Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0TCMYHV94SR0WBAHEA2BY

The knock on the door was not a knock. It was a series of heavy, deliberate thuds that vibrated through the floorboards and up the legs of the rickety table. Rory paused, a half-eaten samosa halfway to her mouth, and listened. It wasn't Eva's frantic, triple-rat-a-tat-tat. It wasn't Silas from the bar downstairs, who'd just yell up through the floorboards. This was something else. Something demanding. She placed the samosa back on its grease-stained napkin and wiped her fingers on her jeans. The flat was quiet, save for the low hum of the ancient refrigerator and the distant, rhythmic thump of bass from a passing car. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, lifted his head from his curled position on a stack of medieval Welsh poetry, his green eyes wide and fixed on the door. Three deadbolts. Eva was paranoid, but Rory had learned the value of good locks the hard way. She slid the first one back, then the second, the grating metal loud in the small space. The third was stiff. She put her weight into it. She leaned forward, her eye pressed to the peephole's distorted fisheye lens. A slice of the hallway. A scuffed floor, the opposite door with its peeling paint. And then, a figure. Immaculate. A slash of platinum blond hair, the sharp line of a charcoal suit jacket. He wasn't looking at the door, but slightly to the side, a posture of bored impatience. Her heart gave a single, painful lurch before she got it under control. She straightened up, her face a careful mask. She pulled the chain free and turned the handle, opening the door just a few inches, the chain pulling taut. ‘Lucien.’ He turned his head. His eyes, one the colour of polished amber, the other a solid, fathomless black, found hers. A faint, almost mocking smile touched his lips. ‘Aurora. Are you going to make me conduct my business from the hallway? The curry downstairs is aggressive tonight.’ ‘My business is my own. And you’re not in it.’ ‘Such a warm welcome. I was expecting tea, maybe a biscuit.’ He gestured with his ivory-handled cane. ‘Must I stand here smelling of cardamom and desperation?’ The word hung in the air between them. Desperation. She hated that he could look at her, in this chaotic, book-filled sanctuary, and see anything resembling desperation. With a sigh that was more frustration than defeat, she pushed the door shut, unhooked the chain, and pulled it open again. He stepped inside, bringing with him the scent of expensive cologne, something sharp with bergamot and sandalwood that immediately clashed with the flat's prevailing aroma of old paper, dust, and leftover Indian food. His presence was an intrusion, a stark, clean line drawn through the comfortable clutter. He closed the door behind himself, the click of the latch unnervingly final. Ptolemy let out a low hiss from his perch on the books, his tail twitching. Lucien glanced at the cat, a flicker of amusement in his mismatched eyes. ‘Charming. Does it bite?’ ‘Only people who deserve it.’ Rory crossed her arms, leaning against the edge of the table. ‘So, what do you want, Lucien? I’m busy.’ He ran a gloved finger along the spines of a teetering stack of books on a nearby shelf. ‘Buried in research again. Some things never change. Still trying to solve the world’s problems one dusty manuscript at a time?’ ‘Some of us prefer solutions that don’t involve a hidden blade.’ Her gaze dropped pointedly to his cane. He smiled, a genuine curve of his mouth this time, but it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You say that like it’s a bad thing. Efficiency is a virtue.’ He moved deeper into the room, his movements fluid and silent. He seemed to take up all the available air, forcing her to stand taller. ‘You look well.’ ‘Liar.’ ‘No.’ His voice softened, just a fraction. ‘You look tired. But the fire is still there. That’s something.’ The compliment, or whatever it was, landed like a stone. She didn’t want it. She didn’t want anything from him. ‘Cut the crap. Why are you here?’ ‘A man can’t simply check on an old acquaintance?’ ‘We were never acquaintances.’ The words were sharp, brittle. ‘And you don’t “simply” do anything. Every move you make is a calculated step on a board no one else can see. So, what’s the play?’ He stopped his perusal of the room and faced her fully. The space between them was small, charged with the memory of shouts in the rain and the taste of blood on her lip. The memory of his hand on her arm, holding her back, holding her safe. ‘You’re right.’ His voice was low. ‘It’s not a social call.’ ‘I didn’t think so.’ ‘There’s talk.’ ‘There’s always talk in your world. Ghouls in the Tube, pixies selling bad luck in Camden. It’s background noise.’ ‘This isn’t background noise.’ He took a step closer. The scent of his cologne was stronger now, wrapping around her. ‘This is about you. Someone is asking questions. About a woman from Cardiff with a quick mind and a quicker right hook. A woman who left town in a hurry.’ Rory’s blood ran cold. Evan. It had to be. She’d been so careful, so quiet. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ ‘Don’t lie to me, Aurora. It’s insulting to us both.’ His gaze dropped to her left wrist, to the small, crescent-shaped scar that was barely visible. ‘He’s looking for you. And he’s not asking nicely.’ She swallowed, the sound loud in the sudden silence. ‘And what’s that to you? I’m just a delivery girl. I’m not part of your world. You made that very clear.’ The amber eye flared with something hot and fierce. The black one remained a void. ‘I made a choice. A difficult one. The warehouse in Deptford… you never understood why I walked away.’ ‘You left me there. With them. I understood perfectly.’ ‘I left you there so they would find you and not me. I led them away from the real target. I led them away from you.’ His voice was a raw, rough thing, stripped of its usual polish. ‘I did what I had to do to keep you breathing. Some of us don’t have the luxury of a simple life, of being human, of getting a scar from a childhood accident and nothing worse.’ The accusation in his voice, the raw pain of it, stole the air from her lungs. She stared at him, at the man who was a perfect, polished shell holding something monstrous and broken inside. All this time, she’d thought he’d betrayed her. She’d nursed that hurt, fed it, let it become a shield. He reached out then, a slow, deliberate movement. His bare fingers, cool to the touch, brushed against the skin of her wrist, tracing the edge of her small scar. A jolt went through her, sharp and electric. She didn’t pull away. She couldn’t. ‘He’s getting closer, Rory. The man from Cardiff. He has resources now. The wrong kind of resources.’ His thumb stroked her pulse point, a slow, steady rhythm that countered the frantic beating of her heart. ‘I can’t protect you if you won’t even look at me.’