Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0BY7J7SFK0Y6NWKS1XB5N

Rory hauled the third deadbolt aside. The door swung inward. Lucien Moreau filled the frame. He stood drenched, charcoal suit plastered to his frame, ivory-handled cane dangling from one pale hand. One amber eye caught the harsh hallway lamp; the other, dark as spilled ink, tracked Rory’s every move. Ptolemy arched his back, hissing between bared teeth. “Get down,” Rory ordered and yanked the door closed with her shoulder. A click sounded as she slapped the second bolt into place. The cat skidded past her legs, claws rattling on the threshold. Lucien braced his shoulder against the wood before settling the cane’s tip on the mat. Drops of rain pooled in a dark ring around it. He inhaled deep. “I need sanctuary.” Rory pressed her palm against the door. “Not here.” He ducked his head, hair plastered across his forehead. “Your friend won’t mind.” She leaned a shoulder against the frame and let out a breath that trembled between anger and something else. “Eva’s halfway across town. And she’s got three deadbolts for a reason.” Lucien’s smile curled sharp. He clicked the cane tip against the floor once, twice. “I saw. They’ll buy us time.” Rory stepped back. Her toes caught the edge of the Persian rug. The flat smelled of parchment and old tea. Scrolls spilled from every shelf. Open books lined the windowsill. Candle wax pooled on the coffee table. She crossed her arms tight, pressing her scarred wrist into her ribs. “How did you even get this address?” Her voice stayed flat. He shrugged, water sleeting off his shoulders. “I pick locks in four languages.” The dull rasp of the third bolt turning echoed down the hallway. Rory slammed it home. She pivoted, braced her hips. A loose journal tumbled from a stack on the hall table. Pages fanned across the floor. Lucien ignored the clutter. He stepped past her, shoulders squared. Thunder rolled outside. A gust rattled the front windows. Ptolemy scuttled to the other side of the room, ears pinned. Rory dropped to one knee, snatched the journal. The cover curved under her palm: spidery Welsh script. She flipped it closed. “Stay by the door. One step and I’ll lock you out.” He nodded. Loose water droplets clung to his eyelashes. He rubbed one eye with the cane’s thick handle. “You always loud in here.” She stood, shoved the journal onto the nearest shelf. Books teetered, caught themselves. Rory tugged off her raincoat and hung it on a metal hook by the door. A strand of black hair flicked across her face. Bright blue eyes studied him from across the cluttered room. He unbuttoned his suit jacket, draped it over a chair. He let the damp fabric slide through pale fingers, revealing a white shirt heavy with rain. He tucked the blade-cane in the corner and stepped further inside, boots leaving dark prints along the floorboards. Rory beat her fists at her pants, dusting off splinters. “Why are you here?” He cracked a grin that didn’t meet his eyes. “I have enemies.” She scoffed. “You always have.” He took another step. “This time it’s personal.” A thud on the radiator made them both jump. Ptolemy skittered into Rory’s legs. She scooped him up, pressed him tight. “Your troubles aren’t mine.” He ducked under a low beam. “They are if they find me here.” She gritted her teeth. Books rattled on a tall shelf. A yellowed scroll drooped off the edge. Rory slammed a fist onto the wooden frame. “I have enough of my own mess.” He stayed quiet, wet breath spilling in the hush. Rory set Ptolemy on a cushion by the window. The tabby blinked up at Lucien before sniffing the air around him. Rory eyed the cat’s twitching whiskers and turned away. She strode to the kitchen nook, snagged a chipped mug from the sink piled with dishes. With one shoulder she shoved past the cluttered counter. Lucien knelt by the cane. He rolled the tip along the floor’s grooves, testing the balance. He rose, pursed his lips. “Tea.” She glared at him through her hair. He didn’t flinch. She dropped the mug on the table and tore open a teabag over it. Her fingers moved fast, ripping paper, twisting the string around her wrist. He leaned on the table’s corner close enough for his elbow to nudge hers. Steam curled around them. “Milk?” she asked. “Black.” Rory reached over the chaos of scrolls and piled plates to snatch a bottle from the fridge. She poured with a sharp jerk, splashed half into the sink. Her reflection shimmered in the cabinet’s glass door: straight hair, pale skin, that crescent-shaped scar gleaming on her wrist as though branded. He washed his hands in cold water at the small steel sink. Raindrops clung to his lashes. He straightened, rubbed fingers across his chest, blotting damp. “Thank you.” She spat into the empty sink. He held up both hands. “I’ll pay you back.” She tapped the mug’s rim. A drop of tea spilled onto a pile of gilt-edged notes. She swiped at it with her thumb. “You don’t owe me.” His amber eye moved across the room. Shelves groaned under scrolls of incantations, spells half translated, pages littered with bloodlike stains. “I owe you a confession.” She snapped her head up. Steam rose between them in the lamplight. He wrapped his fingers around the mug’s handle and sank into one of the mismatched chairs. Rory sat opposite and rested her elbows on the table, piling clutter between them. “Out with it.” He inhaled, set the mug down. Tea darkened the wood. He tilted his head. “When I walked away that night, I thought I’d break every promise I ever made to you. I was wrong.” Rory closed her eyes. She squeezed the scar on her wrist. “You broke me instead.” A roll of thunder shook the windowpanes. He stared at the swirling tea. “I needed to protect you.” She whipped her gaze back. Her voice cracked like glass. “Protect me by leaving?” He swallowed. The silence stretched until the candle guttered. “Lucien,” she whispered. He raised a hand, as though to touch her face, then dropped it. His blade-cane leaned nearby. She caught sight of the thin sword beneath the ivory handle. “Are you still armed?” she asked. He shrugged. “I never leave unarmed.” She studied him, saw the tension in his shoulders, the wet collar clinging to his throat. The corner of his mouth twitched. Her heart slammed in her chest. She wanted to close the distance, ask him for every answer, but the clutter of the room and the sharp edges of their past held her back. He cleared his throat. “I’ve got a target on my back. The Syndicate marked me for elimination. My sources dry up. I have nowhere else to go—” “Then find another fix,” she said. “Go back to the underworld.” He laughed, a soft, bitter sound. “This isn’t a choice. They came for me before I could leave London.” Rory clenched her mug until her knuckles whitened. Tea seeped through the porcelain. She held it as though it might burn her. “Then you’ll die alone.” He pushed the mug aside, sending a ripple through the liquid. Scattered notes slid off the table’s edge. One fluttered down, pages spreading like wings. Rory’s gaze locked on a line of Welsh script: “Yn y tywyllwch mae gwirionedd.” He watched her read, then whispered, “Truth lives in darkness.” She glared. “I’m not your sanctuary.” He leaned forward. Rain tapped on the window behind him. “You are mine.” A gust rattled loose papers. He reached into his jacket, withdrew a slim envelope. He slid it across the table. Rory’s breath caught in her throat. She studied his amber eye, saw something fragile there. Something he had never allowed himself to show. She slid a hand across the wood, stopping the envelope’s slide. Fingertips at the seal. She stared at him, waiting. Outside, the thunder rolled once more. Ptolemy leapt onto her lap, his weight a reminder of the world beyond this table. Rory looked down at the cat, then back at Lucien. He leaned on the table’s edge, cane in his other hand, suit still soaked, but the way he watched her held no threat. Only hope. She opened the envelope. Inside lay a single photograph: Rory and Lucien standing side by side on a bridge in Cardiff, streetlamps flickering behind them. He wore a grin. She laughed, hair blowing in the wind. They looked unguarded. Rory traced the photo’s edge. Her lips parted. The storm rattled the glass panes. Lucien waited, silent. She lifted her gaze. The flicker of candlelight danced across his heterochromatic eyes. He waited for her to speak.