Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRN8XG1R27RK7GNSX2QBAV

Knocking rattled the letters in the slot and echoed down the corridor’s tile. Someone jolted on the other side—shuffling thuds and the scuff of a box shoved off its perch. Silence pressed in, thick as the curry smell rising from below. Another knock, less patient. The chain screeched, the last of three deadbolts thunked. The door swung open. Aurora Carter froze, hand still on the frame. Hazy light from the hallway revealed sharp cheekbones above an impossibly tailored suit and a platinum gleam drawn sleek over one brow. Lucien Moreau. He filled the doorway with the stubborn scent of cologne and a stiff, familiar formality. Heterochromatic eyes swept over her—amber and black; human and not. He looked anywhere but at her wrist, though memory pricked there just the same. “Bonsoir.” His accent lingered on the edges, as if carving each syllable. He did not smile. “Lucien? Jesus. What are you—” Her own voice broke, scraped up sharp in her throat. She pushed her hair behind her ear, pretended the gesture steadied her. “It’s not Wednesday. You’re early, or five months late.” He pressed one gloved palm to the cane, just beside the ivory handle. “You don’t answer your phone.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder, not moving to let him in. “Battery’s on, but the screen’s knackered. Didn’t think a face-to-face was strictly necessary.” Ptolemy, the cat, slipped between Aurora’s feet, arching his back. The animal fixed Lucien with a stare as icy as Aurora’s. “I need a word, Aurora.” He did not sound like he planned to leave. “Of course you do. Come on, then, before the neighbours start gossiping.” She stepped back, tracking his shadow as he ducked under the doorway. The room swallowed him, the sharp modernity of his presence a brutal contrast to the cluttered chaos of the tiny flat. Scrolls spilled from the sofa to the sagging coffee table, corners stained with ringed mugs and curry cartons. Books unfurled themselves in piles; a battered chessboard was mid-game against no opponent. Lucien’s cane found the floor and he shut the door behind him. The shadows seemed to slip back in place around them both when it clicked shut. Ptolemy retreated beneath the bookshelf, eyes narrowed. Lucien’s gaze flicked over the stacks of research, scanning titles in French and Latin and Hindi. “I didn’t expect you’d still have so many breadcrumbs lying about.” She bristled, fighting the urge to tidy the nearest heap. “It’s Eva’s system. She has a theory about cognitive mapping or some bollocks. You want herbal tea? Or you still with your ‘no hot drinks after dark’ superstition?” “I’ll manage,” Lucien murmured. He loosened his tie as if it might help him breathe less shallow, then fit himself onto the edge of the armchair facing her. “I’m not here about coffee.” Aurora perched on the arm of the sofa, knees pressed together, feet flat. She watched him sidelong, measuring distance. Her hands found each other, fingernails digging against the smooth scar on her wrist. “So? We doing pleasantries before the storm, or do you get right to business now?” He held her gaze a moment, his eyes unreadable. “There’s trouble, Aurora. That’s not news, but—this sort is bleeding over. Even the Golden Empress got a visit from some wide-eyed little mageling with a silver tongue. He asked for you by name.” “By what name?” Her tone shifted, forced lightness crumbling. He traced the rim of his cane, his thumb circling. “Didn’t matter. The way he said ‘Aurora Carter’—he’s not some mug who trawled your Insta, even if you still had one.” She barked a laugh, hollow. “Nobody calls me Malphora anymore.” “Not to your face.” That fleeting sadness, the one she recognised and hated, passed over his features. “I shut the boy down. But he’ll be back. And others.” Aurora tensed, glancing toward the window—iron bars, a cracked hoarding blown in from Brick Lane. “I’m not running, Luc.” His hand tightened on the cane enough to whiten knuckles against pale leather. “Not asking you to. But you need allies. I can sort arrangements.” It crawled between them, all the things unsaid. The foot of space, the bruise of what lingers—mistrust, want, unspent words. “You think it’s my fault again,” Aurora murmured. “What else d’you want me to do, assign a bloody rota for my enemies?” He rolled his eyes, lips pressed thin. “I don’t give a damn about blame. You burned too many bridges, Carter. Friend or foe, they’ll use what—and who—you care for.” Her stare dared him. “Don’t you start lecturing about bridges. Last time I took your help, you vanished.” Lucien leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, the cuff of his suit whispering against the armchair. “You know why I left.” “Do I?” Her voice rose, trembling for once. “I had blood on my hands and not enough answers. All I got was your sorry French arse running for the city line.” He looked exhausted. “You risked it all for someone who never existed, Aurora. Did you expect me to applaud?” She looked away, jaw clenched. “I expected you to stay.” The hum of the street below strained through the open fanlight, raucous, alive. Ptolemy slunk out, tail flicking, disturbed by the pitch of their argument. Lucien straightened, his cane tapping twice on the floor. “It wasn’t safe for you. Or for me. I can’t make you forgive that.” Her laugh came out small. “You vanished. I rebuilt. Now you’re back in my flat warning me off strange boys and telling me it’s all for my benefit?” Lucien’s gaze moved, at last, to the curling scar on her wrist where her sleeves had ridden up. “I never left entirely. You know I kept watch.” “Spying’s not the same as staying.” Her words dropped quiet, each one heavy as an accusation. “Don’t think I owe you gratitude for it.” He drew a slow breath between clenched teeth, words slipping softer as though weighed down. "I didn't come for thanks." His eyes, sharp and shadowed, met hers across paper and broken promises. Aurora’s chest ached with something she didn’t want to name, her fingers winding tight together, fighting for composure. She stood, abrupt, pacing to the kitchenette, and flicked on the kettle without asking. The clang of mugs was too loud. She leaned into it. “If you’re here for Eva, she’s not back until—” “I’m here for you.” The kettle’s rattle faltered. Her spine tensed but she didn’t turn. “Lucien, if this is another—you don’t get to pick the moment. You’re not a white knight, and I’m not someone to fix.” “You hardly need fixing.” Something sharper threaded his words. “But you’re alone, Aurora. Even you have to see that.” She spun, cheeks hot and blue eyes bright. “You think you know what I need?” He stared back, unblinking. “I know what you want. I always have.” His voice—barely above a whisper—tangled everything between them in tense, electric air. She glared at him, then at the floor, breath catching. Silence, heavy as midnight, crept into every corner. The kettle whistled. Neither moved to end its shriek.