Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXYRAPXSM10B45C0DNP7AB

Aurora's fingers found the deadbolt as she heard footsteps on the other side of Eva's door. Three locks. Eva had always been paranoid about security, a habit she'd picked up before they'd even met. Rory shifted the stack of takeaway containers she held—some leftover dim sum from the Golden Empress, a peace offering of sorts because she hadn't managed to visit in six weeks. The door swung open and stopped short on its chain. "Bloody hell, Rory." Eva's voice carried that particular exasperation reserved for people who showed up without warning. She unhooked the chain and pulled the door wider, and Ptolemy, her tabby, wound between her ankles in greeting. "I brought food," Rory said, holding up the containers like they might serve as both shield and apology. Eva wore one of her reading cardigans, the brown one with mismatched buttons that hung off her frame like she'd borrowed it from someone larger. Her hair stood at odd angles, the kind of chaos that meant she'd been running her hands through it while poring over one of her books. Behind her, the flat sprawled exactly as Rory remembered—every surface drowning under the weight of research, notes pinned to the walls in no particular order, scrolls unfurled and weighted down with coffee mugs. "Come in before the neighbours see you loitering," Eva said. Rory stepped inside and closed the door behind her, engaging the locks in reverse order—habit from staying here so many nights. The flat smelled of old paper and that particular mustiness of homes packed too full of information. Eva took the containers and headed toward the kitchen, which was barely more than a galley between the living space and bedroom. "You look terrible," Eva said. "Good to see you too." "No, I mean it. When's the last time you slept?" Eva unpacked the containers with the efficiency of someone who'd done this a hundred times, pulling out bowls and utensils. She didn't wait for an answer, which was typical. Eva asked questions the way other people made statements—not really expecting responses so much as thinking out loud. "You're hunched. And you've got that line between your eyebrows that means you're stressed about something you haven't told me." Rory sank onto the worn sofa, disturbing a stack of leather-bound journals. Ptolemy immediately claimed the space beside her, purring with the intensity of a small motor. She scratched behind his ears, focusing on that instead of the prickling sensation working its way up her spine. "Actually," Eva continued from the kitchen, "before you tell me what's wrong, I need to tell you something first. And you're going to hate it." That pulled Rory's attention up. Eva stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, her expression caught between defensive and determined. Whatever this was, she'd been rehearsing it. "There was a visitor. Two days ago. He—" The knock came sharp and precise. Both women froze. Eva's jaw tightened. Rory felt the air change, the way it did right before something dropped. Not a casual knock. This one carried authority. Eva moved toward the door, but Rory stood instead, some instinct older than thought making her intercept. "Who?" "That," Eva said quietly, "is what I was trying to explain." The knock came again. Rory checked the peephole and her stomach dropped straight through the floor. The hallway beyond the fish-eye lens showed a figure in a charcoal suit, platinum blond hair slicked back from a face that hadn't changed in the six months since they'd last crossed paths. Lucien Moreau. The fixer. The information broker from the supernatural underworld who'd helped her find the evidence against Evan—and who'd nearly gotten her killed in the process. Who'd also kissed her in the rain outside Victoria Station and then vanished like he'd never existed. "Let him in," Rory heard herself say. "Rory—" "Is he dangerous?" "Not to us." She unhooked the chain and opened the door. Lucien stood with his cane in one hand, the ivory handle catching the hallway light. One amber eye and one black eye assessed her in that particular way he had, like he was reading something written across her skin that she couldn't see herself. He wore that charcoal suit like it was part of his body, not a thing worn over it. His tie was midnight blue, precisely knotted. "Ms. Carter," he said. That Marseille accent, smooth as cognac. "You look well." "You're not welcome here." "And yet." He stepped inside without invitation, and Eva closed the door behind him, sliding the chain back in place with an apologetic glance at Rory. "I've come to collect on a debt." "I don't owe you anything." Lucien set his cane against the wall beside the door—a gesture of disarming that somehow made him more dangerous, not less. "You do. Though not in currency." He glanced at Eva, then back to Rory. "Your friend attempted to acquire information that would have cost her considerably more than money to obtain. I provided that information in your name." "I didn't ask you to do that." "No," he agreed. "You didn't. But you benefited nonetheless." Rory's fingers clenched into fists. She could feel the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist beginning to itch the way it did when she was angry or scared or, apparently, both simultaneously. "What do you want?" Lucien moved deeper into the flat with the kind of casual certainty that made it clear he'd been here before. His eyes scanned Eva's collected research, lingering on certain volumes with what looked like genuine interest. When he turned back, something in his expression had shifted. Less business transaction. More like he was remembering something he'd tried to forget. "Your assistance," he said. "With a matter that requires someone with your particular skill set. Quick thinking. Problem-solving. A disinclination to follow conventional paths." "Find someone else." "There is no one else." He withdrew a folded piece of paper from his jacket with practiced elegance. "Not who I'd trust. Not who I'd be willing to risk." That last part hung in the air between them like something fragile and newly broken.