Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0SGPC7Y9NSFYGDGJXXC03

The sharp knock came like a gunshot in the quiet of the flat. One, two, three—a precise rhythm against the heavy wood. Rory froze, her hand hovering over a brittle, tea-stained map of London’s ley lines. Dust motes danced in the single beam of late afternoon sun slicing through the grime on the window. Outside, Brick Lane hummed with life, but in here, surrounded by Eva’s fortress of paper and ink, the silence had been absolute. Ptolemy, a marmalade tabby of considerable bulk, lifted his head from a pile of scrolls, his ears twitching. He gave a low growl, a sound Rory had never heard him make. She pushed back from the cluttered table, the chair legs scraping against the floorboards. Her heart hammered a frantic beat against her ribs. Eva was gone. Her phone went straight to voicemail. And now someone was at the door. She moved silently, weaving through stacks of books that threatened to topple with every step. Her hand found the cold metal of the first deadbolt. She paused, listening. Nothing. Just the faint scent of curry from the restaurant downstairs and the distant wail of a siren. She drew a steadying breath and slid the bolt back. The sound was a deafening clank. Then the second. A jarring scrape. And the third, a heavy, final thud. She opened the door a fraction, just enough to see into the dim, narrow hallway. And the world tilted. Lucien Moreau stood on the welcome mat, a pristine island in the building’s sea of decay. His charcoal suit was immaculate, tailored so precisely it seemed a part of him. Platinum blond hair, slicked back from his forehead, captured the weak light from the single bare bulb overhead. He held an ivory-handled cane, its tip resting on the worn linoleum. He didn't seem to belong here, a creature of obsidian and moonlight dropped into a world of dust and rust. Then he lifted his head, and his eyes found hers. One the colour of warm amber, the other a chip of pure black night. They held no surprise, only a calm, unnerving intensity. “Aurora.” His voice was a low murmur, smooth and dark like French roast coffee. It slid over her full name, a name no one but him ever used. Rory’s throat went dry. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the door. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” His lips curved in the barest suggestion of a smile. It didn’t reach those mismatched eyes. “A pleasure to see you, too.” He took a step forward, a silent, fluid movement that left her no choice but to retreat into the flat. He followed, bringing the chill of the outside air and the expensive, familiar scent of sandalwood and old leather with him. The door clicked shut behind him, plunging the cramped space into an intimate gloom. He took in the precarious towers of literature, the arcane charts pinned to the walls, the half-empty teacup on the table. His gaze was brief but comprehensive, cataloguing everything. Ptolemy, who usually hissed at strangers, hopped down from his perch and wound himself around Lucien's legs, purring like a motor. Lucien’s amber eye flickered down to the cat, one eyebrow arching in faint amusement. He reached down, his long, pale fingers stroking the cat’s head just once before he straightened. “Charming place. Has all the curated chaos of your friend’s mind.” Rory crossed her arms, a barricade against the sudden, unwelcome pull of his presence. He made the small room shrink, his shoulders broad under the fine wool of his suit. “You didn’t answer my question.” “Patience was never your strong suit.” He moved past her, his sleeve brushing her arm. A jolt, like static electricity, shot through her. He navigated the bookish labyrinth with an easy grace, stopping at the table where she’d been working. He tilted his head, his gaze sweeping over the map. “Looking for something? Or someone?” “Eva’s my friend. I’m worried about her.” “As you should be.” He tapped the map with the tip of his cane, right over the snarled intersection of streets that marked Covent Garden. “She has a talent for finding the sort of trouble that doesn’t leave witnesses.” A cold knot formed in Rory’s stomach. She took a step closer, her voice dropping. “What do you know?” He turned to face her. The single beam of sun caught the side of his face, illuminating the sharp line of his jaw. His expression was unreadable, a mask of polite indifference she knew he could shatter in an instant. “The question is, Aurora, what do you know? Tell me what you’ve found. Everything.” The arrogance of it stole her breath. After months of silence, after the way things had ended between them, he walked in here and demanded information. A bitter laugh escaped her. “You have a lot of nerve.” “I have a lot of problems. One of which currently involves your friend.” His black eye seemed to absorb the light, drawing her in. “Another of which, I suspect, will soon involve you.” The air crackled. It was all there, hanging between them in the dusty light—the ghost of whispered conversations in shadowed alleyways, the lingering memory of his hand on her wrist, the sharp, ugly words of their last encounter. It was a history written in scars, some visible, some not. “I’m not one of your assets anymore, Lucien. I don’t work for you.” “This isn’t about work.” He took a step toward her, closing the small distance until he was a monolith of grey wool and coiled tension. She had to tip her head back to meet his gaze. She could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the almost imperceptible clench in his jaw. “This is about survival. Eva stumbled into something, a negotiation between parties who do not appreciate being observed. She is a loose end.” Rory’s hands curled into fists. “So you’re here to what? Clean up the mess?” “I’m here because she left you a message.” His voice was softer now, the edges frayed just enough for her to notice. “She knew they were coming for her. And she knew that you were the only one who could understand what she found.” He reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and produced a small, folded piece of paper. Not parchment, not some ancient scroll. Just a simple, torn sheet from a reporter’s notebook. He held it out to her. Her fingers trembled slightly as she took it. The paper was cool against her skin. She unfolded it. It wasn’t a message. It was a drawing. A hasty, charcoal sketch of a sigil she had never seen before—a coiled serpent eating its own tail, but with a crown of thorns piercing its skull. Her blood ran cold. “She left this for me,” he clarified, his voice a low vibration in the charged silence. “At a dead drop we haven’t used in years. It’s a symbol tied to a particularly nasty sect. An old one. They traffic in souls, Aurora. And they don’t like competition.” Rory looked up from the drawing, her bright blue eyes locking with his complicated gaze. The fixer, the information broker, was gone. In his place was the man she remembered—the one whose carefully constructed world was threatened, the one who only came to her when he was out of options. “Why show me this?” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Why come to me?” His gaze dropped to her mouth, just for a second, a fleeting, dangerous flicker of something else. Something that had nothing to do with Eva or magic or monstrous sects. Then it was gone. “Because this symbol,” he said, his voice returning to its cool, measured cadence as he tapped the paper with his finger. “I’ve seen it once before. Years ago. In a place you know.”