Run: 2026-02-19-01KHT0ZMJCJ9G72CSYKE38ECZ5

The brassknocker echoed, sharp and demanding, against the worn wood of Eva’s flat door. Aurora Carter, her back to the cluttered counter piled high with delivery receipts and half-empty mugs, froze. Her breath hitched, a familiar tightness coiling in her chest. She’d thought the past was buried, buried deep beneath the grime of Brick Lane and the comforting chaos of Eva’s flat. But here he was. Lucien Moreau. The Frenchman. The man who’d walked out of her life like it was nothing, leaving only a scar on her wrist and a hole in her heart. She turned slowly, her movements stiff, and pushed the heavy deadbolt. The second one rattled under her thumb, the third clicked into place with a finality that felt like a physical barrier. She peered through the peephole, her bright blue eyes narrowing against the late afternoon light filtering through the grimy window. Lucien stood there, impeccably tailored charcoal suit immaculate despite the London drizzle, his ivory-handled cane resting neatly against his polished shoe. His face was a mask of unreadable calm, but his eyes – one amber, one black – held a flicker of something sharp, something predatory. The door swung open. Aurora didn’t step back. She stood her ground, the scar on her wrist burning beneath her sleeve. "Lucien." The word was a razor-edged whisper, cutting the thick silence that had settled between them. Lucien Moreau didn’t smile. He didn’t flinch. He simply stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in the sudden stillness. His gaze swept the cramped space – the towering bookshelves crammed with arcane texts, the maps pinned haphazardly to the walls, the faint smell of curry and old paper. He didn’t look at her. He looked at everything else. "Eva’s not here," he stated, his voice smooth as silk, yet carrying an underlying current of command. Aurora’s knuckles whitened on the doorframe. "She’s out. Delivering. Again." She forced the words out, keeping her voice level, but her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. "What do you want, Lucien?" He finally turned his head, his amber eye locking onto hers. The black one remained fixed on the ceiling. "I need information." His gaze drifted to the cat, Ptolemy, a tabby curled asleep on the sofa. "A demon. Half-breed. Running loose in Whitechapel. Dangerous." He paused, letting the implication hang heavy. "You know the kind of places he frequents." Aurora’s breath hitched again, but this time it was anger, not fear. "You think I’d help you? After...?" She couldn’t finish the sentence. The memory of his cold dismissal, the way he’d walked away without a backward glance, still stung. The scar on her wrist throbbed in time with her pulse. Lucien Moreau’s lips thinned. "After what? You left me. You walked out of my life without a word." His voice was low, dangerous now. "You think that’s easy to forget?" Aurora took a step forward, closing the distance between them. She saw the faint lines around his eyes, the way his tailored suit strained slightly at the shoulders. He hadn’t changed. He’d just gotten better at hiding the damage. "I didn’t walk out, Lucien. You pushed me out. You chose your... your world over me." She gestured vaguely at the cluttered flat, the books, the life she’d built trying to forget him. "This is mine. My choice." He took a step closer, his presence filling the small space. His cane tapped a sharp rhythm on the worn floorboards. "Your choice was running away from your past, Rory. From everything you were." His voice dropped to a dangerous whisper. "You think hiding in a curry house delivery job erases what you are?" Aurora flinched, the old pain resurfacing. "I’m not hiding! I’m living!" She jabbed a finger towards the bookshelves. "This is my life now. My choices. My future." She tried to sound defiant, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. "What do you want, Lucien? To remind me how much I lost?" He didn’t answer immediately. He looked at her, really looked at her, the amber eye piercing through the facade. "I need you to find him," he said finally, his voice rough. "Ptolemy saw him. Outside the club last night. The one with the scar on his wrist." He paused, studying her reaction. "You know the streets better than anyone. You know where he’d go." Aurora stared at him, the anger warring with a flicker of something else – a desperate hope, a fear of the truth. "Why come to me? Why not ask Eva? She’s the one who knows the supernatural scene." Lucien Moreau’s smile was cold, devoid of warmth. "Eva’s useful, but she’s not... connected. Not like you used to be." He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur. "You know the old networks, Rory. The ones you abandoned. You know where the shadows gather." Aurora felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks. The old attraction, the dangerous pull she’d always felt towards him, surged back, tangled with the resentment. "I abandoned nothing," she spat. "I chose a different path. A safer one." She took another step back, towards the safety of the door. "I’m not your informant anymore, Lucien. Not even for a demon." He followed her, his movements silent, predatory. "Then I’ll make it worth your while," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear as he leaned in. "Much, much worth your while." His hand, clad in a tailored glove, brushed against her scar, lingering for a heartbeat. "You remember what we had, Rory. The fire. The danger. The... pleasure." His voice dropped to a husky whisper. "I can give you that back. If you help me." Aurora froze. The scar on her wrist burned. The memory of his touch, his intensity, flooded back, overwhelming the anger. She could feel the heat of his body so close, the scent of his expensive cologne mingling with the dust of the flat. The past wasn't buried. It was coiled beneath the surface, waiting. And Lucien Moreau was the key, the dangerous, irresistible key.