Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXBVD25DZC5Z78DN5G9W5F

The deadbolt on Eva’s front door gave a heavy, grinding release. Aurora pulled the steel bar back, the chain clicking with a sharp metallic snap. She cracked the wood-paneled door open just enough to reveal the hallway. Lucien Moreau stood there, a pillar of tailored charcoal against the dingy yellow paint of the building. He didn't look like he lived on Brick Lane. He looked like he was standing in a boardroom in Mayfair. "Rory." His voice wasn't a whisper, but it didn't require shouting either. It slid through the crack and settled heavily in the stagnant air of the flat. Aurora’s hand tightened on the frame. She knew that voice. She knew the way it dipped at the vowels, the way the syllables rolled off a tongue trained in four different languages before it learned English. She also knew the scent that accompanied it—cedar, leather, and something faintly metallic that smelled like rain on burnt iron. She unlocked the deadbolt fully and shoved the door inward. Lucien didn't step aside to let her see the chaos within. He simply stepped past her. The movement was too fluid, predatory. He adjusted his umbrella, tapping the handle against the threshold with a deliberate, rhythmic *clack-clack*. "You're not supposed to be here," Aurora said, pushing the door shut. "Security system at the flat downstairs is malfunctioning," Lucien replied, his gaze sweeping the cramped entrance. He took in the shoe rack overflowing with mismatched boots and the coat rack groaning under the weight of damp trench coats. He didn't even flinch at the pile of delivery flyers stuck to the side of the fridge. "Besides, I haven't been back in London in three years. Couldn't you give the poor woman a moment to miss me?" "You've been in London," Aurora corrected, turning the three heavy deadbolts. The sliding metal echoed through the corridor. "I watched you get out of a cab on Greyhound Road two weeks ago." Lucien’s one black eye narrowed, the other amber eye widening slightly as he processed the accusation. He rested his ivory-handled cane against the wall, the tip digging into the worn linoleum. "I was observing." "In the pouring rain?" "Exactly." Aurora moved into the living room, leaving him standing near the entrance like a dark cloud in a grey sky. She didn't offer him a seat. There wasn't one. The only furniture was the lumpy sofa and a coffee table littered with half-eaten sandwiches and loose A4 papers. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, was sleeping on the armchair. It didn't wake up. The animal knew better than to disturb a predator of Lucien's caliber. Lucien turned and followed her, his gaze lingering on the open blinds where rain streaked down the glass. "You look tired." It wasn't a question. He walked over to the small kitchenette, ignoring the takeaway menus plastered to the cupboards. He inspected the red stain on the ceramic counter—the remains of a takeaway curry spilled two days ago that she hadn't had the heart to scrub off. "I’m working," she said, turning to face him. She crossed her arms over her chest, the fabric of her oversized hoodie pulling tight across her shoulder. The scar on her left wrist, a thin crescent from a glass door she’d tried to jump through in Cardiff, ached, a dull throb reminding her of the cost of that night. "I have deliveries in twenty minutes." "Yu-Fei Cheung's?" "How did you know?" "The van is painted gold. The logo is obvious." Lucien reached into his pocket and pulled out a slim black device. He tapped it, the screen lighting up with a map. He swiped his thumb across it, then slid the phone into his breast pocket. "I know everything, Rory." That was the truth. That was the terrifying part. A half-demon fixer who smelled like rain and burnt iron had found her address from the vague movements of a golden delivery van. "Don't say my name like that." "Why not? It's what you do." He stepped closer, closing the distance between them. The air pressure in the room seemed to drop. The smell of his cologne overpowered the lingering spices from Eva’s cooking downstairs. Aurora’s heart hammered against her ribs. She hated that it did. She had spent three years forging a new life, one where she was just a quiet delivery girl and not the girl who had burned down the bridge between her and the supernatural world. "That part of my life is finished," she said, her voice steadier than she felt. "I left because I didn't fit in. You were a ghost story. A legend. Now you're standing in my kitchen." "And now you're talking to me." He tilted his head, the platinum hair slicked back falling slightly over his forehead. The heterochromia caught the dim light from the window—amber and obsidian. "You didn't answer your phone when I called after I got your number from the barista at the coffee place down the street." "I don't know what you're talking about." "Liar." He took another step. Now he was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. It was a heat that didn't belong in a damp, curry-scented flat on Brick Lane. "It's unlisted." "Phones are never truly unlisted, just hard to find." He raised a hand, his long fingers hovering near her cheek. He stopped inches away. "Your pulse is racing, Aurora. You think I'm a monster, so you run. But you always come back." Aurora jerked her head back, breaking the proximity. "That's not true." "It is." He lowered his hand, gesturing vaguely around the room. "Look at this. Books. Chaos. You're running from something, but you're also running to something. You're staying in East London where it's messy and cheap. You're afraid to go back to the life you thought you wanted." "I have a life here." "Do you?" He stepped past her and walked toward the window. He looked out at the street, where a bus roared by, splashing water onto the sidewalk. "Or are you just surviving? Because you look like you're starving." "I have a shift in ten minutes." "Then go. I won't stop you." He turned back to face her, his expression unreadable, a mask of polished indifference that she knew was paper-thin. "But you should know, I didn't come all this way just to watch you hand out plastic containers of curry sauce." "What do you want?" Lucien smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "A drink. With you. In a place that doesn't smell of garlic and old shoes." "I can't. I'm working." "Fine. Wait." He reached into his jacket again, this time pulling out a card. He placed it on the coffee table, right on top of the sandwich wrapper. "Call me. Or don't. But I’ll be back tomorrow." Aurora stared at the card. It was made of heavy stock, black with gold embossing. On it, there was no name, only a number and a symbol—a jagged sigil that looked uncomfortably like a closed eye. "Leave," she said. Lucien picked up his cane and gave a small, fluid bow. It was theatrical, mocking the tension in the air. "Goodnight, Rory." The door clicked shut behind him. The lock engaged with three distinct clicks. Aurora stood frozen for a long moment, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sound of traffic on the street below. The silence in the room felt different now. Heavy. Invasive. She walked over to the window and pressed her forehead against the cold glass. The card was still there, lying in the grease of a leftover samosa. She looked down at her reflection in the glass—dark hair, tired eyes, the scar on her wrist catching the light. She picked up the card and placed it in her pocket, next to her phone. Then she checked the time. She was late.