Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXZFXV9YXMDVWH086PBD2Q

The three deadbolts clicked open one by one, each metallic snap echoing through the narrow hallway above the curry house. Rory's breath caught in her throat as the door swung wide, revealing a figure she'd tried so hard to forget. Lucien Moreau stood framed in the doorway, his platinum hair perfectly slicked despite the October drizzle that clung to his charcoal coat. The amber eye fixed on her while the black one seemed to drink in shadows from the dimly lit corridor behind him. His ivory-handled cane rested against his thigh, fingers wrapped around it with the same careful precision she remembered from months ago. "Bonjour, Aurora." His voice carried that familiar French lilt that once made her stomach flutter. Now it twisted something sharp and painful beneath her ribs. "What are you doing here?" The words came out harsher than she intended, but she didn't soften them. Her hand remained on the door handle, knuckles white. "May I come in? We need to discuss—" "No." She started to push the door closed, but his hand shot out, pressing against the wood with gentle but immovable force. Not threatening, never threatening with Lucien, but absolute in its certainty. "Please. Five minutes of your time." The curry house below them released another wave of turmeric and garlic into the cramped stairwell. Ptolemy appeared at her ankles, the tabby cat weaving between her legs and purring as if Lucien's presence delighted rather than complicated everything. "Traitor," she muttered to the cat, then stepped back reluctantly. "Five minutes." Lucien entered with that fluid grace she remembered, his mismatched eyes taking in the chaos that was Eva's flat. Books towered in precarious stacks against every wall. Scrolls unfurled across the coffee table, weighed down by chipped mugs and takeaway containers. Research notes papered the windows like makeshift curtains. "Eva's redecorating, I see." "She's not here." Rory crossed her arms over her chest, suddenly conscious of her delivery uniform—the Golden Empress logo stretched across her t-shirt, sauce stains on her jeans. Next to Lucien's immaculate suit, she felt rumpled and small. "I know. She's in Prague, consulting with the Astronomical Clock keepers about temporal distortions." He turned from his inspection of the flat, those heterochromatic eyes finding hers. "I came to see you." "Why?" "Because we left things—" "We left things exactly where they needed to be left." Her voice cracked despite her best efforts. The crescent scar on her left wrist seemed to burn where she'd unconsciously begun rubbing it. "You made your choice, Lucien. Both of us did." He took a step closer, the tap of his cane against the wooden floor sharp in the cluttered space. "You mean when you disappeared without a word? When I woke to find your side of the bed cold and your things gone?" "Don't." The warning came out as barely a whisper. "Don't pretend you didn't know why I left." "Enlighten me." Heat flashed through her chest. "You told Vincent about the Blackwood job. You sold me out to curry favour with the council, and we both know it." "Mon dieu." His laugh held no humour, bitter as burnt coffee. "Is that what you think happened?" "I know what happened. Vincent knew details only you could have given him. About the warehouse, about the wards I'd disabled, about—" She stopped herself, jaw clenched tight. Lucien's knuckles went white around his cane handle. "About us." The word hung between them like smoke from Eva's incense burners, thick and suffocating. Ptolemy had abandoned them both for his food bowl, leaving them alone with the weight of everything unsaid. "You were protecting your reputation," she continued, each word a small violence. "The great Lucien Moreau couldn't be seen consorting with some amateur thief from Cardiff. Bad for business." "You think so little of me?" "I think I know exactly what you are." His amber eye blazed while the black one seemed to swallow light entirely. When he spoke, his accent thickened with emotion barely held in check. "What I am is half-demon, Aurora. What I am is someone the supernatural community tolerates because I am useful, not because they trust me. What I am is expendable the moment I stop providing value." She'd never heard him speak of his heritage with such raw honesty. Usually he wore his otherness like another tailored suit—perfectly fitted, impeccably presented, never allowing the seams to show. "Vincent didn't learn about Blackwood from me," he continued, taking another step forward. "He learned about it because the council had you under surveillance from the moment you arrived in London. They know about your friend Eva's research, about your little flat above Silas' pub, about every delivery run you make for the Golden Empress." Ice spread through her veins. "You're lying." "I wish I were. They tasked me with getting close to you, yes. To learn what Eva had discovered about the temporal fractures. But what happened between us..." His free hand rose as if to touch her face, then fell back to his side. "What happened between us was real." "Then why didn't you tell me?" "Because I was trying to protect you from exactly this conversation. From knowing that every moment we shared was built on a foundation of deception, even if the deception was not mine by choice." The flat's cramped quarters suddenly felt impossibly small. Books seemed to lean inward from their stacks, and the research notes on the windows rustled though no wind stirred them. Rory's pulse hammered against her throat. "So what now?" Her voice came out smaller than she'd intended. "You've delivered your confession. Absolution granted. Five minutes are up." Lucien's mismatched gaze searched her face with desperate intensity. "Now I tell you why I really came." "Which is?" "The council is moving against Eva. Tonight."