Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0H87XKT0JH6E60AQ2RP7X

The knock came at midnight—three sharp raps that cut through the hum of Eva’s ancient refrigerator. Rory froze mid-sip, the lukewarm tea bitter on her tongue. No one visited Eva’s flat unannounced. Not with three deadbolts and a tabby that hissed at strangers. Ptolemy’s ears flattened against his skull. He darted under the sofa as Rory set her mug down, the ceramic clinking against the cluttered coffee table. She didn’t reach for the baseball bat propped by the door. Something in the rhythm of those knocks prickled the back of her neck. She peered through the peephole. Lucien Moreau stood on the other side, rain glistening in his platinum hair. His charcoal suit was immaculate as ever, but the left sleeve clung to his forearm, soaked through. The amber and black of his eyes flicked up as if he sensed her watching. Rory exhaled through her nose and unchained the door. "You look like hell," she said. His mouth twitched. "And you look like you were not expecting company." She hadn’t. Not in sweatpants and an old university hoodie, her hair piled into a messy knot. The scar on her wrist itched. She crossed her arms. "What do you want?" Lucien leaned on his cane, the ivory handle catching the dim hallway light. "A moment of your time. And possibly a towel." Rainwater dripped from his sleeve onto Eva’s frayed welcome mat. Rory stepped aside. The flat felt smaller with him in it. He took up space without trying—the crisp scent of bergamot and something darker cutting through the usual smells of old books and takeout. Ptolemy emerged just enough to glare from beneath the sofa. Lucien glanced at the stacks of grimoires and half-translated scrolls covering every surface. "Eva’s work?" "Don’t touch anything." Rory tossed him a dish towel from the kitchen. "You’re lucky she’s not here." He caught it one-handed. "I know. I waited." Of course he had. Rory watched as he dabbed at his sleeves, the movement precise. No wasted effort. Just like the last time she’d seen him, in the back room of Silas’ bar, his gloved fingers sliding a dossier across the table. *Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to, Rory.* She hadn’t listened. "You’re staring," he said without looking up. "You’re dripping on Eva’s floor." Lucien smirked. He folded the towel neatly and set it on the arm of the sofa. "I need your help." Rory barked a laugh. "You’ve got the wrong flat." "I don’t." His voice dropped, the French accent thickening the way it did when he was tired. Or angry. "There’s a ledger. Encrypted. Your old university’s system." Her stomach twisted. "No." "You haven’t heard what’s in it yet." "I don’t care." She moved toward the door. "Whatever game you’re playing, I’m not—" "It’s about Evan." Her fingers curled around the door handle. The metal bit into her palm. Lucien took a step closer. The rain had left his hair slightly undone, a single blond strand falling across his forehead. "He’s been skimming from the wrong people. They’ll kill him for it." Rory turned. "And you’re here out of the goodness of your heart?" "I’m here," he said slowly, "because you would never forgive me if I didn’t tell you." The air between them crackled. She remembered the weight of his coat around her shoulders that winter night two years ago, the way he’d lit her cigarette without a word after she’d walked out on Evan for the last time. She swallowed. "Why now?" Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist—to the crescent scar she knew he’d noticed the first time they met. "Because you’re the only one who can decrypt it." Ptolemy chose that moment to slink out from his hiding spot and weave between Lucien’s legs. Traitor. Rory exhaled. "You’ll owe me." The corner of his mouth lifted. "I always do." She reached past him for her laptop, her shoulder brushing his damp sleeve. His breath hitched. Just once. The screen flared to life, casting blue light across their faces. Rory flexed her fingers over the keyboard. "Start talking."