Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0B1CMCQ915E56BH22ACH2

The insistent rapping on her door, a sound so rare it jolted Rory from the hypnotic drone of a late-night documentary, made her freeze. Ptolemy, usually a creature of supreme apathy, twitched his tail on the worn armchair, one amber eye surveying the hallway outside the flat. Three deadbolts secured Eva’s door, a testament to a paranoia Rory herself sometimes shared, especially after Evan. She padded across the floor, the wood protesting softly beneath her bare feet, and peered through the peephole. The face staring back was one she hadn't seen in years, yet it was as familiar as her own reflection. Polished platinum blond hair, slicked back with effortless precision, framed a face sculpted by shadows and sharp angles. Heterochromatic eyes, one the colour of warm amber, the other a void of black, studied the lens with an unnerving intensity. Lucien Moreau. She hadn't expected him, not ever. Not after that night, not after everything that had evaporated between them like mist on a cold London morning. A breath caught in her throat. He looked exactly the same, perhaps even more refined, his customary charcoal suit a stark silhouette against the dim landing light. The ivory-handled cane he leaned on, a familiar affectation, tapped a quiet rhythm against the scuffed lino. He hadn’t changed, but she certainly had. The pre-law student who had once stumbled into his orbit, all wide-eyed naivety and desperate hope, was gone. In her place stood Rory, a delivery driver for a Cantonese restaurant, living above a pub, with a crescent-shaped scar on her wrist and a past she mostly kept buried. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the locks. What did he want? After all this time, what would bring Lucien Moreau to her doorstep in the dead of night? The silence stretched, punctuated only by the distant wail of a siren and the thumping of her own heart against her ribs. Ptolemy stretched, then sauntered to the door, rubbing his flank against the wood with a low rumble. "Fine," she muttered, her voice raspy with disuse. She slid back the first deadbolt, then the second. The third lock protested with a loud click. The door swung inwards, opening a sliver of the space he now occupied. Lucien’s gaze swept over her, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips, a subtle shift that hinted at amusement. "Aurora," he greeted, his voice a low, cultured rumble, the French accent still a silken lure. "You look… surprised." "Lucien. What are you doing here?" The words were more blunt than she intended, but a sudden surge of adrenaline had stripped away any desire for pleasantries. "Can one not visit an old acquaintance?" His dark eye crinkled at the corner. "Without occasion?" "It's past midnight. On a Tuesday." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, trying to project an composure she didn't entirely feel. His presence was a disruption, a sudden, potent wave of nostalgia and something akin to dread. He pushed the door open a little wider, stepping across the threshold without invitation. Ptolemy weaved around his ankles, a silent, furry ambassador of the flat. "And yet, here I am. I find myself in the neighbourhood. A sudden, unexpected impulse, perhaps." His gaze swept around the cramped entrance hall, taking in the teetering stacks of books, the scattered research notes, the faint aroma of incense and old paper. "Still hoarding literature, I see, Eva." "It's not my flat," Rory corrected, pushing herself away from the door, a new tension coiling in her gut. This was Eva's place, a sanctuary of organised chaos, a stark contrast to the meticulous order Lucien usually inhabited. "She's out of town." His eyes narrowed, the amber one glinting with sudden focus. "Out of town? For how long?" "A few days. A conference." She watched him, trying to decipher the flicker of something behind his impassive expression. "You know Eva?" "We move in similar circles, Aurora." He gestured vaguely with his cane. "London is a surprisingly small place, when one knows where to look. And who to ask." He took another step inside, his tailored suit looking impossibly out of place amidst the bohemian clutter. The air between them thickened, charged with unspoken questions and memories. "What do you want, Lucien?" she asked again, her voice firm. She needed to cut through the dance. "Why are you really here?" He paused, his gaze finally settling on her, intense and probing. He surveyed her from her bare feet to the way her messy black hair fell around her shoulders. "I have a proposition for you, Aurora. Something that requires your particular… talents." Her brow furrowed. "My talents? I deliver noodles, Lucien. Twice a week." Disbelief coloured her tone. He finally let out a soft chuckle, a sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Do not play coy with me, Laila. I know about your work as Malphora. The little arrangements you make for Mr. Cheung. The quiet disappearances. The discreet recoveries." The alias, Malphora, a name she used for only the most sensitive of Cheung's requests, left her breathless. How did he know? She met his steady gaze, a flicker of defiance igniting within her. "You've been watching me?" "Observing," he corrected smoothly. "A crucial distinction. And I have been most impressed. You possess a certain… flair. A knack for the unconventional." He stepped closer, the ivory-handled cane tapping softly against an overloaded bookshelf. "And I have a problem that requires a very unconventional solution. A problem that, I believe, only you can solve." Rory’s mind raced. Eva’s research notes, scattered across every available surface, suddenly seemed more significant. Eva, with her vast network of contacts and her encyclopedic knowledge of London's occult underbelly, had always been the one to tackle the truly bizarre. But Eva was gone, and Lucien Moreau stood on her doorstep, offering a cryptic task that spoke of danger and secrets she hadn't dared to touch in years. "What kind of problem?" she asked, her voice barely a whisper, the question hanging heavy in the air. Lucien inclined his head, his heterochromatic eyes never leaving hers. "Something rare. Something ancient has resurfaced. Something that requires a delicate touch. And a keen intellect. And, as I said, a certain flair that few possess." He paused, letting the silence amplify the weight of his words. "It concerns a rather… troublesome artifact. And its current guardian is proving most recalcitrant." An artifact? The word conjured images of dusty museums and hushed auction rooms, but Lucien's tone suggested something far more potent, something that pulsed with dark energy. She felt a familiar prickle of unease, the instinct of self-preservation warring with a dangerous curiosity. His presence alone was a memory of a past she had tried to outrun, a past filled with thrilling danger and intoxicating intimacy, a past that still had the power to pull her in. "And why me?" she pressed, needing to understand his logic. "Why not go to one of your… usual contacts?" He took another step closer, and the confined space of the hallway seemed to shrink. He was close enough now that she could smell the faint, sophisticated scent of his cologne, a mix of sandalwood and something unexpectedly floral. "Because, Laila," he murmured, his voice lower now, a subtle shift from his earlier detached tone, "your particular brand of ingenuity, the one that so captivated me all those years ago, is precisely what this situation demands. And because, perhaps," his gaze flickered downwards, towards the crescent scar on her wrist, barely visible beneath the hem of her pyjama sleeve, "you have a certain… shared history with the kind of darkness that deals in such objects." The mention of her scar, a relic of a childhood accident involving a broken pane of glass and a moment of childish recklessness, sent a jolt through her. It was a small thing, barely noticeable, but Lucien had always seen the details others missed. He had seen her, truly seen her, in a way few had before. That alone had been enough, back then, to draw her in. And now, standing here, the air thick with unspoken things, she could feel the tendrils of that old attraction, that potent pull, beginning to reassert themselves. The years had not dimmed the spark between them, merely banked the embers. "I don't know, Lucien," she said, her voice a little unsteady. "It sounds dangerous." And it sounded like a trap, a gilded cage he was offering her once more. He offered her that small, knowing smile again. "All the most interesting things are, wouldn't you agree, Aurora?" He extended a hand, his fingers long and elegant, the skin smooth against the warm air. "Come. Tell me what Eva knows. Perhaps together, we can convince this recalcitrant guardian to release what is rightfully… unpossessed."