Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZ9RN5JSXT9QMX9PZ7WGHS

The door creaked open before Rory had even reached for the handle, the hinges groaning like an old man’s breath. She froze mid-step, her fingers tightening around the worn leather of her messenger bag. The flat smelled different—less like stale coffee and more like something sharp and metallic, like the edge of a blade left too long in the rain. Lucien stood just inside, backlit by the flickering neon of Brick Lane below, his silhouette sharp against the dim glow of Eva’s cluttered living room. The cane in his hand wasn’t resting; it leaned slightly, as if he’d been about to tap it against the floor. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, the collar of his crisp white shirt undone just enough to show the faintest hint of a scar along his throat. The amber eye caught the light first, then the black one followed, like a reflection in a still pond. “You’re early,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. Rory’s pulse jumped. “I’m never late.” A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips. “Then you’re the only one.” She swallowed. “You’re not supposed to be here.” “Neither are you, technically.” His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, the one she always kept hidden beneath her sleeve. “Though I’d have thought you’d want to see me.” The words hung between them, heavy as the weight of a promise left unkept. Rory’s fingers twitched. “I don’t.” Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound almost like laughter. “Liar.” She stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind her with a finality that made her skin prickle. The flat was a maze of books and scrolls, the air thick with the scent of old paper and something earthier—Eva’s herbs, maybe, or the faintest trace of smoke from the curry house below. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, ears twitching. He didn’t hiss. He didn’t even glare. Just watched, tail flicking like a metronome counting down to something neither of them could name. Lucien didn’t move from the threshold. “You look well.” Rory rolled her shoulders, trying to ease the tension knotting her neck. “I’m fine.” “You always were good at lying to yourself.” His voice dropped, just low enough for the words to brush against her skin like a touch. “Though I suppose that’s why you’re still alive.” The air between them shifted, charged. Rory’s breath hitched. “What do you want, Lucien?” “Information.” He tapped the cane against the floor, the sound sharp enough to make her jump. “About a job. One that pays well.” “And if I say no?” His gaze darkened. “Then I’ll find someone else who won’t.” She exhaled sharply. “You’re blackmailing me.” “No.” His lips quirked. “I’m offering you a choice. Take it or leave it.” Rory’s fingers curled into her palms. She could walk out now. She could. But the way he stood there, all polished edges and dangerous stillness, made her remember the last time she’d seen him—how he’d looked at her like she was something precious, something worth saving. And then he’d walked away. “What’s the job?” she asked, voice steadier than she felt. “A delivery.” He stepped forward, the cane sliding between them like a silent barrier. “Nothing dangerous. Just… a package. From A to B.” “And if I ask what’s in the package?” His smile was slow, deliberate. “You won’t.” Rory studied him—the way his jaw tightened, the way his black eye flickered with something she couldn’t name. She knew that look. She’d seen it before, in the mirror after she’d left him. “You’re not just a fixer, are you?” “No.” The word was a razor’s edge. “But I know people who are.” She swallowed. “How much?” “Enough.” His gaze dropped to her lips, then back up. “But not enough to make you regret it.” Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. She could refuse. She could. But the truth was, she needed the money. And more than that—she needed to know why he’d left her like that. Why he’d walked away without a word. “Fine,” she said, voice rough. “But I’m not doing it for you.” Lucien’s smile widened, just a little. “I know.” The silence that followed was heavier than the weight of the cane in his hand. Rory’s fingers itched to reach out, to trace the scar on his throat, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips. But she held back. She always held back. “When?” she asked. “Tonight.” His gaze locked onto hers, unflinching. “Midnight. The docks.” Rory nodded. “I’ll be there.” He tipped his head, just slightly. “Good.” Then he turned, cane tapping against the floor as he moved toward the door. Rory watched him go, her breath catching in her throat. She’d thought she’d moved on. She’d thought she’d forgotten the way his voice sounded when he said her name, the way his hands felt when they— The door clicked shut behind him. Rory stood there, heart hammering, until the sound of his footsteps faded down the stairs. Only then did she let herself exhale. Only then did she allow herself to remember the last time she’d seen him—how he’d looked at her like she was the only thing in the world that mattered. And how she’d let him walk away.