Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT01505QYC7NE4Y43TJ29D0

Rain drummed against the cracked windowpane of Eva’s flat, a steady rhythm broken only by the occasional hiss of the radiator kicking on. The scent of old paper, turmeric, and cat fur clung to the air. Rory stood barefoot in the kitchenette, wiping down the counter with a threadbare cloth, her black hair damp from the shower, tendrils escaping the half-hearted ponytail she’d tossed it into. Ptolemy sprawled across the armchair, tail flicking, eyes narrowed at the television, which played a muted nature documentary about snow leopards. A knock came at the door — not the usual three quick taps Eva used, nor the fumbling knock of the delivery guys from next door. This was deliberate. Formal. Three measured raps, spaced just a breath apart. Rory froze. No one came here without calling first. Not even Yu-Fei, and especially not after nine. She moved to the door, eyeing the three deadbolts still engaged. “Who is it?” Silence. Then, low and smooth, like smoke curling under a door: “It’s me.” Her breath caught. She didn’t need a name. She knew that voice — the quiet French roll of *me*, the way the *m* lingered like a threat or a promise. Lucien. She stared at the scar on her left wrist, the pale crescent hidden beneath the sleeve of her sweater. A memory flashed: cold rain in Soho, his fingers brushing hers as he handed her a slip of paper with a number on it. *Call if you need out,* he’d said. She never did. Three months ago, he’d stood on the corner of Aldgate, face shadowed by an umbrella, and told her he was leaving London. *“We were a distraction,”* he said. *“Not a solution.”* She’d nodded, arms folded, jaw tight, pretending the words didn’t slice. Now he was here. She unlatched the top bolt. Then the middle. Then the bottom. Turned the knob. Lucien stood in the dim hall light, immaculate as ever. Charcoal suit draped over broad shoulders, platinum hair slicked back like he’d stepped from a 1940s noir film. One hand gripped the ivory head of his cane; the other hung loose at his side. Raindrops glistened on his coat. His eyes — mismatched, unforgettable — locked onto hers. Amber and black. One human. One not. “You weren’t supposed to be here,” he said, voice quiet. “I wasn’t supposed to let you in.” She didn’t step back. “What do you want, Lucien?” He exhaled through his nose, almost a laugh. “You look well.” “That’s not an answer.” “I needed to see you.” Ptolemy padded into the hall, fur bristling, then rubbed against Lucien’s leg with a low purr. Rory blinked. “He remembers you.” “I remember the tuna I slipped him last time.” Lucien leaned on his cane, shifting his weight. “Can I come in? Or are we going to stand in the hallway and pretend this doesn’t ache?” She stepped aside. He entered with the quiet grace of someone trained to move without noise. Closed the door behind him. Took off his coat, draping it over a chair piled with books on geomancy. Water pooled beneath his polished shoes. Rory crossed her arms. “You left. No call. No note. Just vanished.” “I didn’t vanish. I sent a message.” “A text. *‘Gone to Marseille. Don’t follow.’* That’s not closure. That’s cowardice.” He turned, slow, and for the first time, she saw the shadow beneath his eyes. “I wasn’t protecting myself, Rory. I was protecting you.” “From what? Dinner and conversation?” “From me.” She scoffed. “You don’t get to decide that.” “I do when the things I know — the people I’ve crossed — start showing up on *your* doorstep.” He stepped closer. Not threatening, but impossible to ignore. “That demon from the canal? The one who tried to take your shadow? He doesn’t work alone. And he doesn’t forget.” She stiffened. The encounter two weeks prior — the figure with molten eyes rising from the water behind the Golden Empress, whispering her real name like it was a key. Lucien had appeared, blade drawn, and sent it screaming back into the dark. They hadn’t spoken since. “You didn’t tell me why he knew my name.” “Because some doors stay shut for a reason.” His voice softened. “I left so you’d be safe. So you could *live*. Not spend your nights dodging revenants and half-truths.” “And who decides that? You?” She stepped forward, eyes blazing. “You don’t get to write my story, Lucien. Not after the way you looked at me in that alley behind Silas’ bar. Not after you kissed me when you thought I wouldn’t remember.” He flinched. She had him. “I remember every second,” she said. “The warmth of your hands. The way you stopped, like you were afraid to want me. And then you walked away. Again.” His jaw tightened. “I’m not human, Rory. You know what that means.” “It means your father was a demon. It doesn’t mean you’re a monster.” “It means I carry a hunger most can’t survive. You think I don’t lie awake wondering what I might do in a moment of weakness? What I might take from you without meaning to?” “So you decided to take everything anyway. By leaving.” Her voice cracked, just once. “Did you think I wouldn’t feel it? That I wouldn’t notice the silence where your messages used to be?” He looked down. “No.” Silence settled, thick with everything unsaid. Ptolemy jumped onto the windowsill, tail high, and stared out at the rain. Lucien lifted his eyes again. “I came back because Malphora is awake.” Rory went still. *Malphora.* The name they’d found scrawled in Eva’s grandmother’s journals — a forgotten deity of thresholds and stolen names. A being that fed on identity. “She’s stirring,” Lucien said. “And she’s looking for a vessel.” Rory touched her wrist, fingers brushing the scar. “And you think it’s me.” “I *know* it’s you. Your name was spoken in the ritual that first woke her. *Aurora.* Not Rory. Not Laila. *Aurora.* The name you tried to bury.” She backed up a step. “That was my mother’s choice. We said it once, at a bonfire, when I was ten. Just once.” “It was enough.” She turned, gripping the edge of the kitchen counter. “So what? You show up now, after months, because I’m in danger? Convenient.” “It’s not convenient. It’s torture.” He moved to her, close but not touching. “Every day I was gone, I thought of you. The way you solve problems like they’re puzzles written in a language only you can read. The way you laugh when you think no one’s watching. I came back because I can’t let her take you. And because I couldn’t stand not seeing you again.” She turned her head, eyes bright. “That’s not enough.” “I know.” “Then why come?” “Because I’m done pretending I don’t love you.” The words hung in the air like a struck bell. Rory’s breath shivered. He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for her. Just stood there, bare honesty in his mismatched eyes. She closed the space between them. Her hand pressed against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath the fine fabric. Then she looked up. “You don’t get to leave again. Not like that. Not without a fight.” “I won’t.” “No vague disappearances. No noble sacrifices. If we do this, it’s together. Even when it’s hard. Even when it’s dangerous.” He covered her hand with his. Cold fingers, but his grip was sure. “Together.” Outside, the rain slowed. Ptolemy yawned, stretched, and leapt onto the couch. Rory didn’t let go.