Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0E0J004AJ2MRXAE7G9KEK

Aurora eased the last deadbolt aside and pushed the door in. A sliver of light spilled across the threshold. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, shoulders rigid beneath his charcoal suit, ivory-capped cane resting against his calf. His heterochromatic gaze caught hers before the door swung fully open. She froze a heartbeat. Shadows pooled on his cheek, one amber eye glinting in the gloom, the other rimmed in black. He tipped his head. Hair slick as oil. No smile. The hallway light flickered. She held the door wide enough to step back, letting him in. The flat smelled of stale beer and yesterday’s curry—Silas’s bar below and Yu-Fei’s Golden Empress to the north. Books lined every surface, precarious towers of dog-eared pages and research notes. He paused at the threshold, cane handle gripped but blade sheathed. He scanned the room, chin taut. No hurry in his movement. She stepped aside. Walls of dusty jars and battered tomes. A battered armchair near the window. A single overhead bulb hummed. He brushed past, leaving a ripple of cold in the air, the door clicking shut behind him. She watched the deadbolts slide home. He tilted an eyebrow at the stacked crates she used as a table. “Your storage solutions remain… eclectic.” She dropped into the armchair. Fingers ghosted over a torn volume on the armrest. “You could have called.” He let the cane thud on the floor as he leaned against the wall by the window. Moonlight painted half his face silver. “You wouldn’t answer.” She lifted her chin. Crossed her arms. One wrist bore the faint arc of a childhood scar. She pressed fingertips to it, a quiet anchor. “You knew I’d be at Silas’s.” He glanced toward the hatch in the floor, where she kept her courier bike’s helmet and gloves. “I left messages.” She closed her eyes. The last voice message still haunted her phone. He’d called it off. No explanation. Only a sentence torn in half. She’d stopped checking. He crossed to the small kitchen alcove. Poured water from a chipped kettle into two chipped mugs. One landed before her. Steam curled between them, bridging empty space. She stared at the surface. Dark coffee stained the rim. He handed it over. The liquid trembled. Her fingers curled around the mug, warmth creeping into her palms. He watched. She inhaled the scent of roasted beans. When she lifted her gaze, his jaw slackened in a way that drew muscles tight. He keyed the next move. “Rory,” he said. His voice held a weight she remembered—velvet anchored by steel. “I need you.” Her chest contracted. A low thrum in her throat. “I’m not your fixer.” He turned, cane clicking on the floor. Loose pages scattered at his feet. He bent, picked up a page, smoothed the edge. A runic symbol students of the arcane would call the Mark of Avaros. She touched the back of her neck, where she’d carved that shape once, in defiance. “I know what you are,” he said. “I’m not here to use you.” She snorted. “You’ve used me enough.” He straightened. Candlelight from the bar downstairs flickered up the walls, adding warmth to his pale skin. “I’m here to save you.” She let laughter crawl out, bitter and ragged. “That’s a first.” He stepped closer. The bulb overhead hummed. Crates of takeout containers cast angular shadows. “There’s a price on your head.” Her heart slammed. She leaned forward, mug clattering. Steam obscured him. She set the cup aside and stood, shoulders squared despite the ache in her ribs. “You left me to drown in debts—moral and otherwise.” He closed his eyes. Black lashes fanned his cheek. “I was meant to protect you. I failed.” She crossed to her desk, strewn with notes on demon trafficking. “You lying half-demon.” Fingers hovered over a pen. “You knew more than you said.” He reached out, fingers hovering just above her arm. “You’re safe here.” She pulled back, voice low. “Safe?” She lifted a photograph from the desk: her in Cardiff, bright-eyed, before everything twisted. “You let me believe you cared. I sent messages. Blood didn’t stain your conscience.” He stilled, gaze flicking to the picture. Then back. “I did care.” Her chest tightened. Her spine a rod of ice. “Prove it.” He pressed the cane into the wooden floor, leaned both hands on the handle. Knuckles white. “A demon lord hunts me. Trails me across half the city. He’ll kill anyone who helped me.” She pressed palms flat to the desktop, eyes alight. “And you think that demon’s going to let me go?” He exhaled so sharply the candle flames quivered. “He’ll use you to get to me.” Her jaw clenched. She tapped her scar, fingertips soft on the crescent line. Once, she’d carved it to remind herself she could heal. She could fix this. She lifted eyes to his. “What do you want?” she asked, tone beaded with ice and want. His cane dropped, the blade’s edge clicking. He turned fully, shoulders broad. “I need an escape plan. You know the wards. You mapped the back alleys. You delivered messages to every hidden den in Brick Lane.” She surveyed the cramped flat, the mountains of knowledge. She pressed mugs aside, crossed the floor. She reached the map pinned to the wall: a detailed sketch of East London wards and wards she’d hand-drawn. Faded ink marked safe houses. She ran a finger down the routes she’d flagged for magical supply runs. “Few exits under the old canal. Blasted lock, half buried in weeds. Or the gutter tunnels by the old gasworks.” He stepped close, voice low. “Show me.” She pointed at the marks. His gloved finger hovered beside hers. Heat flared between them. Her voice went quiet. “There’s a patrol there. Fallen angels. They feed on magic. They’ll tear you apart.” He narrowed his eyes. “I can handle them.” She turned from the map. “You’re not human.” He let a ghost of a smile flicker. “True.” She ripped a scrap of paper from her notes, scribbled coordinates and ward phrases. Threw it at him. “Memorise these. If they break through, chant the first line.” He caught the paper. Crumpled and flattened. He read. His lips formed a silent prayer. Then he folded the note and tucked it into his suit. The motion raw with tension. She leaned against the desk, breathing shallow. “Why now?” she asked. “Why risk everything? We both know this ends badly.” He tucked the cane under one arm. He closed the distance between them until the edge of his coat brushed hers. “I came for you.” Her breath faltered. The room spun tight. Candlelight danced on his blade. He paused. Heterochromatic eyes locked on the scar she fingered. “I owe you that much.” She swallowed. No words came. He reached out, fingers brushing her wrist. The scar, small and pale against her skin. She stiffened, heart hammering. He held her gaze. The silence thick as blood. Then he slid his hand away. She straightened, stepping back. “I’ll help,” she said. Voice tremored on the edge. “But you can’t disappear again.” He offered that ghost of a smile once more. Then he caught her hand, palm up. Fingers wove along her lines, tracing the arc of the scar. She did not pull away. He pressed his thumb to the crescent, warmth blooming. “I’m not leaving. Not this time.” Her breath caught. A shiver ran down her spine as the candlelight flickered, shadows dancing across their faces. The door to Silas’s bar thumped low, as if slamming with impatient feet. She folded her arms, gaze steady. “Then we start now.” He tilted his head, watching her. “Now.” She reached for her satchel, swung it onto her shoulder. His cane tapped the floor. They stood face to face in the hush of the flat, surrounded by the tools of her world. The candle guttered, flame dipping. He lifted one corner of his mouth. “Lead the way.” She grabbed the map tacked on the wall, eyes meeting his. A thrill shot through her chest—equal parts dread and something new, something raw. Light from the street filtered through the window. Their shadows stretched across the floor, two forms drawn together by necessity and something neither could ignore. She stepped toward the hatch in the floorboards. He followed, cane glinting in the half light. He paused at the edge. “Stay close.” She glanced back, nostrils flaring. “Always.”