Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0Y63E9HJWXXJEMGWTSMKE

Rory pulled the door inward. Lucien stood on the landing, framed against the dim hallway light. The air in her small flat, already humid from the overflowing kettle, seemed to thicken. His tailored charcoal suit, as immaculate as ever, looked out of place against her peeling paint. One amber eye gleamed, the other a void of black, fixed on her. “*Bonsoir, chérie*,” Lucien purred, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips. He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, a casual pose that did not quite hide the tension in his shoulders. “Fancy seeing you here.” Rory’s grip tightened on the doorknob. “What are you doing here, Lucien?” Her voice sounded steadier than she felt. Her heart thumped a frantic rhythm against her ribs. “A simple social call,” he responded, pushing off the cane, taking a step closer. The scent of his familiar cologne – sandalwood and something sharp, metallic – wafted into the flat, filling the small space. “Is that so hard to believe?” She crossed her arms over her chest. “Considering the last time we spoke, yes, it is.” Her voice was low. His gaze swept over her, lingering on her face. “Always so direct, *ma petite*.” He tilted his head, platinum blond hair catching the light. “I missed that.” The words hung in the air, a silent accusation. Rory bristled. “You’re wasting your time.” She started to close the door. Lucien moved, quicker than she anticipated. His hand, warm and firm, shot out, catching the edge of the door, stopping its swing. “Wait.” His voice, suddenly stripped of its usual playful lilt, held an edge of something she hadn't heard in a long time. She looked at his hand, then up at his face. The easy smile had vanished. A flicker of raw emotion, something akin to regret, crossed his features before he masked it. “I need your help, Rory.” The simple admission, coming from him, felt monumental. Rory stared, then let out a short, hollow laugh. “You? Need *my* help? The great Lucien Moreau, fixer of all things dark and mysterious, needs *little old me*?” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. The kettle on the hob shrieked, a piercing sound that momentarily broke the heavy silence. She turned, walked to the stove, and switched it off, the sudden quiet making the tension even more palpable. “It’s not a request I make lightly,” he said, his voice softer now as he pushed the door fully open and stepped inside, closing it gently behind him. He took in the cramped space, every surface laden with books and papers, a tabby cat named Ptolemy watching him from atop a stack of journals. “So I gathered,” Rory replied, pouring water into a mug. The steam rose, warming her face. She kept her back to him, busying her hands. “What could possibly be so dire that you’d come to me?” “A rather delicate matter. One that requires a certain… touch. A certain *perspective*.” He took another step, closer now, filling her peripheral vision. “Your perspective.” She wheeled around, mug in hand. “My perspective on what, Lucien? Because if this is about some demon lord’s missing teacup, I’m really not in the mood.” A genuine smile, slow and charming, spread across his face. “Always a wit, even when you’re vexed.” He paused. “No missing teacups, I assure you. Something far more… personal.” Rory's brow furrowed. Personal? Nothing about Lucien was personal. He was layers of carefully constructed charm and indifference. “What are you talking about?” He walked closer still, until only an arm's length separated them. “A mutual acquaintance of ours. One who seems to have… vanished.” His voice dropped, a serious undertone that Rory rarely heard. “Eva.” The mug slipped from Rory’s trembling fingers. It hit the floor with a dull thud, the ceramic cracking, water spreading across the worn linoleum. Her breath hitched. “What?” A sharp pain shot through her chest. “She’s gone, Rory. Vanished. No trace. Her flat is empty. Her cat, Ptolemy, left alone.” He gestured to the tabby, who still sat watching, now with an intense focus. “I’ve tried contacting her, tracking her, everything. It’s like she simply ceased to exist.” Rory felt a cold dread creep into her stomach. Eva. Her best friend. Her lifeline. The thought of her just... disappeared. “That’s… that’s impossible. Eva wouldn’t just leave. Not without telling me.” “I agree.” Lucien’s gaze softened, a rare, unguarded look that pierced through her carefully constructed defenses. “Which is why I believe she’s in trouble. And I believe you are the only one who can help me find her.” He reached out, his hand hovering for a second before he gently touched her arm, his fingers warm. “Please, Rory.” His touch, after so long, sent a jolt through her. Memories surfaced – late-night talks, shared secrets, stolen kisses in dimly lit alleys. The easy camaraderie they had once shared, that dangerous pull between them. She jerked her arm away, the cold dread turning to a simmering anger. “Why now?” she asked, her voice tight with suppressed emotion. “Why come to me now, after… everything?” The words were out before she could stop them. He flinched. The mask of charm, briefly dropped, settled back into place, though a shadow lingered in his eyes. “This isn’t about us, Rory. This is about Eva. And she is in danger.” “Don’t you dare, Lucien,” she hissed, pointing a finger at him. “Don’t you dare try to use Eva as a shield for whatever it is you’re trying to say, or not say, or *do*.” “I’m not,” he insisted, his voice firm, losing its softness. “I searched for her for a week, exhausted all my usual resources. Then I thought of you. You know her better than anyone. You have an intuition, a way of seeing things others miss.” Rory scoffed. “You’re just saying that because you need something.” “I am,” he conceded, surprising her. “I am saying that because I need something. I need your help. Because I’m worried about her. And I know you are too.” He took another step, closing the distance she had created. His eyes, the amber and the black, bore into hers. “Rory, you and I… we have our past. Our complications. But Eva… she deserves for us to put that aside. For her.” The mention of “us” sent a fresh wave of conflicting emotions through her. She wanted to yell at him, to rail against his sudden appearance, his charming lies, the way he had walked out of her life without a backward glance. But the image of Eva, laughing, vibrant, vanished, pushed all that aside. She looked at the broken mug on the floor, the spreading puddle. A small tremor went through her. “What… what exactly do you want me to do?” Her voice was barely a whisper. The anger, for now, had given way to a profound sense of worry. A flicker of relief crossed Lucien’s face. “Her flat on Brick Lane. I’ve secured it. Untouched, as she left it. There might be something there. A clue, a message… anything.” He paused. “I know it’s a long shot. But it’s all we have.” Rory closed her eyes, picturing Eva’s chaotic, comfortable flat, smelling of old books and patchouli. It was where she had found refuge after fleeing Cardiff, after Evan. Eva had been her rock, her steady presence. “Fine,” she said, opening her eyes. Her gaze met his, sharp and unyielding. “But this is about Eva, and *only* about Eva. Nothing else.” Lucien gave a slow, deliberate nod. “Understood, *chérie*.” The endearment, despite her resolve, still sent a shiver down her spine. “When can you be ready?”