Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRBMCVK5Z1Z19DPWYS2KW2

The door rattled twice before Aurora twisted the top deadbolt free. Ptolemy glanced up from a stack of parchment, ears swiveling. She pulled the door open and froze. Lucien filled the frame, his tailored charcoal suit crisp against chipped paint. One amber eye caught the flicker of the narrow hallway light, the other vanished in shadow. Platinum strands lay slicked back, framed by a faint smudge of rain on his cheek. A slender hand gripped the ivory-handled cane. She swallowed. Silence crackled between them. He stepped inside. The door swung shut behind him with a soft thud. Books teetered on a nearby shelf. He raised one brow, as if daring her to protest. Ptolemy hissed, tail arching. He scooped the cat under one arm. The flat smelled of stale curry, old paper, and something metallic—blood, or rain. Her lips pressed thin. She leaned against the doorframe, arms folded. The crescent scar on her left wrist twitched under the sleeve of her delivery jacket. You shouldn’t be here. He set Ptolemy on a rickety table. The cat bolted beneath a pile of scrolls. He brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Droplets slid down the silver curve of his cane. Business. She closed her mouth. Tried another approach. What business? Lucien’s lips curved. He unfastened the buttons of his jacket. A blade of frost danced along the seams of his vest. I need your help. Her brow arched. Light bounced off the brass lamp on the wall, casting his shadow giant across the stacks. He moved—one foot, then the next—each step measured, quiet. He stopped three paces from the door. Why come here? He lifted a shoulder. I thought you’d gone. A laugh caught in her throat. That was rich. You vanished first. Silence filled the room again. She watched his chest rise and fall. He should shoulder the weight of every unread page. But he only looked back at her, amber eye steady. He owed me an explanation. She snapped her fingers. The air shivered. Scrolls rattled on the shelf overhead. She pushed off the doorframe and edged around him, scanning the flat. Ptolemy darted past her ankles, whiskers brushing her shoes. Your flat’s a fortress. Three locks, deadbolts thick as my forearm. How’d you get in? Lucien uncapped the ivory handle. The blade whispered home. He caught the faint edge of her gaze lingering on it and slid the cane into his palm. No tricks. She stared. The scar on her wrist itched. She swallowed. He’d held that same blade the night he left. She’d watched him walk away in charcoal suit and silence, leaving her to piece together questions with no answers. Why are you here now? His jaw shifted. Heat pressed at the back of his neck. He closed the gap between them in two steps and reached into an inside pocket. With a breath, he withdrew a folded scrap of parchment and placed it on the table. She’d memorised every crease in Eva’s place—shelves heavy with Latin incantations, corners piled high with research notes, the single ragged cushion on the sofa. The parchment lay beside her mother’s old law textbook, an unwelcome guest. Read it. She snapped a finger at him. Read it? You just waltz in with some half-formed scrap and expect— Her voice broke. She rubbed her wrist. That night, he’d promised answers. Then unravelled like wet tissue the second the first street lamp died. When she’d begged to know why he left. When she’d asked if he cared. He’d offered a shrug and a look that said danger, not affection, not goodbye. She picked up the parchment. Blotted ink formed looping script in a language she barely recognised. A demon cipher. One her father might have taught. She traced a symbol that pulsed like a heartbeat. “That’s Avaros script.” Her voice cracked around the words. “How—” “He used my bloodline to seal the Veil.” His voice edged with something softer—regret. “He’s tearing it apart.” A sharp breath lifted her hair. Her mind flickered back to childhood stories her father told, warnings about realms bleeding into ours. She flicked her gaze to Lucien. His suit caught the lamplight, turning charcoal to ash. One eye smoldered. He’d held her once, his hand warm on her back as she fell asleep in his flat above Silas’ bar. She hadn’t known then how deep the split between worlds ran. Or that his father would claim him as a sacrifice. “Why me?” She laid the parchment down, fingers brushing ink. “I’m not a demon hunter.” He closed the distance and pointed at a line she hadn’t read. “You decipher, I negotiate. You reach insights I can’t. You’re the only one who saw the pattern in the runes at the docks.” She pressed her thumb to a letter and winced as the medallic scent of blood mingled with ink. “That was a fluke.” He tipped his head. “Lucky.” Then he shrugged. “But luck runs out.” She stared at him. The flat’s lamps swayed as dusk pressed against the windows. Ptolemy’s hiss sounded from somewhere underfoot. “Why now?” She dropped her hands to her sides. “Why show up after two months of silence?” His amber eye flickered. He looked away. Something rumbled beneath the floorboards. The restaurant downstairs rattled as orders poured in. “I had to be sure you were safe.” He met her gaze, the black iris glowing like a burnt-out star. “The last thing I wanted was to drag you into this.” She clenched her fists, knuckles whitening. The scar on her wrist burned. Pain and anger wove through her chest. “Drag me into this?” Her voice came out low. “You left me in London without a word. I tracked you down in Marseille, only to find you gone again.” He swallowed. His Adam’s apple moved. He uncrossed his arms. “I thought I could protect you by keeping you in the dark.” “Protect me?” Rage crackled along her spine. “I’m no child. I can handle—” “Can handle what?” He took a step so close she could count the stubble at his jawline. “A demon war spilling into Brick Lane? You saw what happened at the docks. You almost lost your hand.” Her breath caught. She remembered the shards of midnight steel, the heat of demonic fire in the alley. She saw his face above her, eyes wild. He’d pulled her out of the flames. She’d felt his hand steady on her wrist. But the memory pulsed pain. “So you ran away.” She jerked her head at the piles of books. “And left me with questions.” He reached out. His fingers hovered near her arm. She flinched back. “I’m sorry.” His voice cracked. She tasted shock. He hadn’t broken. Not like before. She searched his face. The amber eye glowed. The black one melted into shadow. Rain slid off his coat onto the dusty floor. Ptolemy skittered past and vanished. “You can’t just apologize and expect me to hand over my help.” She pressed her shoulder against the door, vice-tight. He looked toward the hallway. Then back at her. “Stay.” Her heart leapt, stumbled. She turned away, letting her shoulder brush against the door. The handle was close enough to touch. If she moved, she could shut it and lock him out again. But she didn’t. He exhaled. Something softened in his stance. The cane clattered as he set it against a coffee table strewn with open tomes. He uncapped a fountain pen and dipped it into an inkwell. “I can’t fix the Veil alone,” he said, voice low. “I need you.” Her chest tightened. Words caught like burnt paper in her throat. For a moment, the air felt thin. Rain dripped from his sleeve onto the wooden floor. She looked down at her wrist, at the pale scar. Back at the blade he still held loosely. At the door, six feet away. She edged her hand toward the knob, pivoting on one foot. “Trust isn’t given lightly,” she said. He placed a sheet of blank paper on the table and slid it toward her. “Prove it,” she whispered. He stared into her eyes, amber and black. Then reached across and closed the distance. His hand hovered over the parchment. A storm of questions thumped between them. The flat, the cat, the stacks of unsolved mysteries—they all leaned in to watch what she’d choose next.