Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSYYZFMR5RQRD4WJCG0YCNR

A sharp rapping at the door jolted Rory from her research. She glanced up from the scattered parchment, one hand instinctively reaching for the dagger tucked in her boot. The deadbolts clanked as she undid them, cracking open the door with a cautious, "Yes?" Lucien stood on the threshold, one hand elegantly holding his cane. His slicked-back hair glinted like molten metal under the hallway's dim light. Mischief danced in his amber eye. "Aura de la nuit," he drawled with a roguish grin, his French accent caressing each word. "Might a weary traveler beg sanctuary for the evening?" Rory felt the impact of that mismatched gaze hit her like a tidal wave, their shared history surging between them. The fight, the accusations, the blame. All the unspoken words clamoring for release. "Lucien," she said flatly, not yet moving to let him in. "What are you doing here?" "Just passing through," he replied with a negligent shrug of his tailored suit jacket, "And finding myself in dire need of shelter. This humble abode was the first to come to mind." His clueless facade didn't fool her for a moment. Rory knew him too well - his sharp mind calculated every play, every line. She sighed and opened the door wider, stepping back. "Fine. But don't make yourself too comfortable." He slipped inside gracefully, the spicy scent of his cologne mingling with sandalwood wafting from his clothes. Rory shut the door on his triumphant smirk. Hoping to avoid more conversation, she cleared a space on the cluttered couch and gestured for him to sit. Instead, Lucien trailed his fingers along the spines of her stacked tomes and scrolls. "Fascinating research," he noted, peering at the scribed runes with interest. "Tried to crack the code, have we?" "It's not a code," Rory corrected him, tidying some stray papers. "It's an ancient language. And I've barely made a dent." "A shame, considering your silver tongue." His eyes gleamed with playful remembrance. "Though I seem to recall you've always been a night owl." To deflect the heavy allusion, Rory retorted, "You're one to talk. I doubt you've slept a wink since the last century." "Au contraire." Lucien gracefully lowered himself into the offered seat, steepling his fingers. "I sleep quite peacefully, knowing how deeply I'm adored by the fairer sex." That drew a snort of derision from Rory. "If you mean because you vamp them into adoration, I won't argue there." "Ah, but you're proof it doesn't work on everyone," he cooed, voice sliding to a lower register. "Especially those with steel in their hearts." Rory stiffened, knowing he prodded at her deepest scars. Mustering a stony facade, she leveled a defiant stare at him. "Steel means I'm not so easily molded. Not by charm, wit, nor supernatural coercion. You of all people should remember that." Lucien went still. Tension knotted the air, the weight of a thousand unspoken words pressing them into a standstill. Then, gently, hesitantly: "Aurora...about that night-" "Please." Rory held up a hand, curling her fingers as if corraling the topic. "Just...don't." "I need to explain-" "It's late," she interrupted firmly, Crisis averted. "We'll talk in the morning." Shutting herself in the bedroom, Rory sagged against the door, listening to the quiet creak of Lucien shifting on the couch. No need to torture herself further tonight. She would figure out what game he was playing in the harsh light of day.