Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTZ1NS95SSS8GWMEWG0Q5V0

The first knock was sharp, precise. Three raps, evenly spaced, a rhythm that didn't belong to the curry house downstairs or the neighbours who played grime music until three in the morning. Rory paused, a spoon halfway to a tub of yoghurt, and listened. The flat was silent save for the hum of the ancient refrigerator and the distant city sigh. Then it came again. Three more knocks, identical to the first. No one else knocked like that. No one else she knew. Her heart gave a single, heavy thud against her ribs. She put the spoon down, yoghurt forgotten, and walked the few steps to the door. The peephole showed a distorted view of the grimy, mustard-coloured hallway, empty. They were standing too close to the door. Her fingers went to the three deadbolts. Eva was paranoid, and after Evan, Rory had learned to be grateful for it. The first one slid back with a metallic scrape. The second followed. The third was the stiffest, its groan loud in the small room. She threw the chain. The door swung inward. He filled the frame, a slash of monochrome against the squalor of the hallway. Lucien. His suit was charcoal, tailored to his lean frame, not a single thread out of place. His platinum blond hair was slicked back from his forehead, and in his hand, he held the ivory-handled cane she knew concealed a blade. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a Mayfair boardroom, not a Brick Lane tenement. His eyes, though, were the same. One the colour of warm amber, the other a flat, starless black. They fixed on her, and the impact was a physical thing, a punch to the gut that stole the air from her lungs. "Lucien." "Aurora." His voice was a low, smooth baritone, the French accent a soft caress on the syllables of her name. A name only he used. She gripped the edge of the door, the wood digging into her palm. "What are you doing here?" "May I come in?" He gestured with the cane, not at her, but at the cramped space behind her. "It's not a conversation for the hallway." Rory hesitated. Every instinct screamed at her to shut the door, to throw the bolts and pretend she'd never seen him. But his gaze held hers, and a part of her, the stupid, reckless part she thought she'd buried, was curious. She stepped back, a silent invitation. He moved past her, his presence immediately swallowing the small space. He brought with him the clean, expensive scent of bergamot and something darker, something like old leather and ozone. The door clicked shut behind him, the sound unnaturally loud. He scanned the flat, his expression unreadable. Towers of books teetered on every available surface—coffee table, chairs, even the floor. Scrolls were unfurled like sleeping snakes across the sofa. The air was thick with the scent of old paper, dust, and the faint, persistent spice of cardamom from the restaurant below. "This is not your style," he said, running a gloved finger along a dusty shelf. "It's Eva's. I'm just staying here." She wrapped her arms around herself, a defensive barrier. "Why are you here, Lucien?" He turned from his inspection, and his mismatched eyes found hers again. "Eva is worried. She said you left Cardiff in a hurry." Rory’s jaw tightened. "Eva talks too much." "She cares about you." He took a step closer, and she fought the urge to retreat. "And so am I. This man, Evan. What happened?" The name was a bucket of ice water. "You lost the right to be concerned about my life. Remember?" A flicker of something—pain, maybe—crossed his face before being smoothed away by his customary mask of indifference. "I remember everything, Aurora." "Do you?" A bitter laugh escaped her lips. "Because I remember you walking away. I remember you telling me it was for the best, that I was better off without your… complications." "You are." "Don't. Don't you dare stand there in your perfect suit and tell me what's best for me." Her voice rose, shaking with the force of emotions she'd kept locked down for months. "You didn't want me. Fine. But don't come waltzing back in here pretending you care." A striped tabby head poked out from behind a stack of what looked like ancient legal texts. Ptolemy blinked his large green eyes, then trotted out, his tail held high. He made a beeline for Lucien, winding his way through the man's immaculate trousers and purring like a motorboat. Lucien looked down at the cat, and for the first time, his expression softened. He didn't flinch. He simply lowered a hand, ungloved now, and scratched Ptolemy behind the ears. The cat arched into his touch, a picture of bliss. Rory watched, her anger momentarily defused. The damn traitor cat. "He likes you," she said, her voice quieter now. "I have a way with strays." Lucien’s gaze lifted from the cat to her, and the intensity in his eyes was back, stronger this time. "I heard he hurt you." Rory flinched. She hadn't told Eva the specifics, not all of them. But Eva had a way of reading between the lines. "I'm fine." "You don't look fine." He took another step, closing the distance between them until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You have shadows under your eyes. You're thinner." "I've been busy." She held her ground, her chin up. "I work. I deliver food. I pay my rent. It's called life, Lucien. You should try it sometime." "Is that what this is? A life? Hiding in your friend's flat, looking over your shoulder?" His voice dropped, a low murmur meant only for her. "That's not living, Aurora. That's surviving." His fingers brushed her wrist, right over the small, crescent-shaped scar she'd had since she was a child. The touch was feather-light, but it sent a jolt through her, a current of memory and longing so potent it almost brought her to her knees. She remembered that touch. Remembered those hands on her skin, the way they could be both gentle and demanding. She pulled her hand back as if burned. "Don't." "I can help." "I don't need your help. I don't need your money or your… your world." She gestured vaguely at him, at the cane, at the impossible elegance he wore like a second skin. "I remember what your world looks like, Lucien. I'm not stupid." "I never said you were." He was so close now. She could see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes, the way the amber one seemed to hold a light of its own in the dim flat. "I'm the one who was stupid. I thought I could keep you safe by pushing you away." The admission hung in the air between them, raw and unexpected. Rory’s breath caught. "What?" "Letting you go was the hardest thing I have ever done." He reached up, his hand hovering near her cheek, not quite touching. "But it was necessary. My work, my father's world… it's not clean. It's not safe. You deserve better than blood in the gutter." Her heart was hammering against her ribs, a frantic drumbeat. She wanted to believe him. A desperate, foolish part of her wanted to lean into his hand, to let him pull her close and promise her everything would be alright. But the memory of his coldness, of his final, cutting words, was a wall of ice. "So you decided for me? You decided what I deserved and what I could handle?" The anger was back, but it was thinner now, frayed at the edges. "That's not love, Lucien. That's control." His thumb finally stroked her cheek, his skin impossibly warm. "Is that what you think this was about? Control?" "I don't know what to think." Her voice was a whisper. She was trapped between the past and the present, between the hurt and the overwhelming, magnetic pull of him. "You left. You just… left." He leaned in, his face inches from hers. The scent of him filled her senses, clouding her judgment. "I'm here now." His gaze dropped to her lips, and the world narrowed to the space between their mouths. The amber eye seemed to glow, the black one to deepen, pulling her in. This was a mistake. Every instinct she had was screaming it, but her body betrayed her, swaying toward him. "No." The word was small, but it cut through the haze like a shard of glass. She put a hand on his chest, the fabric of his suit smooth and firm beneath her palm, and pushed gently. He stopped, his body tensing. He didn't pull away immediately. He searched her face, his own expression a mixture of frustration and understanding. "You don't get to do that," she said, her voice stronger now. "You don't get to waltz back in here after months, say a few nice words, and expect me to fall at your feet. It doesn't work like that." He straightened up, his hand falling from her face. The mask was back in place, cool and composed. "You're right." The simple agreement was more disarming than any argument. He took a step back, creating space. The air rushed back into her lungs, cold and sharp. From his inner jacket pocket, he produced a single, stark white business card. He held it out. It was plain, with only a phone number embossed in the centre. "If he comes near you again," he said, his voice all business now, "or if you need anything. For anything at all. Call me." Rory stared at the card, then at his face. She couldn't read him. She didn't know if this was an offer of protection or a warning. Slowly, she took it. The cardstock was heavy, expensive. "I can handle myself." "I know." He gave a short, tight nod. "But you don't have to." With that, he turned and walked to the door. He opened it, stepped back into the dingy hallway, and paused. He looked back at her, one last time, his gaze unreadable. Then he was gone. The door clicked shut, leaving her alone in the sudden, echoing silence. Rory leaned back against the wood, the card clutched in her hand. Ptolemy rubbed against her leg, purring his loud, rumbling purr, but she barely felt him. The air in the flat still smelled of bergamot and ozone, and the ghost of his touch lingered on her skin.