Run: 2026-02-19-01KHSZA40WRA80HKQXHFT8ZY99

The door creaked open, the latch groaning like an old man’s knee, and the scent of damp brick and old books spilled into the hallway. Rory’s fingers stilled mid-wipe on the counter, the dishcloth slipping from her grip. She froze, the weight of the uninvited presence pressing against the threshold. A voice, smooth as aged brandy, cut through the silence. “You’re not going to ask me in, are you?” She turned, the black of her hair catching the dim light from the streetlamp outside. Bright blue eyes locked onto the figure in the doorway, sharp and unyielding. Lucien Moreau stood there, his platinum blond hair slicked back, his tailored charcoal suit immaculate despite the hour. The cane in his hand tapped once against the floor, a faint *clink* of ivory against wood. Rory’s breath hitched. “What the hell are you doing here?” Lucien’s lips quirked, just for a second, before smoothing into something colder. “I thought we’d left things clear last time we spoke.” His gaze flicked past her, taking in the clutter of Eva’s flat—the stacks of yellowed scrolls, the half-empty teacups, the tabby cat Ptolemy curled on the windowsill like a living comma. “But then again, you’ve never been one for clarity.” She crossed her arms, the movement instinctive, protective. “You know where I live.” “Yes.” His voice dropped, just low enough to carry without raising. “I do.” The air between them thickened, charged. Rory’s pulse hammered in her throat. She should’ve locked the door after work. Should’ve called Eva. Should’ve *done something* besides stand here like a fool, letting the past bleed back into the present like ink in water. Lucien stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The flat seemed to shrink around them, the walls pressing closer. Ptolemy lifted his head, ears twitching, before settling back down with a disinterested flick of his tail. Rory exhaled through her nose, sharp and frustrated. “You’re not staying.” “No.” His cane tapped again, slower this time. “But I am here.” She gestured toward the door. “Then leave.” Lucien’s amber eye caught the light, reflecting like a cat’s in the dark. “Not until we talk.” “There’s nothing to talk about.” “Then why did you leave me that message?” His voice was low, controlled, but the edge was there, sharp as a blade unsheathed. “Why did you run?” Rory’s fingers twitched at her sides. She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him it was nothing, that she didn’t owe him an explanation. But the words stuck in her throat. Lucien moved then, stepping closer, the scent of sandalwood and something darker—something *other*—filling her lungs. “You always did have a habit of disappearing when things got complicated.” She swallowed. “Things got complicated the second you walked into that bar and started asking questions.” “Questions you didn’t want answered.” His gaze dropped to her wrist, lingering on the faint scar there, the one from the childhood accident she’d never told him about. “You’ve always been good at hiding.” Rory’s breath hitched. She pulled her sleeve down, but it was too late. The memory of his fingers tracing the same scar, years ago, flashed behind her eyes. The way he’d whispered, *You’re not as tough as you pretend*, like it was a promise rather than a warning. She stepped back, putting distance between them. “I don’t know what you want.” Lucien’s lips curled, just slightly. “I want to know why you left.” “Because you’re a liar.” He laughed, low and dark. “And you’re a coward.” The words hit like a slap. Rory’s hands clenched into fists. “I’m not—” “No?” His voice dropped, softer now, dangerous. “Then why did you never tell me about the nightmares?” The air left her lungs. She knew that night. Knew the way he’d held her, his skin burning against hers, his breath hot in her ear as he whispered things that made her bones ache. Knew the way he’d kissed her like he was drowning and she was the only air left. She opened her mouth, closed it. The words wouldn’t come. Lucien’s gaze darkened. “You always were good at pretending you didn’t need anyone.” Rory’s chest burned. She wanted to scream. Wanted to hit him. Wanted to run. Instead, she turned away, her fingers brushing against the edge of the counter. The teapot there was still warm from the kettle she’d just boiled. She picked it up, the weight familiar, grounding. Lucien’s voice followed her, quiet now. “You’re still running.” She didn’t answer. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Outside, a car horn blared. Somewhere in the distance, a siren wailed. Lucien exhaled, slow and steady. “I’ll give you until tomorrow night.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the teapot. “What?” “Tomorrow,” he said. “Seven o’clock. The same place.” She turned, her back to him. “You’re not serious.” “Oh, I’m serious.” His cane tapped against the floor again, once, twice. “Or do you forget how good I am at getting what I want?” The door clicked open behind her. Rory didn’t look back. She didn’t need to. She just knew, with a certainty that settled in her bones like lead, that she was already lost.