Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9R06QFZ7B6HAB1P9CQ

The knock came just after midnight, sharp and insistent, like someone had pressed their knuckles to the wood and refused to lift them. Rory froze mid-sip, the lukewarm tea sloshing over the rim of her mug. Ptolemy’s ears twitched, his tail flicking against the stack of books on the sofa. She set the mug down with a quiet *clink* and wiped her palm on her jeans, the fabric rough against her skin. Three deadbolts. That’s what Eva had installed after the last break-in, the one that left Rory’s laptop smashed and her notes scattered like confetti. She exhaled through her nose, counted to five, then crossed the room in three strides. The peephole showed nothing but darkness—no face, no shadow, just the dim glow of the streetlamp bleeding through the stairwell. “Who is it?” Silence. Then, a voice, smooth as aged whiskey, laced with something that made her stomach clench. “Open the door, *chérie*.” Rory’s fingers curled into a fist. She knew that voice. Knew the way it wrapped around the French endearment like it belonged there, like it had every right to slip past her defences. She pressed her forehead against the door, the wood cool against her skin. “Lucien.” “Oui.” She should’ve known. Should’ve *felt* him coming, the way the air thickened before a storm. But she’d been too busy drowning in case files and takeout containers to notice the shift in the atmosphere. Too busy pretending she didn’t still hear his voice in the back of her mind, late at night, when the flat was too quiet and her thoughts ran too loud. She unlatched the first bolt. Then the second. The third stuck, and she had to jiggle it, her pulse hammering in her throat. The door swung open before she could steel herself. Lucien Moreau leaned against the frame, one hand tucked into the pocket of his tailored charcoal suit, the other resting on the ivory handle of his cane. His heterochromatic eyes—amber and black—locked onto hers, unreadable. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something like burnt sugar, curled into the flat. “You look like hell,” he said. Rory crossed her arms. “And you look like you’ve been avoiding me for six months.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Five.” “Semantics.” He pushed off the frame, stepping inside without invitation. The flat suddenly felt smaller, the air thinner. Ptolemy hissed from his perch on the bookshelf, but Lucien ignored him, his gaze sweeping over the chaos of notes and half-empty coffee cups. “Still living like a student, I see.” “Still acting like you own the place, I see.” He turned, slow, deliberate. The amber eye caught the light, glowing like a coin at the bottom of a well. “I *did* own it. For a while.” The words hit like a punch to the sternum. Rory’s breath hitched, but she forced her voice steady. “That was before.” “Before what?” “Before you decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.” Lucien’s lips parted, then pressed into a thin line. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and controlled. “That’s not—” “Don’t.” She held up a hand. “I’m not doing this. Not tonight.” He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a fluid motion, he shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the back of the sofa. The fabric whispered against the worn leather. “Fine. Then let’s talk about why I’m here.” Rory’s fingers twitched. She wanted to grab him by the lapels and shake him. Wanted to demand answers for the radio silence, the way he’d vanished like smoke after that last job went sideways. But she’d learned the hard way that Lucien Moreau didn’t answer to anyone. “Talk,” she said instead, voice flat. He reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “This was slipped under my door this evening.” She took it, their fingers brushing for the briefest second. A static shock zipped up her arm. She ignored it, unfolding the paper with deliberate care. The handwriting was neat, precise. *The ledger isn’t safe. They know where it is. Meet at the usual place. Midnight.* Rory’s stomach dropped. “This is Eva’s handwriting.” Lucien nodded. “And the *usual place* is the old warehouse by the docks. The one we used for the Blackthorn job.” She looked up. “You think she’s in trouble?” “I think she’s *trying* to warn us.” His voice was low, edged with something she couldn’t name. “And I think we’re out of time.” Rory’s mind raced. Eva had been digging into the Blackthorn Syndicate for months, ever since she’d uncovered their connection to the supernatural black market. If they’d found out she was onto them— She crumpled the note in her fist. “We need to move.” Lucien’s mouth quirked, just slightly. “We?” She met his gaze, unflinching. “Don’t start.” He held up his hands in mock surrender. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But the way he looked at her—like he was seeing her for the first time in years—told her otherwise. Rory grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door. “Let’s go.” Lucien followed, his cane tapping against the floorboards. At the threshold, he paused, his shoulder brushing hers. “For the record,” he murmured, “I never thought you weren’t worth the trouble.” She didn’t look at him. Didn’t trust herself to. “Then why’d you leave?” The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Then, quiet as a breath: “Because I was afraid you’d realise I wasn’t worth *yours*.” The words hung between them, raw and unguarded. Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to press him, to demand more, but the clock was ticking. Eva was out there, and the docks weren’t safe after dark. She stepped into the hallway, the cold air biting at her skin. “We’ll talk about this later.” Lucien’s fingers grazed the small of her back as he followed her out, a fleeting touch that sent a shiver down her spine. “Later,” he agreed. And for the first time in months, Rory let herself believe it.