Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX93AX49N0Z2G2PNFYJFHV

The chain on the door rattled as the deadbolts clicked open one by one. Aurora didn’t speak. She just pulled the door half-open, the brass security chain still limiting the gap, her bare feet planted on the warped pine floor behind her. The scent of turmeric and cumin drifted up from the curry house below, thick in the humid evening air. Lucien stood on the landing, his back straight beneath a perfectly tailored charcoal coat. Rain glistened in his platinum hair, though his shoulders were dry—no umbrella, but he hadn’t run. He’d taken his time. His right hand rested on the ivory head of his cane, thumb tracing the curve like he was recalibrating a compass. “Rory.” His voice was low, French accent smoothing the edges of her nickname like worn stone. She didn’t smile. “You remember the chain?” “I remember you always hated opening the door.” He tilted his head slightly, just enough for the uneven light from the hallway bulb to catch both eyes—one amber, alive with fire; the other black as obsidian. “Still don’t trust easy entrances.” “You’re soaking the landing.” “I’ll dry.” She hesitated. A flicker of something—recognition, maybe pain—passed behind her bright blue eyes. The crescent scar on her left wrist twitched as she gripped the doorframe. Then, with a quiet click, she released the chain. The door opened wider. He stepped in, careful not to brush against her as he passed. His shoes left faint marks on the floorboards, not from rain but from city grime. She shut the door behind him, re-engaging the deadbolts with sharp, deliberate throws. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, wound between her ankles, purring like a struck engine. She scooped him up, holding him like a shield. “You got a cat.” “You remember I hate cats.” “Apparently not enough to keep one away.” She carried Ptolemy to the cluttered kitchenette, setting him down beside an open book on sigil degradation in post-Chaos cosmologies. Her flat was chaos in the truest sense—scrolls curled at the edges, ink-stained index cards stacked beside half-empty mugs of tea. A map of London’s ley lines covered one wall, pinned with red threads and coded annotations in three languages. Lucien didn’t touch anything. He stood just inside the living space, cane vertical, coat dripping onto the mat she hadn’t offered him. His gaze moved over the shelves, the symbols, the faint residue of chalk dust on the coffee table. “Still studying?” “Still meddling?” He almost smiled. Almost. “Only when asked.” “Then why are you here?” The silence thickened. The hum of the refrigerator cycled off. Somewhere below, a wok sizzled. “You moved.” “Three years ago,” she said. “You took your time noticing.” “I didn’t know you’d want me to.” She turned, arms crossed. “You didn’t ask.” “I sent letters.” “To Silas. Not to me.” “They reached you.” “Eventually. After you knew I’d moved on.” His jaw tightened. “That’s not why I sent them.” “No? Then why? A courtesy? A postscript to something that ended with you vanishing the morning after the summoning at Blackfriars?” He exhaled through his nose. “You know why I left.” “I know what you said. I don’t know why it was easier to run than to talk.” “I protected you.” “From what? Your own father’s realm breathing down our necks? Because newsflash, Lucien—your *half-demon* blood doesn’t scare me. It never did.” Her voice cracked slightly on the last sentence. She turned away, busying herself with rinsing a mug. “It wasn’t about fear.” He stepped forward, slow. “It was about control. You were standing in the circle, Rory. You drew the runes. You spoke the invocation. You weren’t just in the crossfire—you were *pulling the trigger*. And when it went wrong, when the rift cracked open and shadows started crawling through—he *felt you*.” She froze, mug in hand. “He tasted your defiance. Your blood. Your mind.” Lucien’s voice dropped. “And he whispered your name.” The tap dripped. “That’s why you left,” she said quietly. “That’s why I *had* to.” “And yet you’re here now.” “Because someone’s hunting half-breeds in Camden. Two found dead last week—throats slit, hearts missing. One was a contact. The other, a girl who once worked for me. They died screaming in Enochian.” Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not demon work. That’s ritual murder.” “No. It’s something older. Something that knows how to open doors.” He paused. “And it’s using *your* research.” She turned sharply. “My research is locked. Encrypted. Guarded by wards.” “It was. Someone broke your seal at the British Library’s occult annex. Found your notes on dimensional thresholds. They rebuilt the summoning sequence—your sequence—with modifications. They’re not opening rifts. They’re *fishing*.” She set the mug down. “For what?” “For heirs.” He looked at her. “For children of mixed blood. For people like me. Like the girl who died.” His jaw worked. “And now… they’ve started carving sigils into the walls near Silas’ bar. Your bar. Your flat.” Her breath caught. “You’re in it again, Rory. Whether you want to be or not.” She crossed the room in three strides, got in his face. “You don’t get to come here after three years of silence and drop a war on my doorstep like it’s a takeaway order.” “I didn’t come to start a war. I came to warn you.” “To warn me?” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You walked out when things got real. When *we* got real. You didn’t warn me then. You didn’t look back.” “I looked every day,” he said, voice rough. “I just couldn’t stay.” “Why not?” “Because every time I looked at you, I saw how close I came to getting you killed. And I knew—if I stayed, I’d do it again. I’d choose you over survival. Over sense. Over everything.” His heterochromatic eyes held hers. “And that’s the one thing I can’t afford.” The room went still. She uncrossed her arms. Took a half-step back. Swallowed. “You think I needed protecting?” “I think you needed a chance.” “A chance you didn’t give me.” “No.” He dropped his gaze, then lifted it again. “I didn’t.” Ptolemy jumped onto the windowsill, tail flicking. Outside, the streetlamp buzzed to life, casting long shadows across the room. Rory reached up, tucked a strand of black hair behind her ear. Her fingers trembled—just once. “You smell different,” she said. “Three years in Prague. Smoke and old libraries.” “You shaved your stubble.” “It irritated a wound.” She almost smiled. Almost. Then she walked to the couch, shoved a pile of books onto the floor, and sat. “Sit,” she said. “You’re making the room tense.” He didn’t move. “You letting me in?” She looked at him—really looked. At the tired lines around his eyes, the way his left hand flexed around the cane like it ached, the truth in the way he wouldn’t quite meet her gaze. “No,” she said. “But I’m not sending you away.” For the first time, something in him softened. He sat.