Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0W8J7M4XH3WR9A3ZK69P7

The third deadbolt slid back with a heavy clunk. Rory pulled the door open and the smell of cumin and fried onions from the curry house below rolled up the stairs to meet her. Lucien stood on the landing. Rain dripped from the hem of his charcoal suit onto the worn linoleum. His platinum hair remained slicked back despite the weather, not a strand out of place. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed under the flickering hallway light. Rory gripped the doorframe. Her knuckles turned white. The crescent scar on her left wrist itched, a phantom pain from a childhood fall that always flared when her pulse spiked. Lucien looked past her shoulder into the cramped flat. Stacks of books and scrolls covered every surface. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, wound himself around Lucien's polished shoes and let out a low yowl. You look well, Rory. His voice carried the smooth cadence of Marseille, softened by years in London. He did not step forward. He waited for permission he knew he did not have. Rory crossed her arms over her chest. The movement pulled her black hair across her cheek. She tucked it behind her ear. You look dry. Lucien tapped the tip of his cane against the floor. The sound echoed in the narrow stairwell. Umbrellas are cumbersome. I prefer to let the rain decide where it lands. You always did like making a drama out of nothing. She stepped back. The action invited him in without a word. Lucien crossed the threshold. He filled the small space immediately. The scent of ozone and expensive cologne replaced the curry smell. He stopped in the centre of the room, navigating around a pile of research notes on the floor with practiced ease. Eva is not here. I know. I checked the building twice. I came for you. Rory moved to the small kitchenette. She put the kettle on. The electric hum filled the silence. She kept her back to him. Her reflection in the dark window showed her bright blue eyes wide, betraying the calm set of her jaw. Why. The question hung in the air. Lucien ran a gloved hand over the spine of a book on the table. Dust motes danced in the light from the single bulb overhead. There is a situation. One that requires your specific brand of lateral thinking. I told you I was done. No more favours. No more running errands for the underworld. You fled Cardiff. You fled Evan. You hide above a bar and deliver noodles for pennies. This is not living, Rory. This is waiting. Rory turned around. She leaned against the counter. The laminate dug into her lower back. You don't get to judge how I live. You left. You walked away when things got difficult. Lucien turned. His heterochromatic eyes caught the light, one amber, one black. The contrast made his gaze unsettling, like looking into a deep well. I left to keep you alive. Your ex-boyfriend was not the only threat. Your proximity to me paints a target on your back. So you decided for me. I made a calculation. You made a choice. The kettle clicked off. Rory did not move to make the tea. The steam curled up between them. Lucien took a step closer. The height difference became apparent. He towered over her five foot six inches, but she did not retreat. I am here now. The calculation has changed. Nothing changes. You show up in a suit worth more than my rent, dripping on Eva's floor, and expect me to jump. I expect you to listen. Lucien reached into his jacket. Rory's hand flew to the knife block on the counter. Her fingers brushed the cold steel of a handle. Lucien froze. He slowly withdrew a folded piece of paper instead of a weapon. He placed it on the table. Look at it. Rory walked over. She kept her eyes on his face until she reached the table. She picked up the paper. It was a photograph. Grainy. Taken from a distance. It showed her leaving the Golden Empress restaurant. The timestamp was from yesterday. Who took this. Someone who knows you are connected to me. They want to use you to get to me. Or they want to hurt me by taking you. Rory crumpled the paper in her fist. The sound of tearing paper was sharp in the quiet room. Then leave. Go back to your shadows. I am not your weakness, Lucien. You are not a weakness. You are a variable I did not account for. That sounds like an insult. It sounds like admiration. Lucien moved closer. He reached out. His hand hovered near her arm. He did not touch the scar. He stopped just above it. The heat from his palm radiated against her skin. The air in the flat grew heavy. Ptolemy jumped onto the sofa and began to wash his paw, indifferent to the tension. I spent six months tracking every threat in this city to ensure you remained invisible. I failed. Now I stand here. You should have stayed away. And let them take you. I can handle myself. You deliver food. You hide behind three deadbolts. You flinch when a car backfires. Rory shoved the crumpled photo into his chest. He caught it without looking down. Get out. No. I said get out. Lucien pocketed the paper. He leaned in. His breath ghosted over her ear. If I leave, they will find you tonight. If I stay, we have a chance. You don't get to decide that. I do. Because I am the only one who knows what hunts you. Rory pushed against his chest. The fabric of his suit was solid under her palms. He did not move. He stood like a statue carved from ice and smoke. She looked up into those mismatched eyes. The amber one seemed to glow in the dim light. The black one swallowed the reflection of the room. Why come back now. Why not send a message. Why stand here in my friend's flat. Lucien's hand finally moved. He touched her wrist. His thumb traced the crescent scar. The skin tingled where he made contact. Because I missed you. The admission landed heavy. Rory's breath hitched. She pulled her hand away. The loss of contact left her skin cold. That is not a reason. That is a liability. It is the only reason that matters. Rory walked to the window. She looked out at Brick Lane. The streetlights blurred through the rain on the glass. Cars passed below, tyres hissing on wet asphalt. She saw her own reflection again. Her shoulders were tense. Her hands shook slightly. If you stay, you sleep on the floor. Lucien loosened his tie. He draped his jacket over the back of a chair covered in scrolls. Acceptable. And you do not give orders. We shall see. Rory turned back to him. He stood by the table, rolling up his sleeves. The movement revealed forearms marked with faint, silvery lines. Runes. Old magic. He caught her looking. You still watch me. I watch for threats. You watch me. Rory walked past him to the sofa. She sat down. Ptolemy moved to make space. She pulled her knees to her chest. Talk. Tell me what wants me. Lucien picked up his cane. He twisted the ivory handle. A click echoed. The blade inside gleamed for a second before he locked it back. There is a faction in Avaros. They believe my father's bloodline holds the key to opening the gates. They think you hold the key to me. I am human. You are the anchor. That makes no sense. It does not need to make sense. It needs to be survived. Rory rested her chin on her knees. She studied him. The sharp line of his jaw. The way he held himself, ready to strike. The way he looked at her, like she was the only solid thing in a shifting world. You could have told me. You would not have listened. You were right. Lucien smiled. It was a small thing, barely there, but it changed his face. It softened the edges. I am often right. Do not let it go to your head. Too late. Rory stood up. She walked to the kitchen and finally made the tea. She poured two cups. She brought one to him. He took it. Their fingers brushed. The contact lingered. Drink. You look like you need it. Lucien took a sip. He winced. It is boiling. You look like you need to feel something. Lucien set the cup down on a stack of papers. He stepped into her space. He did not touch her. He just stood there. Close enough to count the lashes framing her blue eyes. Close enough to smell the rain on her skin mixed with the scent of old books. I am not leaving again, Rory. You say that now. I mean it. People mean things until they don't. I am not people. No. You are not. Rory reached out. She touched the lapel of his shirt. The fabric was wet. She smoothed it down. Her hand rested over his heart. It beat steady. Slow. Not human. Prove it. Lucien covered her hand with his. He pressed it harder against his chest. Give me time. How much. As much as you need. Rory pulled her hand away. She turned toward the bedroom. Take the floor. I am going to sleep. Rory. She stopped at the door. She did not turn around. Do not wake me up unless the building is on fire. Understood. Rory closed the bedroom door. She leaned against it. She listened to the sound of Lucien moving around the flat. The clink of the tea cup. The soft thud of his cane being set down. The rustle of him settling on the floor. She slid down the door until she sat on the wood. She pressed her palm to the crescent scar on her wrist. It stopped itching.