Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0021JGR3VRSPAPYNB10Y0

The knock came just after midnight, sharp and insistent, like someone had pressed their knuckles to the wood and refused to lift them. Rory froze mid-sip, the lukewarm tea sloshing over the rim of her mug. Ptolemy’s ears twitched, his tail flicking once before he slunk under the sofa. No one visited at this hour—not unless they were lost, drunk, or trouble. She set the mug down with a quiet *clink* and wiped her palms on her thighs. The flat smelled of old paper and the faint, lingering spice of the curry house below. Three deadbolts. She’d installed them herself after the last time Evan had shown up, after the restraining order, after the way his voice had slithered through the letterbox like smoke. *You can’t hide forever, Laila.* The knock came again. Not a fist this time—knuckles, precise. Deliberate. Rory exhaled through her nose and crossed the room. The floorboards creaked under her bare feet. She pressed her eye to the peephole. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim glow of the hallway light, his platinum hair slicked back, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the hour. One hand rested on the ivory handle of his cane, the other tucked into his pocket. His face was unreadable, but then, it always was. The amber eye caught the light, sharp as a blade, while the black one stayed in shadow. She should’ve known. Rory unlatched the first bolt. Then the second. The third stuck, as it always did, and she had to jiggle it before it gave with a metallic *thunk*. The door swung open just enough to let the hallway’s stale air rush in, carrying the scent of rain and something darker—something like burnt sugar and old books. Lucien didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, his shoulder brushing hers as he passed, close enough that she caught the faintest trace of his cologne—something expensive, something that made her stomach clench. The door clicked shut behind him. “You look like hell,” he said, his voice smooth, accented just enough to make the words sound like a caress. Rory crossed her arms. “What do you want, Luc?” He turned, leaning slightly on his cane, and let his gaze drag over her—rumpled T-shirt, sleep-mussed hair, the way her fingers dug into her own biceps. A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” “At midnight? In *my* flat?” She gestured to the chaos around them—stacks of books teetering like Jenga towers, half-empty coffee cups, the glow of her laptop screen casting blue light over the chaos. “You don’t do *friendly*, Luc. So cut the shit.” His smirk deepened. “Always so direct.” He stepped further into the room, his cane tapping once against the floorboards before he set it aside, leaning it against the armchair. “I need your help.” Rory barked a laugh. “You’ve got to be joking.” “Do I look like I’m joking?” No. He didn’t. His heterochromatic eyes were too sharp, his posture too controlled. This wasn’t a social call. This was business. She exhaled, rubbing her temples. “Fine. Talk.” Lucien didn’t sit. Instead, he moved to the window, parting the curtains just enough to peer down at the street below. The neon glow of the curry house sign painted his profile in sickly orange. “There’s a job. A retrieval.” “Not interested.” “You haven’t heard the details.” “I don’t need to.” She dropped her hands. “Last time I worked with you, I ended up with a knife in my ribs and a demon’s curse hanging over my head. Remember?” His jaw tightened. “That wasn’t my fault.” “Wasn’t it?” She stepped closer, close enough to see the way his pupils dilated, just slightly, when she invaded his space. “You sent me into that warehouse blind. You *knew* what was in there.” “And you walked out alive.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “Because of me.” Silence stretched between them, thick and electric. The air smelled like ozone, like the moment before a storm breaks. Rory looked away first. “What’s the job?” Lucien turned back to the window, his reflection warped in the glass. “A book. Stolen from a private collector. He wants it back.” “Let me guess—it’s not just any book.” “No.” A beat. “It’s a grimoire. One that doesn’t belong in human hands.” She should’ve known. Of course it was something supernatural. Of course it was dangerous. “And why me?” “Because you’re the only one who can get it without setting off every alarm in the city.” He finally looked at her, his gaze locking onto hers. “And because I trust you.” The words hit like a punch to the gut. Trust. As if that word meant anything between them. Rory turned away, grabbing her mug and taking a long, scalding sip. The tea burned her throat. “Where is it?” “A gallery in Mayfair. Tomorrow night.” She set the mug down harder than she meant to. “You’re asking me to break into a gallery. *Tomorrow.*” “You’ve done worse.” “That’s not the point.” “Then what is?” He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, close enough that if she breathed too deeply, her chest would brush his. “You owe me, *Laila.*” The name—her old name, the one she’d shed like a skin—made her flinch. “Don’t call me that.” “Why not?” His voice was low, dangerous. “It’s who you are.” “No.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “It’s who I *was.*” For a second, neither of them moved. The air between them crackled, charged with something neither of them would name. Then Lucien exhaled, sharp and controlled, and took a step back. “Fine.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim envelope, tossing it onto the coffee table. “The details are in there. The job pays fifty thousand.” Rory didn’t touch it. “I don’t need your money.” “Then do it for the thrill.” His lips quirked. “Or because you miss me.” She should’ve slapped him. Should’ve told him to get the hell out. But the words died in her throat because, god help her, part of her *did* miss him. Missed the way he looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing. Missed the way his voice dropped when he was angry, the way his hands— No. Rory snatched the envelope off the table and ripped it open. Inside was a single sheet of paper, a floor plan, and a keycard. She scanned the details, her mind already racing ahead, mapping out the job. “This is suicide.” “You’ve survived worse.” She glared at him. “That’s not reassuring.” “It wasn’t meant to be.” He picked up his cane, twirling it once before gripping the handle. “So. Are you in?” Rory looked at the paper in her hands. Then at him. At the way his suit clung to his shoulders, at the way his eyes burned into hers, daring her to say no. She should’ve said no. But she never could resist a challenge. “Fine.” She crumpled the paper in her fist. “But I’m not doing it for you.” Lucien’s smile was slow, triumphant. “Liar.” And then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him, leaving her alone with the hum of the fridge and the weight of his words pressing down on her like a promise.