Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNG3P5X4G1QA72X3NBPXH36

The knock at the door startled Rory. She froze midway through pouring herself a cup of tea, the steaming liquid spilling over the edge of the mug. Ptolemy leapt off the windowsill, his tail lashing as he darted beneath the couch. Rory glanced at the clock above Eva’s cluttered bookshelf. Nearly midnight. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and Eva was still out chasing leads on whatever obscure supernatural artifact had caught her attention this week. Another knock, sharper this time, echoed through the small flat. Rory set the kettle down with a shaky hand, her pulse quickening. Only a handful of people knew about the flat on Brick Lane, and none of them would show up unannounced at this hour without calling first. She crossed the room, her socked feet silent on the worn hardwood floor, and peered through the peephole. Her breath caught in her throat. Lucien Moreau stood on the other side of the door, his platinum blond hair slicked back as always, his amber and black eyes fixed on the peephole as though he knew she was watching. A charcoal suit hugged his lean frame, his ivory-handled cane resting casually against his side. He looked as composed and untouchable as the last time she’d seen him—like a man who had never been ruffled by anything, least of all her. Rory hesitated, her hand hovering over the deadbolts. The memory of their last encounter flashed through her mind—sharp words, colder silences, and the way he’d turned his back on her without a second glance. She hadn’t seen him in months, though she’d heard whispers of him in the supernatural underground. He was everywhere and nowhere, a ghost who left no trace unless he wanted to. She unlocked the door and pulled it open, her expression guarded. “Lucien.” “Rory,” he said, his voice smooth and velvety, with just a hint of his French accent. He inclined his head slightly, a gesture that was both polite and infuriatingly formal. “Apologies for the late hour. May I come in?” She folded her arms across her chest, her black hair falling over her shoulders as she leaned against the doorframe. “Depends. What brings you here?” His gaze flicked over her, lingering on her face for a moment before he met her eyes. Despite herself, Rory felt a familiar flutter in her chest—a reaction she swiftly tamped down. She wouldn’t let him see how he still affected her. “Business,” he said simply. “Business,” she repeated, her tone flat. “Right. Because we’re such regular business associates these days.” A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Indulge me.” Rory studied him for a moment, searching for any hint of what he might be after. But Lucien’s face was as inscrutable as ever, his expression giving nothing away. Finally, she stepped aside, gesturing for him to enter. “Fine. But make it quick.” He stepped into the flat, his cane tapping softly against the floor. Rory closed the door behind him, ensuring all three deadbolts were securely in place before turning to face him. He was already surveying the room, his sharp gaze taking in the stacks of books, the scrolls pinned to the walls, and Ptolemy’s glowing eyes peering out from beneath the couch. “Charming,” he said, his tone dry. “I see Eva’s decorating hasn’t improved.” “She’s not here,” Rory said, crossing the room to pick up her abandoned mug of tea. “So, whatever it is, you’ll have to deal with me.” “Dealing with you was my intention,” Lucien replied smoothly. He leaned casually on his cane, his posture relaxed, though Rory knew better than to mistake it for vulnerability. Lucien was always armed, always ready, no matter how at ease he appeared. She sipped her tea, the warmth spreading through her chest as she watched him over the rim of the mug. “Out with it, then. What do you want?” He tilted his head slightly, his amber eye catching the light. “Straight to the point.” “We’re not friends, Lucien,” she said, her voice cooler than she intended. “Cut the small talk.” His expression hardened for a fraction of a second before he smoothed it over, the mask slipping seamlessly back into place. “Very well. I need your help.” Rory raised an eyebrow. “My help?” “Yes,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “You have resources, connections, and a certain... ingenuity that could prove useful.” “Useful for what?” “A delicate matter,” he replied vaguely. “One that requires discretion.” Rory set her mug down on the cluttered coffee table, her arms crossing over her chest again. “You’re going to have to be more specific if you want my cooperation.” Lucien’s gaze dropped to her arms, lingering on the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—the one she’d gotten as a child when she fell off her bike. His eyes darkened slightly, and Rory felt a strange ache in her chest at the memory of when he’d first noticed that scar, when his touch had been gentle instead of distant. “I’m tracking an artifact,” he said finally, his voice low. “One that could cause significant harm if it falls into the wrong hands.” “And you need me to help you find it,” Rory surmised. “Precisely.” She exhaled sharply, her frustration bubbling up. “Why me? You’ve got half the underworld at your disposal. Why come to me after months of silence?” Lucien’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Rory thought she saw a crack in his composure—a flicker of something raw and unguarded. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Because,” he said quietly, “there’s no one else I trust to get the job done.” The words hung between them, heavy and loaded. Rory looked away, her heart pounding in her chest. She hated how easily he could still throw her off balance with just a few words, how the sound of his voice could unravel her resolve. “You’re asking a lot,” she said after a moment, her voice softer than she intended. “I know,” he replied. “And I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.” Rory glanced at him, her bright blue eyes meeting his mismatched ones. She searched for any hint of deception, any sign that he was playing her, but all she saw was sincerity—something rare and disarming in Lucien Moreau. “Fine,” she said finally. “I’ll help you. But this doesn’t mean things are fixed between us.” “Noted,” he said, his tone neutral. “Shall we discuss the details?” She nodded, gesturing toward the couch. “Have a seat. You’re going to need to catch me up.” Lucien moved to the couch, his movements graceful and controlled. Rory hesitated for a moment before joining him, leaving a careful distance between them. As he began to explain the situation, Rory couldn’t shake the feeling that this was more than just a job—it was a crossroads, a turning point that neither of them could ignore. And for better or worse, they were in it together.