Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTZ3VMR4T0VJW44T77JE34P

The brass knocker echoed like a gunshot in the quiet hallway. Rory froze mid-reach for her keys, her breath catching. That sound wasn’t just any visitor. It was the sound of the past slamming against her door. She turned slowly, her eyes narrowing as she saw the silhouette framed in the dim light beyond the peephole. Lucien Moreau. The Frenchman. Her ex. Her complicated, dangerous, infuriating ex. She didn’t bother with the peephole. She yanked the door open, the deadbolts scraping against the frame with a harsh, metallic screech. "What the hell, Evan?" she snapped, her voice tight. "I told you to stay away." He didn’t flinch. He stood there, impeccably tailored charcoal suit perfectly creased, the ivory-handled cane resting against his thigh. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, sharp angles under the hallway light. His heterochromatic eyes – one amber, one black – held a cold, unreadable gaze. "Rory," he said, his voice smooth as polished obsidian, cutting through the sudden silence. "It’s not Evan." Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic rhythm she couldn’t silence. "Then who the hell are you?" she demanded, stepping back into the cramped hallway, the scent of curry and old books from Eva’s flat thick in the air. The tabby cat, Ptolemy, blinked sleepily from the threshold. "Lucien Moreau," he replied, pushing the door open further, his presence filling the narrow space. "I believe you know who I am." He didn’t wait for an invitation. He stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. The scent of expensive leather and something faintly metallic – his cane, perhaps – mingled with the familiar curry fumes. Rory’s gaze flicked to the cane, then back to his face. The scar on her own left wrist, a small crescent moon, pulsed with a familiar ache. "You’re here for the same reason you always were," she said, her voice low, dangerous. "Information. A job. A favor." He raised an eyebrow, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. "You assume too much, Rory. Or perhaps you assume too little. I’m here for you." She took a step back, her hand instinctively going to the scar. "Me? Why would you want me?" The question hung in the air, thick and charged. The attraction, the hurt, the things left unsaid – it all crashed down on her like a wave. She remembered the heat of his touch, the dangerous allure of his world, the way he’d shattered her heart with a single, cold command. "You left me," she finished, the words bitter on her tongue. He closed the distance between them, his eyes never leaving hers. "I didn’t leave you, Rory. I was expelled. By forces far beyond my control." He gestured vaguely towards the door, then back into the flat. "This place... it’s a sanctuary. Eva’s flat. But it’s also a trap. Someone knows you’re here. Someone dangerous." Rory’s eyes darted around the cluttered living room – the towering stacks of books, the scrolls spilling from shelves, the worn sofa where she’d cried herself to sleep after Evan. "Who?" she whispered, the fear she’d buried resurfacing. "Who knows?" "Someone who wants what you have," Lucien said, his voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. "Or rather, what you *were*. Before you ran. Before you hid." He reached into his tailored jacket, his movements precise. He didn’t pull out a weapon. He pulled out a small, intricately carved silver key. "This unlocks a box in Eva’s storage unit. Inside... there’s something that proves everything. Everything about you, Rory. And about me." He held the key out to her. She stared at it, then at his face, then back at the key. The past, the danger, the undeniable pull – it all swirled in her mind. "Why tell me now?" she asked, her voice barely a breath. "Why not just take it?" "Because," Lucien said, his amber eye locking onto hers, "I need you. Not just the key, but you. Your mind. Your... unique perspective. The things you see that others miss." He leaned in slightly, his breath warm against her ear. "And perhaps," he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, "because I still want you." The words hung in the air, thick and intoxicating. The scar on her wrist burned. The memory of his touch, the danger, the passion – it all surged back, a tidal wave she couldn’t resist. She didn’t take the key. She didn’t push him away. She simply looked at him, her blue eyes wide and uncertain, the past and the present colliding in that cramped, book-filled flat. The door was open. The past was standing on her threshold. The future, whatever it held, was about to unfold.