Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRHGXE6WR8VQ5CT03WPQRA

The thick silence was suddenly broken by Ptolemy's frantic meows. The tabby cat weaved between legs and brushed against her shins, nearly tripping Rory as she hurried towards the front door. "Coming, girl," she said, dodging the stacks of books and scrolls littering the hallway. Three locks clicked open at her touch. Rory pushed the door, peeking through a small gap. The streetlights bathed the man standing on the stoop in an orange glow, his sharp jawline and proud nose creating dramatic shadows. His hair, slicked back, shone platinum in the light. "Long time, Rory." His deep voice, laced with a French accent, sent a shiver down her spine. "Luc." The word slipped out, surprising her. "What... What're you doing here?" She took a step back as if to hide behind the door, to lock herself in her sanctuary away from him. His thin brows rose imperceptibly. He seemed to be considering something, perhaps whether he should have come at all. With his usual self-assurance, he stepped across the threshold. The smell of incense and spices from the curry house below wafted in with him, filling the air. "I need your help." Her eyes narrowed. There was something about Lucien that she couldn't quite put a finger on, a sense of danger intertwined with the charm. Part of her wanted to slam the door shut, but her curiosity and the man's persuasive nature always got the better of her. Maybe it was the worry lines now wrinkling his forehead, or the hint of uncertainty she saw in his amber eye, but she kept the door ajar and asked, "What's the matter?" "I can't say here. It must be done in private," he said, glancing around the narrow hallway, congested with Eva's clutter. "And you thought coming to Brick Lane, of all places, was the best idea? Couldn't have called or something?" But she knew the answer. Lucien wasn't the type to use a phone. Too traceable, he'd say. "Parlez-vous avec moi, s'il vous plaît." The French came naturally to her, and she would have liked to pretend that it was the language that drew her in. But it wasn't. Rory hooked the chain and opened the door, letting Lucien inside. She had learned her lesson before; he would find a way in even if she refused. "Is there tea? Or... I have some beer, I think?" She stepped into the kitchen area, packed with pyramids of old textbooks and papers, leaving him to navigate the maze alone. A faint metallic click echoed behind her as he secured the door with the top deadbolt. Ptolemy wove around his legs, rubbing against him with a loud purr. He reached down with his ivory cane, stroking the fluffy fur with a gloved hand. Rory pulled two beers from the fridge and twisted off the caps, giving one to Lucien as he joined her in the kitchen. He gracefully swept papers aside with his cane and perched on the stool. She flashed him a grin over her bottle, meeting his gaze as she took a sip. He narrowed his eyes, taking a moment to respond in kind, as if they were partaking in some silent communication. She broke the eye contact and sighed, dragging her fingers through her straight black hair. "You brought me this far... so talk. What's so important you couldn't have texted?" His face tightened. "It's complicated." "I'm not in the business of simplicity. Try me." "I need access to someone in your police department." She snorted. "Who, Detective Cheung? I thought you'd want something more... high-level." "Non, the constable. Wyatt." Rory's brows rose. "She's not a police officer." "She will be. Her promotion to the force is a near certainty, and I wish her on my payroll." Rory shook her head. "I'm an Uber driver, mate. I can't help you with this." "You know her; she's been in Eva's study group." "Yeah, but I don't know her well. Like, at all. Not on a personal level. We never hit it off." His heterochromatic eyes bore into hers, the black one turning her insides to jelly. "You will make it work. It's imperative this deal goes through smoothly." "Don't care much for you and your shady dealings, Luc. The last time I listened to you, I ended up battered and bloody." Old hurts surfaced with those words, igniting a spark in her bright blue eyes. "I was there for you when no one else was," he replied softly. "I know I haven't been... entirely honest with you, but I ensured you a way out. I can give you that again." "Is this about Silas? Or the Brits?" "Oui." His eyes flicked towards the cluttered kitchen table, where a stack of papers obscured an old laptop. "I thought you two were mates?" she exclaimed. "That is not always possible in my line of work." His gaze intensified, commanding her attention. "I need you to set up a connection, Rory. It will expedite future dealings." She studied him for a long moment, her heart thumping in her chest. She had refused many of his previous requests, rarely wanting to get involved in his schemes again. But something about this time felt different. She swallowed hard, knowing she would eventually agree despite her reservations. A knock on the front door shocked them both. Lucien stood, stashing his beer on the counter next to Rory's unfinished bottle. "It's Wyatt," he whispered, pressing his lips close to her ear. The smell of his cologne tickled her nose, sending a warm tingle down her spine. "What are you going to do?" she asked, her voice low and breathy. He straightened his suit jacket and gestured to the hallway. "You remember my theory on fate?" he said, his voice calm and controlled. The knocks grew louder and more insistent. Rory's head spun. He was going to answer the door. "Go... Go on, then," she said, more to herself than to him. She gripped the edge of the counter, her mind reeling as she watched him walk towards the front door. Lucien leaned close to the peephole, scrutinising the other side of the door, before swinging it wide open. "Salutations, Wyatt. Quelle surprise. I had no idea you knew this charming demoiselle." Rory took a deep breath, scolding her stupid heart as she followed, prepared to explain away this nightmarish turn of events.