Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT03ZXNF66D7KDZ6JQK0480

The top lock clicked, then the middle, and finally the bolt scraped back with a familiar rasp. Rory pulled the door open, ready to tell Eva she'd forgotten her keys again. Lucien Moreau stood on her landing. He wore a charcoal suit, perfectly tailored as always, the kind of expensive cloth that whispered of silent money. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, catching the dim hallway light. In one hand, he held his ivory-handled cane, the tip resting on the worn runner. His heterochromatic eyes – one amber, one black – fixed on her, no surprise, no apology, just that calm, assessing gaze she knew too well. Rory’s breath snagged in her throat. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird desperate for escape. Months. It had been months since she saw him, since she walked out of his life without a backward glance, without a single word. She felt the old anger simmer, a low, persistent heat beneath her ribs, threatening to ignite. “You’re early,” she said, her voice a little too sharp, a little too loud in the confined space. A flimsy shield against the sudden storm brewing inside her. Lucien's lips twitched, a fleeting ghost of a smile that never quite reached his eyes. "Punctuality, *ma chérie*, is a virtue." His French accent, that smooth, cultured sound, caressed the words, sending a shiver down her spine. A shiver of fury, she told herself. Nothing more. “I wasn’t expecting you,” Rory said, tightening her grip on the doorknob. Her knuckles turned white. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.” "Evidently," he swept his gaze over her, taking in her worn jeans and faded band t-shirt, the hair she hadn't bothered to tame. A silent judgment, she thought, of her casual attire, a stark contrast to his impeccable presentation. “What do you want, Lucien?” She leaned against the doorframe, crossing her arms over her chest. A defensive posture, she knew, but she couldn't help it. His presence alone was an assault. He stepped into the flat, uninvited, pushing the door gently wider. The scent of his expensive cologne, a blend of woodsmoke and old leather, filled the small space, chasing away the faint aroma of curry from the restaurant below. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, wound around his ankles, purring loudly, rubbing against the fine fabric of his trousers. Even the cat, traitorous beast, seemed to welcome him. “I have information,” Lucien said, his eyes scanning the cluttered living room, the stacks of books and scrolls that covered every available surface. He took it all in, every detail, every change since his last visit. Rory closed the door with a soft click, sealing them inside. “Information about what?” she asked, her voice tight. The anger felt hotter now, coiling in her gut. She hated that he could still do this to her, still stir up all the old emotions with just a look, a word. Lucien moved further into the room, his cane tapping softly on the wooden floor. Ptolemy followed, a furry shadow at his heels. He ran a gloved finger along the spine of a leather-bound grimoire on a bookshelf. “Information you will find… illuminating.” “If you have something to tell me, just say it,” Rory said, her patience fraying. She didn’t want to play his games, not now, not ever again. He turned, his gaze locking with hers. “It concerns the disappearances. The ones you’ve been investigating.” Rory’s heart gave a sudden lurch. The disappearances. The reason she’d been spending restless nights poring over ancient texts with Eva, the reason she hadn’t slept properly in weeks. “How do you know about that?” The question came out sharper than she intended. Lucien simply raised an eyebrow. “My dear Rory, do you truly believe anything happens in this city without my knowledge?” A hint of amusement played in his tone, a subtle mockery that grated on her nerves. “Get to the point, Lucien,” she demanded, her voice an octave lower, laced with a warning. He walked past her towards the small, worn sofa, Ptolemy still trailing him. He settled onto it, his movements fluid and unhurried. The sofa creaked under his weight. Ptolemy immediately hopped onto his lap, kneading against his chest, purring a rumble that vibrated through the quiet room. Lucien stroked the cat’s head, his movements gentle, almost tender. It was a stark contrast to the aloof, dangerous man she knew. “The information is delicate,” he said, his gaze fixed on her. “And it comes with a price.” Rory scoffed. “Of course, it does.” The anger flared brighter, hotter, an inferno in her chest. Everything with Lucien had a price. Everything was a transaction. “You look well,” he said, changing the subject with infuriating ease. His eyes, those mismatched windows to a hidden world, softened just a fraction. “A touch tired, perhaps. But well.” She ignored the compliment, the sudden warmth she felt against her will, the way her skin tingled where his gaze touched her. “I don’t need your pleasantries, Lucien. I need to know what you came here for.” He sighed, a soft, weary sound. “Always so direct, *ma chérie*.” He lifted Ptolemy off his lap, placing the cat gently on the floor. Ptolemy let out an indignant meow, then rubbed against Lucien’s legs. “Very well.” He leaned forward, resting his clasped hands on his cane, his amber eye gleaming in the dim light. “There’s a new player in town. Someone with a particular… taste.” “What kind of taste?” Rory asked, her voice still tight with tension. “One that involves human souls,” Lucien said, his voice dropping to a low, serious tone. “And rare, potent magical artifacts.” Rory frowned. “Souls?” She’d dealt with a lot in the supernatural underworld, but soul-snatching was a level of depravity even she hadn’t encountered often. “Who is it?” Lucien leaned back, his gaze lingering on her for a moment longer than necessary. “That, Rory, is where the price comes in.” “What do you want?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. She knew, deep down, that whatever he asked, she would pay. The disappearances, the missing people, gnawed at her. She couldn’t let anything stand in the way of finding them. His eyes narrowed, a flicker of something she couldn't quite decipher passing through them. “I want you to come back to me.”