Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0XGRM91Q0Z1CXGE0YTVTA

The door to Eva’s flatscraped open with a sound like rusted hinges protesting. A gust of cold London air, smelling faintly of curry and damp brick, swept into the cramped hallway. The tabby cat, Ptolemy, bolted from his sunspot by the window, tail puffing like a startled feather duster, and skittered under the sofa. Three deadbolts, each a solid chunk of metal, clicked into place with a finality that echoed in the small space. The latch on the inner door scraped shut, sealing the flat from the world outside. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of old paper, stale coffee, and something else—something sharp and metallic, like ozone before a storm. Aurora Carter, known to her friends as Rory, stood frozen in the doorway, her back pressed against the cool wood of the inner door. Her bright blue eyes, wide and unblinking, tracked the figure silhouetted against the dim hallway light. Lucien Moreau. The Frenchman. The man who’d left her with a scar on her wrist and a thousand unanswered questions. He stepped fully into the flat, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. His presence filled the small space, radiating a controlled intensity that made the air feel charged. He didn’t look at her. Instead, his gaze swept the room—the towering stacks of books and scrolls crowding every surface, the worn sofa, the kitchenette tucked into the corner. His platinum blond hair, slicked back with an almost unnatural precision, caught the weak light from the single overhead bulb. His tailored charcoal suit looked immaculate, untouched by the journey from wherever he’d come. An ivory-handled cane, slender and elegant, rested against the wall near the door. He moved with a fluid grace, each step silent on the worn floorboards. Aurora didn’t move. Her hands, clenched into fists at her sides, trembled slightly. The scar on her left wrist, a faint crescent moon of pale skin against the dark, seemed to pulse with a memory she’d tried to bury. She took a shallow breath, the scent of him—cologne, leather, something faintly demonic—cutting through the stale air. Her mind raced, replaying the last time she’d seen him, the accusations, the pain. But the words wouldn’t come. The hurt, the anger, the undeniable pull she’d always felt, tangled into a knot in her throat. Lucien Moreau finally turned his head. His amber eye, sharp and assessing, met hers. The black eye, hidden beneath a thick fringe of lashes, remained closed. He offered a small, almost imperceptible tilt of his head, a gesture that was both a question and a challenge. "Eva," he said, his voice low and smooth, like gravel polished to a shine. "I see you’ve fortified your sanctuary. Three locks. A cat. Very prudent." Aurora’s throat tightened. "Lucien." The name tasted like ash on her tongue. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was a brittle whisper, barely audible over the pounding of her own heart. She didn’t lower her guard, didn’t step aside. The flat was her fortress, and he was the invader. He didn’t flinch. "I need information." His gaze drifted back to the stacks of books, lingering on a particular volume bound in dark leather. "Specifically, about a demon named Malphora. Or perhaps you know her better as Aurora Carter." Aurora’s breath hitched. Malphora. The name sent a shiver down her spine, a ghost from a past she’d thought buried. "I don’t know any Malphora," she lied, her voice steadier now, though her knuckles were white where she gripped the doorframe. "And I don’t know what you’re talking about." Lucien Moreau’s amber eye narrowed. A faint, knowing smile touched his lips. "You’re a clever one, Rory. Always were. But the scar on your wrist tells a different story. A childhood accident, you said. But accidents don’t leave crescent moons. Demons do." He took another step forward, his movement deliberate, unhurried. "Tell me about Malphora. Or watch your flat become a very public stage." The threat hung in the air, thick and palpable. Aurora felt the walls close in. Her eyes darted to the window, then to the door leading to the stairs. Escape was possible, but it would mean leaving the flat, leaving her sanctuary. And facing him outside… that was a risk she wasn’t sure she could take. The cat, Ptolemy, peeked out from under the sofa, eyes wide and yellow, watching the intruder with wary curiosity. Aurora’s gaze snapped back to Lucien. The tension in the room was a living thing, coiling around them. She took a deep, shaky breath, the scent of him overwhelming her senses. The attraction, the history, the hurt—it all surged forward, a tidal wave she couldn’t hold back. "Malphora," she said, her voice stronger now, though her hands were still trembling. "She’s a myth. A story people tell to scare children. Or to explain things they don’t understand." She forced herself to meet his gaze, the blue in her eyes meeting the amber. "What do you want, Lucien? What do you *really* want?" Lucien Moreau’s smile widened, a slow, predatory curve of his lips. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he slowly drew his ivory-handled cane from the wall, the blade sliding out with a soft, metallic whisper. He held it loosely in his hand, the point resting on the worn carpet near his boot. "I want the truth, Rory," he said, his voice dropping to a husky murmur that seemed to vibrate in her bones. "And I want to know why you ran. Why you left everything—and me—behind." He took another step closer, the cane point now hovering just above the threshold of her personal space. "Start talking."