the neighborhood?" "I didn't," he said, oddly sincere. "I came because I need your help." She exhaled sharply, half amused, half exasperated. "Right. Because that always ends well." Behind her, the flat was a mess—scrolls and books stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, Eva’s ancient Persian rug half-buried beneath notes in three different languages. The air smelled like ink and stale coffee. Not exactly the picture of someone who had her life together. She stepped aside before she could second-guess herself. "Fine. But you get five minutes." Lucien swept past her, cane tapping lightly against the floorboards. He glanced around, taking in the chaos with that same infuriating half-smile. "Cozy." Aurora shut the door harder than necessary. Ptolemy leapt onto the sagging sofa, curling up like a smug little judge. "You’re staring," she said. "You cut your hair." Her fingers instinctively brushed the ends where they barely grazed her shoulders now—shorter than when he’d last seen her. "Yeah, well. Things change." His gaze lingered a second too long before he turned to examine a crumbling grimoire left open on the kitchen counter. "Avarian demonology. Charming bedtime reading." "It’s Eva’s." Aurora grabbed two mismatched mugs and filled them with water from the tap. No point offering tea. He’d refuse anyway—always did. "What do you want, Luc?" He leaned against the counter, cane between them like a barrier. "There’s a relic. Missing from a private collection. Dangerous, in the wrong hands." "And naturally, you know whose hands those are." "Naturally." His tone was light, but there was something underneath—something she recognized from the last job. The one that had ended with them shouting at each other in a rain-soaked alley. She handed him the water. Their fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. "And why come to me?" she asked, quieter now. For the first time, his smile slipped. "Because I trust you." The words hung between them, weighted and too honest. Ptolemy yawned loudly, breaking the spell. Aurora turned away, busying herself with straightening already-neat stacks of paper. "Last time you said that, I ended up with a knife at my throat." "I got you out." "Yeah. After." Silence. The distant clatter of pans downstairs. He set his untouched water down. "If you’re not interested, say so. I’ll go." She looked up. His expression was unreadable—polished marble, perfectly controlled. But she knew him better than that. Knew the tension in his jaw, the slight tightness around his eyes. Knew, too, the way his fingers flexed around the cane—not pain, but anticipation. Like he was already bracing for her to say no. Aurora exhaled. "Tell me about the relic." Something flickered in his eyes—relief? Satisfaction? She couldn’t tell. Lucien reached into his coat and pulled out a photograph, sliding it across the counter toward her. "It’s called the Dusk Vessel. And if we don’t find it first, a lot of people are going to die." She picked up the photo, studying the eerie silver artifact. "We," she repeated. His gaze held hers. "If you’ll have me." Ptolemy hopped down from the sofa and padded over, weaving between Lucien’s legs like he wasn’t the worst kind of magnet—impossible to resist, dangerous to touch. Aurora traced the crescent scar on her wrist, an old habit. "Five minutes," she said again. But neither of them moved.