Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0GD62BZ7WTVGTN5EZ7NBK

Aurora’s palm hovered over the brass knocker a heartbeat before the doorbell’s chime shattered the evening hush. She placed one foot back, hesitated, then swung the door open. Lucien stood in the narrow hallway, lamplight pooling at his polished shoes. His cane leaned against the architrave, ivory handle carved with twisting runes. One amber eye caught the glow; the other, obsidian, drifted past her shoulder. He wore that charcoal suit—tailored to the exact angle of his collarbone, sleeves hemming at the perfect wrist-break. Her chest tightened. Walls lined with battered cookbooks and battered case files suddenly felt too close. She folded her arms, the crescent scar on her left wrist brushing against her sleeve. Lucien spooled a slow smile. Didn’t reach his eyes. “Evening, Rory.” Her jaw tensed. “Evening, Lucien.” She pressed her foot against the doorframe, anchored herself. “I take it you didn’t ring ahead.” He tilted his head. Cane tapped the threshold, three soft clicks. “News travels slow. I prefer walking.” She stared at him. At the ghost of a smile. Memories of storm-wet rooftops and midnight fences flared behind her ribs. “You’ll excuse me if I step aside so you can—” He stepped past anyway, sleek guard-dog smell trailing behind him. Floorboards groaned. He leaned on the hallway table, palms open on its scarred wood. A folded note lay beneath his hand. Rory’s mouth dried. She tried to remember her calm. Rain had pelted them that night he vanished—she’d chased him across cobblestones, demanded answers he’d refused to give. She’d slammed that same door. No goodbye. “Why are you here?” She swallowed. Voice firm, brittle. He peeled the note free. Edged parchment, edges singed. “It’s Eva’s handwriting. Something’s happened at Brick Lane.” He held it out, careful as if offering a bird. “I need your help.” She stared at the Scribbled script, every jagged letter echoing nights poured over her friend’s research. The flat three doors down, safe behind three deadbolts and shelves of scrolls. “You have her notes?” He flicked the paper. Creaks followed the motion. “And I have half a mind to burn them if you refuse.” A laugh caught in her throat. She backed toward the living room. “Some invitation.” Every book on her shelf watched like a potential witness. He rose, cane in hand, silhouette sharpening. His other eye tracked her. “Fine. Decline.” He tucked the note inside his suit. “But you’ll regret it.” She crouched to pick up a cushion. Knit pattern raised against her palms. “Not interested in regrets.” He shifted, cane tip scraping tile. A whisper of demon-blood heat pulsed beneath those tailored lines. “Eva’s in trouble. If you’d rather watch her burn—” She stood. Books rattled on their shelves. “Don’t dare.” Lucien’s expression softened, for half a breath. He reached forward, fingertips brushing her wrist. The scar flared pink where his skin met hers. She jerked back, heart hammering. “I said—” “Rory.” He dropped the formal. Voice low, gravelled. “I wouldn’t come if it weren’t urgent.” She kept the door between them. Oak did nothing to stop the ache coiling in her chest. “Past tense isn’t a summons.” He tapped the note pocket. “I owe her. And I owe you.” His cane knocked again. Warning or plea, she couldn’t tell. Books slipped from their ledges as she pivoted. He followed, room shrinking around them. She glanced at the battered cookbooks—her only attempt at normalcy. The soft glow from a single lamp etched shadows into his jawline. Every angle reminded her how close he’d gotten under cover of night. “You vanished,” she said. “Left no address. No explanation.” He looked at the floor, eyes flicking amber then black. “Safehouses compromised.” She pressed her lips together. “You could’ve called.” He lifted a single shoulder. “I thought you’d be better off.” Silence followed like a verdict. She crossed her arms, braced her spine. “You thought wrong.” He stepped closer; floorboards protested. She caught a whisper of his scent—pepper and old parchment, danger and late-night confessions. A tendril of memory curled at her ribs: his hand brushing hers while decrypting Avarosian script, the hush after they cracked the cipher. He lowered his cane, leaned on it with one hand. “I’ve come back now. That counts for something.” She studied his polished cufflinks, carved with a tiny demon’s horn. Flinched. “You could’ve chosen not to.” “I didn’t.” He straightened, freed the cane. “I chose you.” Her breath hitched. She stared at his coat lapel where a single thread dangled. “I’m not a choice.” His gaze dropped. When his amber eye lifted, it shimmered. “You were the only one who made me feel human.” He let silence hang, dense as smoke. Then: “Help me help Eva.” Her heart thudded against ribs. She forced herself to look away, fix on a photograph of her and Eva at Cardiff docks. Waves crashing. Two friends steadied against spray. Before Evan. Before Lucien’s disappearance. He edged toward her again. She backed until her shoulder clipped the sofa. He stopped inches away, cane blade hidden, breathing steady. Their space crackled. She lifted her chin. “One condition.” He blinked. Cane drooped. “Name it.” Her scarred wrist brushed his thigh. Weak impulse to pull back, but her fingers curled instead. “You tell me why you left.” He let go of the cane, let it clatter to the floor. He closed the last of the distance. When his hand covered hers, heat seeped into her veins. She met his amber eye. “Fair.” He exhaled. “I’ve nothing but apologies. And this.” He reached into his jacket, produced a thin key. Icicles carved into its bow. “Safehouse in East Kilburn. It’s ours—yours and mine—no intermediaries.” She stared at the key, then into his eyes. The thread of trust loosened, then tightened around her heart. He brushed fingers over her scar. Spark of recognition. “Can we start again?” She swallowed. Mouth dry, pulse racing. She picked up the key, weighed its promise. Her eyes flicked to her front door, cracked open on their shared past. Then back to him. He held her gaze. Didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t break the spell. She lifted her hand. Let their fingers interlace. The key slipped between their palms. He inhaled. She exhaled. Everything outside fell away. And they stood like that—two halves that once belonged together—caught at the threshold of what came next.