Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT00218AWY50TBV5SBYMDPA

The third deadbolt slid home with a heavy clunk before Rory turned the handle. Rain lashed against the brickwork of the building on Brick Lane, seeping through the frame despite the weather stripping. She pulled the door open. Lucien stood on the landing. Water dripped from the brim of nothing—he wore no hat—yet his charcoal suit remained dry, the fabric repelling the London damp like oil on water. His platinum hair stayed slicked back, not a strand out of place. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed under the flickering hallway bulb. The light caught the heterochromatic shift of his eyes. One amber, burning like polished topaz. One black, void of reflection. Rory gripped the doorframe. Her knuckles whitened. The wood dug into her palm. You should not be here. Lucien stepped forward. The toe of his polished shoe crossed the threshold. He smelled of ozone and old paper, a scent that clung to him regardless of the curry aromas wafting up from the floor below. The smell of turmeric and cumin usually comforted her. Now it clashed with the metallic tang of his presence. We need to talk. Rory moved to block his path. She stood five foot six, solid in her stance. Her straight black hair hung around her shoulders, damp at the ends from the humidity of the flat. She wore an old t-shirt and jeans. He wore a suit worth more than her rent. We talked. In Marseille. In Paris. Every city between here and the coast. We talked until there were no words left. Lucien tilted his head. The movement was predatory, smooth. We never finished. He pushed past her. The movement was fluid, lacking any human hesitation. Rory stepped back, her heel catching on a stack of scrolls piled near the entryway. Paper rustled. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, lifted his head from a cushion of research notes, yawned, and went back to sleep. The cat trusted him. Rory did not. Rory shut the door. She engaged the first bolt, then the second. Her hand hovered over the third. Leave it open. Lucien stood in the centre of the cramped room. Books covered every surface. Scrolls spilled from boxes onto the floor. The air tasted of turmeric and dust. Shadows pooled in the corners where the light from the single bulb did not reach. If Evan finds me here, he finds you. He knows I stay with Eva. Your ex-boyfriend poses little threat to me. A human man with human grievances. He poses a threat to me. He knows where I sleep. He knows when I walk. Lucien tapped his cane against the floorboards. The sound echoed in the small space. The ivory handle clicked against the wood. You fled Cardiff. You fled to London. You hide above a curry house. I live above Silas' bar. This is Eva's place. I am staying here. There is a difference. You hide. You run. Rory walked to the small kitchenette. She needed something to do with her hands. She picked up a chipped mug. The ceramic felt cold against her palm. She remembered the last time she saw Lucien. The rain then had been heavier. The blood on his cuff had been darker. She had washed it out herself. You left me in the rain. Lucien turned. The suit jacket pulled tight across his shoulders. I sent you away. You sent me away. You did not come. I could not come. Rory turned. She leaned against the counter. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist caught the light. A childhood accident. A mark of pain. She did not cover it. I survive. There is a difference. Lucien moved closer. The distance between them shrank to inches. Rory could see the texture of his suit. Wool, expensive, tailored to hide the weapons he undoubtedly carried. She could see the pulse in his neck. It beat slower than a human's. Survival implies a future. You exist in the past. You dwell on what happened. You left me. The words hung in the air, heavier than the smell of spices. Lucien stopped. His expression did not change, but the amber eye narrowed. The black eye remained static. I protected you. You decided for me. You took my choice. I made the choice you could not make. You were too close to the fire. Rory set the mug down. It clattered against the counter. The sound jumped in the silence. You do not get to make choices for me. Not after Avaros. Not after what you saw. Not after what we did. Lucien reached out. His hand hovered near her wrist. He did not touch the scar. He stopped just above the skin. Heat radiated from his palm. Half-demon physiology ran hotter than human. Rory felt the warmth on her pulse point. It burned. I saw what you are capable of, Rory. I saw the power. Do not call me that. You prefer Carter? I prefer Aurora. When I am not working. When I am not hiding. When I am not running from you. Lucien dropped his hand. He turned away, walking toward the window. The glass rattled in the frame as a truck passed on Brick Lane below. The headlights swept across the room, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. They know you are in London. Who? The ones from Marseille. The ones who watched us leave. The ones who want what you carry. Rory pushed off the counter. She walked to the centre of the room. She stood near the pile of books. She kicked a scroll aside. I thought we lost them. I thought we were clear. You hoped. Hope is not a strategy. Strategy is planning. Strategy is action. What do you want, Lucien? Why are you here? Why now? He turned back. The ivory handle of the cane rested against his shoulder. He looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since opening the door. His gaze traced the line of her jaw, the bright blue of her eyes, the tension in her shoulders. He looked at her lips. I want to know if you still run. Rory lifted her chin. Her heart hammered against her ribs. I am still here. For now. Lucien took a step toward her. The floorboard creaked under his weight. The sound was loud in the quiet flat. There is a contract. On your head. Rory's breath hitched. She did not step back. She held his gaze. Whose contract? Does it matter? It matters to me. It matters if I die. It matters to me because you matter. The silence stretched. Ptolemy shifted on the notes. The rain intensified against the glass. Water streamed down the pane. Rory looked at the cane. She knew the blade concealed within. She knew the weight of it. She knew the weight of the man holding it. She knew the feel of his hands on her skin. You could have sent a message. You could have called. Messages get intercepted. People get paid to look the other way. Phones are listened to. So you come yourself. You walk into the trap. I come myself. I walk into the fire. Rory crossed her arms. She felt the cold air of the room seep into her bones. She shivered. And now? Now we decide. Decide what? Whether you fight. Or whether you let me fight for you. Rory laughed. The sound was sharp, brittle in the cramped space. It bounced off the books. You do not fight for me. You fight around me. You treat me like a piece on a board. A pawn. Lucien's jaw tightened. A muscle feathered near his ear. The skin pulled tight. I keep you alive. At what cost? The question hung between them. Lucien shifted his grip on the cane. His knuckles turned white against the ivory. The wood groaned under the pressure. You know the cost. I do not. You never told me. You never tell me anything. Lucien moved again. He closed the distance. He stood directly in front of her. He towered over her, five foot eleven against her five foot six. The presence of him filled the room. The scent of ozone grew stronger. It crackled in the air. If I tell you, you cannot unhear it. It changes everything. Tell me. Lucien looked at the door. The three deadbolts stood engaged. He looked at the window. The rain blurred the view of the street below. He looked back at Rory. His eyes locked on hers. Your father. Rory stiffened. Brendan Carter. The barrister. The man who wanted her to study law. The man who did not know about the demons. The man who thought she was safe. What about him? He knows. Rory shook her head. Her hair whipped across her face. No. He thinks I am in university. He thinks I am safe. He thinks I am normal. He knows about Avaros. He knows about me. He knows about the blood. Rory stepped back. Her leg hit the table. Books slid onto the floor. They landed with a thud. She did not look down. That is impossible. He is human. He is a lawyer. Nothing is impossible. Not in our world. Not with the deals that are made. Lucien reached out again. This time he touched her wrist. His fingers wrapped around the scar. His skin burned against hers. The heat seeped into her bone. He made a deal. To keep you safe. To keep you hidden. Rory pulled her arm away. She stumbled back against the bookshelf. A scroll fell. It unrolled on the floor. Ancient script stared up at them. You are lying. I do not lie to you. Then prove it. Lucien released her wrist. He reached into his jacket. He pulled out a folded piece of paper. He held it out. The paper looked old. Parchment. Rory looked at the paper. She looked at his eyes. The amber one swirled with light. The black one remained void. Take it. Rory did not move. Her feet felt rooted to the floor. If I take it, everything changes. There is no going back. Everything changed the moment I knocked on the door. The moment you opened it. Rory stared at the paper. Her hand trembled. She clenched her fist to stop it. The nails dug into her palm. Why now? Why tonight? Because the deal expires at midnight. The clock is ticking. Rory looked at the clock on the wall. The hands ticked toward the hour. The sound of the mechanism filled the silence. Tick. Tick. Tick. You waited until the last moment. You waited until I had no choice. I waited until you had nowhere else to go. Until you were cornered. Rory looked at him. The hurt flared in her chest, hot and bright. It burned like the heat from his hand. You manipulative bastard. Lucien did not deny it. He held the paper steady. His arm did not shake. Take it, Aurora. Rory reached out. Her fingers brushed the edge of the paper. The contact sparked. Static electricity jumped between them. Lucien did not flinch. He did not blink. She gripped the paper. She did not pull it away. She held it between them. What happens if I say no? Lucien leaned in. His breath brushed her ear. It was hot. Then I walk out that door. And I never come back. You deal with them alone. Rory held the paper. She looked at the door. She looked at Lucien. The rain hammered against the glass. The cat slept on. The scent of curry rose from below. The scent of ozone surrounded them. She tightened her grip on the paper. The parchment crinkled. You would leave me again. You would walk away. I would save you. By leaving? By abandoning me? By drawing them away. By being the target. Rory shook her head. She crumpled the paper in her hand. The sound was loud. No. Lucien stiffened. His shoulders squared. No? You do not get to decide. Not anymore. I am not a child. I am not a pawn. Rory stepped into his space. She pressed the crumpled paper against his chest. She felt the heat of his body through the suit. We fight. Together. Or not at all. You stay. You fight with me. Lucien looked down at her. The amber eye widened. The black eye remained dark. The contrast was stark. You do not understand the enemy. You do not know what they are. I understand you. I know what you are. Rory stood on her toes. She brought her face close to his. She could see the pores in his skin. She could see the flecks in his eyes. And I am not running. I am done running. Lucien stared at her. His hand tightened on the cane. The wood creaked. The blade inside shifted. The clock ticked. The rain fell. The space between them vibrated with unsaid things. With history. With hurt. With attraction. Lucien opened his mouth.