Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR70ZAQ8W9QX20YXJSSVNK

The knock came at three in the morning—three sharp raps that cut through the hum of Eva’s ancient refrigerator. Rory sat up on the couch, the blanket pooling around her waist. Ptolemy flicked his tail against her ankle from where he’d been curled at her feet. Another knock. She padded barefoot across the creaking floorboards, the cold seeping through her socks. The peephole showed a distorted figure in the dim hallway light—tall, broad-shouldered, one hand braced against the wall. The platinum blond hair was unmistakable. Rory exhaled through her nose and undid the deadbolts one by one. The door swung open. Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold, his charcoal suit rumpled, the amber and black of his eyes catching the weak light from the streetlamp outside. The scent of rain and something metallic clung to him. "You look like hell," she said. His mouth twitched. "Charming as ever." She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "It's three in the morning." "I noticed." "You’re bleeding." A dark stain spread along his left sleeve near the elbow. He glanced down as if surprised. "A scratch." "Bullshit." Lucien sighed, shifting his weight onto the ivory-handled cane. "May I come in?" Rory didn’t move. "Why?" "Because I’d rather not have this conversation in a hallway that smells of turmeric and mildew." Ptolemy wound between her legs, purring. Traitor. She stepped aside. Lucien limped past her, the cane tapping softly against the floor. He surveyed the mess of books and scrolls strewn across every surface, the half-empty mugs of tea gone cold. "Eva’s not here." "Astute observation." Rory shut the door and relocked it. "She’s in Edinburgh. Research trip." "Convenient." "For who?" He turned to face her, his expression unreadable. The amber eye caught the light, almost glowing. "You haven’t answered my calls." "You haven’t left voicemails." "I didn’t think I needed to." Rory scoffed, crossing to the kitchenette. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove with more force than necessary. "Right. Because the last time we talked went so well." Silence. Then the quiet thud of his cane as he moved closer. "You walked out." "You lied." The kettle whistled. She busied herself with tea bags, her back to him. The scar on her wrist itched. Lucien’s voice was low. "I omitted." "Semantics." A hand closed over her shoulder, warm even through the fabric of her shirt. She froze. "Rory." She turned. He was closer than she expected, close enough that she could see the faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow, the shadow of stubble along his jaw. The scent of him—expensive cologne undercut with something darker, something demonic—wrapped around her. Her pulse jumped. "What do you want?" His thumb brushed her collarbone. "You know what I want." She stepped back, knocking into the counter. The kettle screamed. "Tea?" Lucien exhaled, a near-silent laugh. "Still deflecting." "Still evading." She yanked the kettle off the burner. "Why are you really here, Luc? And don’t give me some half-truth about missing my sparkling personality." He leaned against the counter, watching her pour boiling water into mugs. "I need your help." "Ah." She shoved a mug toward him. "There it is." "It’s not just that." "Then what’s the other part?" His fingers curled around the mug, not drinking, just holding the heat. "I didn’t like how we left things." Rory sipped her tea, the burn on her tongue a welcome distraction. "We left things because you decided working with the Avarosian cartel was a great career move." "I had reasons." "Reasons you didn’t share." "Would you have listened?" She set the mug down hard. "Try me." Lucien studied her face, his gaze tracing the line of her jaw, the set of her mouth. Then he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded photograph. "This is why." Rory unfolded it. The image showed a narrow alley in Soho, the pavement slick with rain. A figure in a hooded coat stood under a flickering streetlamp—but the face, half-turned toward the camera, was unmistakable. Her breath caught. "Evan." "Three nights ago." Her fingers tightened on the photo. "He’s supposed to be in Cardiff." "He’s not." Lucien’s voice was quiet. "And he’s not just here for the sights." Rory swallowed. "You knew he was back." "I found out yesterday." "And you came straight here." His jaw tightened. "Yes." She stared at the photo until the edges blurred. "Why?" Lucien took the photograph from her, his fingers brushing hers. "Because I made a promise." She remembered the weight of those words, spoken in the dark months ago, his mouth against her hair. *No one touches you.* The silence stretched. Ptolemy jumped onto the counter, sniffing at Lucien’s sleeve. Rory reached out, catching his wrist before he could pull away. The blood had seeped through the fabric. "Take off your jacket." He raised an eyebrow. "Don’t flatter yourself." She nudged him toward the couch. "I’m fixing you up. Then we talk." Lucien’s mouth curved, just slightly. "As you wish."