Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ198XBR2GFV8Z31N588ZY

The deadbolt scraped back with a sound like a knife being drawn. Rory’s fingers tightened around the edge of the door, her knuckles pressing white against the wood. The scent of turmeric and frying oil curled up from the curry house below, thick in the warm evening air. Lucien stood in the hallway, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane, the other adjusting the cuff of his charcoal suit. His amber eye caught the light from the bare bulb overhead, sharp as a blade. The black one swallowed the glow whole. "You’re not Eva," he said. Rory’s jaw set. "She’s out. What do you want?" A pause. The weight of the question hung between them, heavier than it should have been. Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so hollow. "I need to talk to you." "About?" "Things that aren’t best discussed in a hallway where half of Brick Lane can hear." Ptolemy wound between her ankles, tail flicking. She nudged him back with her foot. "I don’t owe you my time." "No," Lucien agreed. "But you might owe yourself the answers." The words settled into her ribs like a hook. She stepped back, letting the door swing wider. "Five minutes. Then you leave." He moved past her, the faintest brush of wool against her arm, the scent of bergamot and something darker, something that clung to him like smoke. The flat was a mess of papers and half-empty mugs, the air thick with the ghost of old tea and the musk of Ptolemy’s fur. Lucien didn’t sit. He never did. He stood by the window, one hand still on his cane, the other tapping against his thigh in a rhythm that wasn’t quite steady. Rory crossed her arms. "Clock’s ticking." His mouth twitched. "Always so impatient." "Always so cryptic." A beat. The amber eye flicked toward her, the black one following a second later. "I heard about Evan." Her stomach dropped. "From who?" "Does it matter?" "It does if you’re trading in gossip." Lucien’s fingers stilled. "I’m not. But I know what it’s like to have someone’s hands on you when you don’t want them there." His voice was quiet, the French accent sharpening the edges of the words. "I know what it’s like to carry that." Rory’s breath hitched. She turned away, busying herself with straightening a stack of books that didn’t need straightening. "I don’t need your pity." "I’m not offering it." He stepped closer, the floorboards creaking under his weight. "I’m offering you a way to make sure he never touches you—or anyone else—again." She whirled around. "What, like some kind of demonic hitman service? No thanks." Lucien’s laugh was low, humorless. "Not a hit. Something cleaner. Something that leaves no trace." He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small vial of dark liquid. "A drop in his drink. A touch to his skin. He’ll forget you exist. Forget he ever wanted to hurt you." Rory stared at the vial. It sloshed gently, thick as oil. "And what’s the catch?" "Nothing you haven’t already paid." His voice was soft now, almost gentle. "I’m not asking for your soul, Rory. Just the truth." The air between them was too thick, too charged. She swallowed. "What truth?" "That you want him gone." His fingers brushed against hers as he held out the vial. "That you’re tired of looking over your shoulder. That you’re angry." Her hand closed around the glass before she could stop herself. The liquid inside was cold, unnaturally so. "And what do you get out of this?" Lucien’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "The satisfaction of knowing I was right about you." Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She should have thrown the vial back at him. Should have told him to leave. But the weight of it in her palm was a promise, a dark little secret she could keep. "And if I say no?" "Then I walk out that door, and you never see me again." He turned toward the hallway, his cane tapping against the floor. "But you’ll still wonder, won’t you? What if. What if." She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Lucien paused at the threshold, his back to her. "You know where to find me if you change your mind." The door clicked shut behind him. Rory stood there, the vial burning against her skin. Ptolemy jumped onto the table, knocking over a stack of papers. She didn’t move to pick them up. Outside, the sounds of Brick Lane carried on—laughter, the clatter of dishes, the hum of life moving forward. But in the flat, the air was still, thick with the weight of choices not yet made. She uncorked the vial. The scent of it curled into her nose, sharp and metallic. A single drop fell onto her wrist, sizzling against her skin like acid. Rory hissed, jerking her hand back. The liquid vanished, leaving no mark. But the memory of it lingered, a ghost of what could have been. She corked the vial and slipped it into her pocket. The clock on the wall ticked. Somewhere, a door slammed. Rory exhaled, long and slow. Then she grabbed her jacket.