Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYPA83A2TAXTW1K77NKSYD

The brass knocker echoedlike a gunshot in the cramped hallway. Rory froze mid-reach for her keys, her breath catching. She’d been expecting a delivery, not this. The knock wasn’t frantic, but it wasn’t polite either—it was Lucien Moreau, and he’d just shattered the fragile peace she’d built around Eva’s flat. She pushed the door open a sliver, peering out into the narrow corridor. Moonlight sliced through the grimy window above, illuminating his silhouette framed in the doorway. He didn’t look away, his gaze sharp, assessing. His platinum hair, usually meticulously slicked, looked slightly wind-tousled. The ivory-handled cane rested against his thigh, not quite hidden. His eyes—one amber, one black—held hers, unreadable. “Rory,” he said, his voice low, carrying the faint scent of expensive cologne and something else, something ancient. “Or should I call you Laila? Or Malphora?” He pushed the door open wider, stepping inside without invitation. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, shot out from behind the sofa, tail puffed, and skittered across the worn carpet, vanishing under the coffee table. The sudden movement made the thin walls shudder. “Lucien,” she replied, her voice tight, closing the door behind him. She crossed her arms, trying to project indifference, but her knuckles were white where she gripped the wood. “What brings you to my doorstep at this hour?” The flat smelled of old paper, curry spices, and the faint, metallic tang of her own anxiety. Books were stacked precariously on every surface—ancient tomes, grimoires, journals covered in cryptic symbols. A half-empty mug of cold tea sat on the rickety table. He didn’t answer immediately. He took in the chaos, his eyes lingering on the scar on her left wrist, the crescent moon etched into pale skin. “I heard you left the restaurant,” he finally said, his voice smooth as polished obsidian. “Yu-Fei Cheung’s. The Golden Empress. You’re not delivering dumplings anymore, Rory.” He gestured vaguely towards the door, a silent question hanging in the air. “I quit,” she snapped, the word sharp enough to make Ptolemy peek out from under the table, ears twitching. “I’m not delivering anything anymore, Lucien. Especially not to you.” She moved towards the small kitchenette, her movements stiff. “Want some tea? It’s cold, but it’s all I’ve got.” He followed her, his footsteps silent on the worn floorboards. He stopped near the sink, watching her as she fumbled with the kettle. “You’re avoiding me,” he stated, not a question. “Since Cardiff. Since... everything.” She whirled around, the kettle rattling in her hands. “Everything?” The word tasted like ash. “You left. You just... vanished. After everything we had.” The scar on her wrist throbbed, a phantom ache from the accident that had nearly ended her life, a memory Lucien had witnessed. “You disappeared without a word.” “I had to,” he countered, his voice hardening. “The world isn’t safe for you, Rory. Not anymore. Not with the things I am.” He tapped the ivory handle of his cane against the floor, a subtle threat. “The demons, the hunters... they’re closing in. You’re a target.” “A target?” she scoffed, pouring water into the kettle. “Because I’m friends with Eva? Because I know too much?” She slammed the kettle onto the stove, the sound echoing in the small space. “You think I’m stupid? You think I don’t know what you are? Half-demon? A fixer for the supernatural underworld? You think I didn’t see the way you moved, the way you looked at me?” He stepped closer, his presence filling the tiny room. “I didn’t leave you, Rory. I was forced to go into hiding. The Council... they’re hunting me. They’d kill you to get to me.” His amber eye held hers, intense and pleading. “I came back because I need you. You’re the only one who can help me.” “Help you?” she spat, turning away. “By dragging me into your dangerous world? By putting me in the line of fire?” She leaned against the counter, her breath coming fast. “You promised me forever, Lucien. You promised me safety. You promised me you’d never leave.” The memory of his cold, empty bed in Cardiff, the silence after his final message, burned in her chest. “You broke every single one of those promises.” “I didn’t break them,” he whispered, his voice rough. “I broke myself. I had to protect you. I thought... I thought if I was gone, they’d leave you alone.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the scar on her wrist. “I never stopped loving you, Rory. Not for a second.” She jerked her arm away, the contact sending a jolt through her. “Love?” The word felt like a knife. “You used me, Lucien. You used my trust, my friendship. You used my fear. You left me broken, and now you come back asking for help? After everything?” “I know it’s a lot,” he admitted, his voice thick. “But you’re the only one who understands. The only one who can see past the demon.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the books lining the shelves. “You’re the only one who ever saw me, truly saw me.” He took a step back, his posture suddenly defensive. “I know I don’t deserve a second chance. But I need you to hear me out. Please.” The kettle began to whistle, a sharp, insistent sound that cut through the heavy silence. Rory stared at it, the steam rising like ghosts. The flat was small, suffocating. The past was a weight pressing down on her shoulders. Lucien Moreau stood in her doorway, half-demon, broken, and somehow, still terrifyingly, achingly familiar. The door to her heart was still locked, but the key was trembling in her hand.