Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRKX8G2HCKA17TVQRNG61A

Aurora stood at the threshold of Eva’s flat, fingertips brushing the chipped paint. Ptolemy stretched on the welcome mat, paws kneading the rug between two flickering streetlamp shadows. A knock rapped the doorframe again, sharper this time. She yanked it open. Lucien leaned against the jamb, charcoal suit creased where the door had caught his sleeve. His amber eye caught the lamp glow; the black one stayed hidden under that too-straight brow. The ivory handle of his cane gleamed against his thigh. “You’re early.” Warmth edged her voice, though she meant the cutoff. He pushed off the frame, stepping inside before she could slam the door. His cane tapped on the threshold. Ptolemy’s tail flicked—alert, wary. Lucien kneaded the cat’s fur with the shaft’s curved crook. Ptolemy closed his eyes. “You didn’t answer your phone,” his voice rippled across half the room. “I came by.” She folded her arms. Books teetered on every surface, research notes spilling. A battered armchair sagged under a stack of scrolls. A brass reading lamp cast half the room in gold, half in shadow. “You didn’t call ahead,” she shot back. He straightened, smoothing his suit. Those impeccable lines. “Business can’t wait.” She braced one shoulder against the door. “Your business, your schedule.” He glanced at her reflection in the hallway mirror—shoulder-length black hair, bright-blue eyes, a crescent scar peeking from beneath her sleeve. “My business concerns you.” A twig snapped underfoot—a candle stand, she’d left it too close to a pile of parchment. She leaned forward, heart racing. “Then say it.” Lucien’s shoulders eased. He swept his gaze across a shelf stacked with Eva’s demon-lore journals. “I need your help.” Ptolemy rumbled, arching into his side. “Your help?” She exhaled, voice low. “After you vanished?” He flinched, as if struck. Cane thumped. “You know why.” She did. He’d disappeared two months ago, just when she’d needed him most. No note. No explanation. A six-foot wall built of silence. “Eva’s out tonight,” she said, stepping back. “Make yourself useful—help me sort these.” He let the door click shut. “Lead the way.” She turned, brushing past him. Books rattled as they shifted. He paused, hands folded behind his back, watching. In the cramped living room, she spread yellowed maps and scrawled diagrams across a low coffee table. Ink stains dotted her fingers. Lucien knelt beside her, cane laid against the sofa leg. “You promised you’d find me when you had an answer,” she murmured. His lips pressed into a thin line. He pointed to a map of Avaros. “I did.” Her head jerked up. “You what?” He tapped a demon-smooth ridge on the parchment. “Found a route. A breach in the wards beneath Whitechapel. I needed silence—couldn’t risk word leaking.” She traced his finger. “You didn’t risk me. You left me.” He drew his sleeve across his mouth. “I had to keep you safe.” A gust rattled the window panes. Street sounds of Brick Lane—voices, the hiss of a food stall—pressed in. “Safe,” she echoed. “You think abandoning me is safe?” He shifted. The cane clicked. “There were hunters.” She yanked a scroll free from the pile. It splayed open: runic symbols pulsing faintly. “Eva’s been working on these for weeks. Found one big enough to rip open Avaros and ours both.” She slapped it down. “You vanish and leave her to piece it together.” He crouched lower, blue-veined fingers brushing her hand. “I didn’t vanish. I watched.” Her breath caught. The scar on her wrist tingled. “You watched what?” “Every night. You and Eva, deciphering, nearly activating the thing with that quill.” He stood, lifting the scroll. “I wouldn’t let it open. I burned six more before dawn.” She folded her arms, the air between them sparking. “Why not tell me?” He tucked the scroll under his arm, cane clicking. “Told you once, I protect you by staying in the shadows.” Her pulse hammered under the map’s paper. “I’m not a shadow, Lucien.” He smiled—half, brief. One corner of his mouth quirked. “You’re a storm.” She glared. “Then fight at my side.” He crouched before her, rubbing the worn wood of the coffee table. “I swore I would.” Thunder rolled outside. Rain tapped the window. Ptolemy leapt onto her lap, claws flexing. She stroked his ears without looking away. “You left a letter for Eva,” she said. “She got it this afternoon. It said you found the route and that I might not trust you, but I’ll need you.“ Lucien closed his eyes. Light from the lamp caught a stray hair. “I wrote it when I realized…” She leaned forward, sliding a cushion under her knees. “You realized what?” He opened his amber eye. “That I’m lost if I lose you.” Silence pressed them close. The hush of the lamp, the murmur of rain. She let her guard slip. Fingers curled around his coat. “Then don’t leave again.” He pressed his palm to her wrist, felt the crescent scar. “I won’t.” She swallowed. Pressed heels to the floor, rose. Rain pattered louder. “Show me,” she challenged. He bent to the table, unrolled another sheet—a tangle of sigils mapping the undercroft beneath a disused church. Candlelight danced on his face. Shadows carved hollows beneath his cheekbones. She peered over his shoulder. “This leads to the old catacombs.” He traced the lines. “Exactly.” Her spine stiffened. “We go tonight.” He lifted his gaze. “At midnight.” She nodded. Ptolemy hopped off her lap, padded past Lucien’s cane. She caught his tail, spun him, and smiled. He held out a gloved hand. She placed her palm over his knuckles. Fingers laced. He stood, cane tapping a soft rhythm. She gathered papers in one arm, painting the room with movement, purpose. He offered her his arm. She draped her elbow against his. His suit smelled of whisky and ash, of midnight dealings. She closed her eyes. “Stay in the light this time,” she whispered. “I’ll follow yours,” he said. His cane tapped once on the floor, then again, as he led her toward the narrow hallway and out into the rain-swept night of Brick Lane.