Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0YBWVTJKHNP6KDWHGK85N

The chime of thedoorbell sliced through the quiet hum of the flat above the curry house. Rory froze mid-sweep, her broom handle clattering against the worn linoleum. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in her chest. She’d thought the past was sealed behind her, buried under the weight of her new life, her part-time job, the suffocating walls of Eva’s cramped flat. But here he was. Lucien Moreau, the Frenchman, the half-demon fixer, the man who’d walked out of her life like it was nothing, leaving only a scar on her wrist and a hollow ache she’d learned to ignore. She didn’t move towards the door. Instead, she leaned against the kitchen counter, her breath coming in shallow gasps, trying to steady the frantic drumming in her ears. The tabby cat, Ptolemy, padded silently from the bookshelf, his fur bristling slightly as he sniffed the air near the door. He didn’t meow, just watched the intruder with wary, intelligent eyes. The chime sounded again, sharper this time, demanding. Rory’s knuckles whitened where she gripped the counter edge. She knew that voice, even before the door swung inward. It wasn’t just the timbre, the way it carried an effortless authority, but the scent that followed him – expensive leather, something sharp and metallic beneath it, like ozone before a storm. Lucien Moreau stood framed in the doorway, a silhouette against the dim hallway light. He was taller than she remembered, his tailored charcoal suit immaculate, the ivory-handled cane resting casually against his thigh. His eyes, one amber, one black, swept the small, cluttered room with a predator’s precision, taking in the stacks of books, the maps pinned to the walls, the single armchair shoved into a corner. “Rory,” he said, his voice low and smooth, sliding into the space like silk. “Or should I call you Laila? Malphora?” He stepped further into the flat, closing the door behind him with a soft click that echoed in the sudden silence. His gaze landed on her, and a flicker of something unreadable crossed his face – surprise? amusement? – before it settled into its usual mask of cool detachment. “I didn’t expect you to be here. Or anywhere, really.” Rory didn’t answer immediately. She watched him, the scar on her left wrist burning beneath her sleeve. The memory of him, of that night in Paris, flooded back – the heat of his body, the sharp edge of his words, the cold finality of his departure. “You didn’t come to see me,” she finally said, her voice tight, lacking its usual sharpness. “You came to see Eva.” She gestured vaguely towards the bedroom door, the unspoken accusation hanging heavy in the air. “Or maybe you just needed a fix.” Lucien’s lips quirked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “A fix? How delightfully melodramatic. Though, I suppose it’s understandable, given your… history.” He took a slow step closer, his polished shoes clicking on the worn floorboards. “I came to see you, Rory. To see how the girl who ran from her past was faring.” He paused, his amber eye locking onto hers. “You look… well. Busy. Buried under books and curry smells.” “Busy is one word for it,” Rory managed, forcing a brittle laugh that died in her throat. She pushed off the counter, moving towards the kitchen sink, her back to him. “Running a restaurant, studying law, dodging demons. The usual.” She kept her voice flat, but her hands trembled slightly as she turned on the tap, the sound of water a desperate attempt to fill the silence. “What do you want, Lucien? Another job? Another piece of information? Or just to watch the bird you scared fly away?” He followed her, his presence a tangible weight in the small space. “I want answers, Rory. Why did you leave? Why did you run? And why, after all this time, do you still carry that scar like a badge of honor?” He gestured towards her wrist, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “It’s not just a childhood accident, is it? It’s a mark, a reminder. Of him. Of what you ran from.” Rory whirled around, her eyes blazing. “It’s a scar, Lucien! Just a scar!” The words exploded out, raw and angry. “A stupid accident with a broken window when I was twelve. Nothing more!” She took a step back, her heart pounding not just from his words, but from the sudden, terrifying surge of old feelings she’d thought dead. “You think you know everything? You think you can just waltz back into my life and demand answers?” “I think,” Lucien countered, his voice calm, infuriatingly calm, “that you’re lying. And that you’re scared. Scared of what you feel, scared of what you might become if you let me in again.” He took another step, closing the distance between them until he was mere inches away, his gaze intense, unwavering. “You ran from Evan, didn’t you? But you never ran from me. Not really. Not when it mattered.” Rory stared up at him, the scent of him overwhelming – leather, ozone, something else, something primal. The scar on her wrist throbbed, a physical echo of the pain he’d caused. “You didn’t run from me,” she whispered, the words catching in her throat. “You left. You walked away. You chose your world over mine.” She looked away, her throat tight. “You chose the darkness.” “And you chose the light,” Lucien murmured, his voice rough now. He reached out, not to touch her, but to brush a stray strand of black hair from her forehead. His touch was surprisingly gentle, a stark contrast to the sharpness of his words. “But the light can be blinding, Rory. Sometimes you need someone who understands the shadows.” He paused, his amber eye searching hers. “Do you still feel it? That pull? That… something?” Rory didn’t answer. She felt the heat of his hand on her skin, the ghost of his touch burning a path down her spine. The past wasn’t just a memory anymore; it was a living, breathing thing in the cramped flat, pressing in on her from all sides. The scent of him, the sound of his voice, the sheer, undeniable force of his presence – it was a storm she’d thought she’d weathered, but now it was crashing down around her, leaving her breathless and terrified and… achingly, terrifyingly alive. The door to her past had swung open, and she was standing right in the middle of it, with no way to close it again.