Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7KZQDP57FQF59BCR32GXN

The third deadbolt clicked shut with a final, metallic *thunk*. Rory didn’t turn around. She knew that sound. Knew the way the air in the flat thickened, like the moment before a storm breaks. Ptolemy’s tail twitched against her ankle, his fur bristling. “You’re late,” she said, voice steady. Too steady. The door swung open before she could step away. Lucien Moreau filled the threshold, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the late hour, the amber eye catching the dim light of the single bulb over the kitchen table. The black one stayed shadowed, unreadable. “You always did keep odd hours,” he said, stepping inside like he owned the place. Like he hadn’t been the one to walk out three years ago, leaving her standing in the rain outside that pub in Soho, his coat still in her hands. Ptolemy hissed, arching his back. Rory didn’t reach for him. Didn’t move at all. Lucien’s gaze flicked to the cat, then to the stack of half-unpacked boxes in the corner—her life suspended mid-transition, like she’d been waiting. “Still living like a student?” “Still paying rent.” She crossed her arms. “What do you want, Luc?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he ran a gloved finger along the spine of a book on the nearest shelf—some obscure tome on demonic binding rituals, its leather cover cracked with age. “You’ve been digging into the wrong circles.” “Funny,” she said. “I wasn’t aware I was digging at all.” His head snapped up. The amber eye burned. “Don’t play games, Rory.” “Then don’t waltz in here like we’re still—” She cut herself off. Still what? Still lovers? Still partners in whatever half-baked scheme they’d had before he’d decided she was too much trouble? The words stuck in her throat. Lucien exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Still what? Partners? Friends?” He took another step forward, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jawline, the one she’d never asked about. “You always did have a way of making things complicated.” “And you had a way of making them disappear.” That hit. His expression shut down, all traces of amusement gone. “You think I came here for nostalgia?” “Then why are you here?” Silence. The kind that pressed in around them, thick and suffocating. Then, quietly: “They’re after you.” Rory’s fingers twitched toward the kitchen knife block. “Who?” “People who don’t like loose ends.” His voice dropped. “People who remember what happened in Marseille.” The breath left her lungs. Marseille. The job gone wrong. The bodies. The way Lucien had dragged her out of that alley by her wrist, his grip bruising, his face set in lines she’d never seen before. “You’re saying they’re here? In London?” “They’re saying you’re still breathing.” He reached into his coat—not for a weapon, but for a folded piece of paper. Slid it across the table. “That’s your name on a hit list, *chérie*. And mine, if I don’t deliver.” Rory picked it up. The paper was thin, the ink smudged like it had been handled too many times. Her name, scrawled in jagged letters. Below it, a date. Tomorrow. Ptolemy let out a low, warning growl. Lucien didn’t flinch. “We finish this. Tonight.” “No.” “Rory—” “No.” She crumpled the paper in her fist. “I’m not running again.” His jaw tightened. “You think you have a choice?” She met his gaze, unblinking. “I always have a choice.” For a second, she thought he’d argue. Thought he’d reach for her, like he used to, like he couldn’t help himself. But then his expression went cold. “Fine. Then we do this your way.” He turned toward the door, cane tapping against the floorboards. “But when they come for you, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Rory didn’t move until the door clicked shut behind him. Then she sank onto the edge of the bed, her hands shaking. Ptolemy jumped onto her lap, purring, but she barely felt it. Outside, the distant wail of a siren cut through the night. She should’ve known better than to think this was over.