Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYNYVAARGPMMN2Q7YF1MZJ

The smell of Brick Lane seeped through the floorboards—a thick, oily miasma of cumin, cardamom, and frying onions. It clung to the curtains, the sofa, and the towering stacks of books that threatened to topple over in the cramped hallway. Aurora Carter stared at the three heavy deadbolts on the front door. Three locks for a girl who ran away. Another knock sounded. Harder this time. Impatient. She checked her watch. Eva wasn’t due back for hours. If it was the landlord asking about the unauthorized cat again, she was going to lose her temper. She flipped the first lock, then the second. The third gave a groan of protest before sliding back. She pulled the door open. The hallway light flickered, illuminating a charcoal suit cut sharp enough to slice glass. The man standing on the doormat adjusted his cuffs, the ivory handle of a cane catching the yellow light. He smelled of ozone and expensive cologne, a scent that immediately drowned out the curry house below. Rory’s breath hitched in her throat. She gripped the edge of the door until her knuckles turned white. "You've got to be joking." Lucien Moreau looked up. One eye was the colour of polished amber, the other a void of absolute black. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He simply looked, his gaze dragging over her face as if checking for damage. "May I come in?" "No." "Very well." He leaned against the doorframe, blocking the escape route. Not that he needed to block it physically; his presence alone did the work, filling the tiny entrance with a suffocating weight. The cane tapped against the floorboards. *Tap. Tap. Tap.* "Ptolemy is going to scratch you if you stand there," she said, keeping her voice flat. "I like the cat. The cat has good taste." A tabby cat wound its way through Rory’s legs, arching its back and hissing low in its throat at the visitor. Lucien glanced down, the black eye swirling slightly, and the cat immediately backed away, tail puffed, disappearing behind a stack of ancient scrolls. "Bullying animals now? That's a new low, even for you." "Animals sense power, Rory. They respect it." "I respect a lot of things. You aren't one of them." She moved to slam the door. His hand shot out, catching the wood. No strain showed in his fingers, no tremble in his wrist. He held the heavy fire door open as if it were made of cardboard. "Let go." "We need to talk." "We talked three months ago. You said what you had to say. I left. End of story." "Is it?" He stepped forward. The hallway was too narrow for this. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. The memories hit her like a physical blow—the secret meetings in the back of Silas’s bar, the way he looked at her across a crowded room, the sharp betrayal when she realized he had used her information to broker a deal with a warlord. "Get out of my building, Lucien." "Silas sent me." Rory paused. "Silas hates you." "Silas hates that I charge double on weekends. He also hates that a banshee is currently tearing apart his cellar, and he requires someone who speaks the language of the dead to negotiate a ceasefire." "Call a medium." "I tried. They're busy. Or dead. It’s hard to keep track." He reached into his jacket. Rory flinched, her hand automatically going to the back pocket where she kept a fold-out knife. He noticed the movement. The corner of his mouth twitched—a ghost of a smirk that didn't reach his strange eyes. Slowly, he pulled out a slim, silver flask. He unscrewed the cap and took a drink, his throat working. "I’m not here for you, Aurora. I’m here because Silas owes me a favour, and collecting it means saving his liquor licence." Rory stared at him. The scars on her left wrist throbbed, a phantom echo of the night they met—the night he saved her from a pair of trolls but refused to explain why. He was chaos wrapped in Italian silk. Trouble with a capital T. "Eva will kill you if you bleed on her rug." "I never bleed." "That’s because you’re soulless." He laughed, a short, sharp sound. He finally let go of the door, stepping back into the dingy corridor of the flat. He smoothed his lapel, the platinum hair gleaming under the buzzing fluorescent light. "I’ll wait downstairs. In the bar." "Silas’s bar is closed." "I have a key." "Of course you do." "Five minutes." He turned to leave. His cane clicked rhythmically against the linoleum. Rory watched him go, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She hated that he still affected her like this. She hated the way the air felt electric when he was near, the way her body screamed *danger* and *stay* all at once. "Wait." He stopped. He didn't turn around. "You can't just walk in here after everything," she said to his back. "You can't just act like you own the city because you’re a half-demon with a fancy suit and a drinking problem." Lucien turned. The amber eye glinted. "I don't own the city, Rory. I own the secrets people keep in it. Including yours." "I don't have secrets from you." "Don't you?" He took a step back toward her. The distance between them vanished again. The scent of ozone filled her nose, overpowering the curry. He reached out, his fingers hovering near her face, tracing the line of her jaw without touching it. "You left Cardiff," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You left the law degree. You left the ex-boyfriend who liked to use fists instead of words. You came here to hide. But you’re not hiding, are you? You’re delivering takeaway for the Golden Empress and living above a bar run by a werewolf." "I’m living my life." "You’re surviving. There is a difference." He tapped the ivory handle of his cane against her shoulder. A light touch. A warning. "Five minutes. If you aren't down there, I will have to assume you’ve decided to join the banshee. And I charge extra for rescuing stubborn women." "Go to hell, Lucien." "Born there, darling. I’m just visiting." He walked away. This time, he didn't stop. He descended the stairs, the sound of his footsteps fading into the ambient noise of the street. Rory closed the door. She slid the first bolt home. Then the second. Her hand shook as she grabbed the third. Ptolemy crept out from behind the scrolls, eyeing the door suspiciously. He meowed, demanding dinner. "I know," Rory whispered, leaning her forehead against the cool wood of the door. "I know." She looked around the flat. Books on magic, on law, on demonology. A life half-built. She looked at her wrist, at the small crescent scar. Then she looked at the door. She undid the bolts. One. Two. Three.