Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR5Y96Q6WQD9F76DVZ05V5

The metallic scrape of the first deadbolt disengaging echoed through the hallway, followed by the soft thud of the second, and finally, the decisive click of the third. Eva's Flat, with all its eccentricities, lay exposed to the unexpected visitor. Aurora Carter, known to her close circle as Rory, wiped the faint smudge of curry sauce from her left thumb onto the frayed hem of her jeans, her bright blue eyes narrowing as she pulled open the door. On her threshold, bathed in the golden glow of the setting sun filtering through the grimy Brick Lane windowpanes, stood Lucien Moreau, his heterochromatic gaze—amber and black, a permanent contradiction—locking onto hers with the intensity of a physical grasp. The tailored charcoal suit, immaculate as ever, seemed to blur into the background, leaving only the unspoken weight of their complicated past hovering between them. Rory's hand instinctively went to her wrist, tracing the small, crescent-shaped scar, a habitual gesture when her thoughts scattered. It was a tell Lucien knew all too well, but his expression, chiseled and neutral, betrayed none of the curiosity that surely simmered beneath. "Lucien," Rory stated, her voice neutral, a deliberate choice after the years of tumultuous highs and lows they'd shared. The name hung in the air, a challenge of sorts, daring him to articulate the reason for his unannounced visit. Lucien's gaze never wavered. "Rory." The depth of his voice was a low, smooth rumble, a sound that, despite her better judgment, warmed the chilled edges of her heart. "May I come in?" He leaned on his ivory-handled cane, its presence a subtle reminder of the dangers that lurked in the shadows of their world. Rory hesitated, the pause a silent tug-of-war between the desire to slam the door shut, to deny the intrusion into her carefully built solitude, and the morbid curiosity about what could possibly bring Lucien to her doorstep after all this time. Curiosity, in the end, won out, but not without exacting a promise from herself to remain guarded. With a slight, economical gesture, she stepped aside. As Lucien entered, his eyes roved over the cluttered space, drinking in the chaos of Eva's research that filled every spare inch of the flat. The air was heavy with the scent of old books and the distant, comforting aroma of curry wafting from below. Ptolemy, Eva's tabby cat, watched from the windowsill, tail twitching in a lazy greeting. "Still living in the epicenter of chaos, I see," Lucien remarked, his glance halting on a stack of precariously balanced scrolls before returning to Rory, who now leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "It's...cozy," Rory defended, a hint of a smile darting across her lips, uninvited. The flicker was quickly extinguished, but not before Lucien caught it, a fleeting glimpse into the easiness they once shared. "Cozy." Lucien's lips twitched, the almost-smile dissipating as swiftly as it appeared. "I've missed this place. And you, Rory." The admission slipped out, unguarded, and for a moment, the space between them vibrated with the unspoken. Rory's cheeks warmed, a betrayal of the indifference she aimed for. "What brings you here, Lucien? It's been...a while." The understatement hung between them, a tangible, living thing. Lucien's gaze drifted around the room once more before settling back on her, his eyes burning with an intensity that made her skin prickle. "I need your help, Rory. A situation...delicate and requiring a certain set of skills. Skills I believe you possess." Intrigue, despite her resolve, began to unfurl within her. "Go on," Rory urged, her posture unfolding from its defensive stance, interest piqued. Lucien's eyes seemed to darken, the amber tones deepening to a richer, burnt hue. "Inside. Please. This isn't a conversation for the hallway...or the street." With a nod, Rory stepped further into the flat, Lucien mirroring her movement. The door creaked shut behind them, enveloping them in the warm, claustrophobic space of Eva's Flat, where secrets and unspoken words swirled around them like the London mist that often shrouded the city outside. As they moved deeper into the flat, the only sound the soft creak of the wooden floorboards beneath their feet, Rory felt the past begins to stir, awakening like a beast from a deep slumber. And she knew, with a sinking heart, that this unexpected visit from Lucien Moreau was merely the first whisper of a storm that would challenge the fragile equilibrium of her life, once again entwining their fates in a dance as complicated as it was inevitable.