Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7MT9YVPSCVQQF3G0CK5AS

The door creaked open before she could reach for the handle, the hinges groaning like an old man’s bones. The scent of damp wool and something sharp—like ozone after a storm—spilled into the hallway first, then him. Lucien stood there, his cane tapping once against the linoleum, the ivory handle gleaming under the flickering bulb. His suit coat was unbuttoned just enough to show the crisp white of his shirt cuffs, the platinum blond hair slicked back as always, but his tie was loose, the knot undone. His amber eye flicked to the scar on her wrist before he lifted his gaze to hers. Rory froze, her fingers still curled around the doorknob. "You’re not supposed to be here." "Neither are you," he countered, his voice smooth as whiskey. "But here we both are." She stepped back, letting the door swing shut behind him. The flat smelled of takeaway curry and stale coffee, the kind of scent that clung to the walls like old memories. Ptolemy slinked out from under the sofa, tail flicking, but didn’t meow—just watched them with those golden, unblinking eyes. Lucien didn’t move deeper into the room. "You’ve been avoiding me." "Not avoiding," she said, though her pulse hammered in her throat. "I’ve just got things to do." He tilted his head, the black eye catching the light. "Like what? Delivering food at three in the morning?" She bristled. "It pays the rent." "Mmm." He hummed, low and knowing, like he already knew every excuse she’d ever made. "And the rest of your time?" Rory exhaled through her nose. "None of your business." His lips quirked. "Funny. I thought we’d agreed it was." The air between them thickened, charged. She remembered the last time they’d stood this close—outside the old bookshop in Soho, the rain slicking the pavement, his hands warm against her skin as he’d told her things she hadn’t wanted to hear. She’d walked away then. She wouldn’t make that mistake again. "Get out," she said, voice steadier than she felt. Lucien didn’t budge. "Not until you listen." "To what?" She crossed her arms, though her fingers twitched toward the scar on her wrist. "Your little speech about how I’m being reckless? How I’m running again?" His expression darkened. "You’re not running." "Am I not?" She laughed, sharp and bitter. "Because that’s what I do, isn’t it? Walk away when things get complicated." He stepped forward then, close enough that she could see the faintest dusting of freckles along his jawline. "You didn’t walk away from me before." The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She swallowed hard. "That was different." "Was it?" His voice dropped, rougher now. "Or was it just easier to pretend it wasn’t?" Rory’s breath hitched. She hated when he did this—to make her feel things she’d buried. She hated that he could still do it after all this time. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the back of the sofa, tail lashing, and let out a low, disgruntled *mrrow*. Lucien didn’t even glance at the cat. His gaze locked onto hers, unyielding. "You came back," she said, because it was true. She’d come back to London, to this flat, to the life she’d tried to leave behind. And now he was here, like some kind of bad omen. Lucien’s fingers twitched toward his cane. "I didn’t have a choice." She raised an eyebrow. "Oh, really? And whose choice was that?" His jaw tightened. "Yours and mine, both." She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him to leave, to go back to wherever he’d come from and never look back. But the way he stood there, so still and sure, made her chest ache. "Fine," she said, voice rough. "You can stay. But only if you tell me why." Lucien exhaled, long and slow. "Because I need your help." The words hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Rory’s pulse roared in her ears. "What kind of help?" He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his coat—slowly, deliberately—and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the edges singed. He held it out to her. "Open it," he said. She hesitated, then took it. The moment her fingers brushed the leather, the scent of old parchment and something metallic filled her nose. She flipped it open. Inside, the pages were filled with symbols—some she recognized, others twisted and unfamiliar. And in the center, a name, written in a hand she didn’t know. "Malphora," she breathed. Lucien’s voice was low. "That’s you." The flat seemed to tilt. Her breath came faster. "What is this?" "A warning," he said. "And an invitation." Ptolemy chose that moment to jump down from the sofa, landing with a soft thud at her feet. He rubbed against her leg, purring, as if sensing the tension in the air. Rory’s fingers tightened around the book. "What do you want me to do?" Lucien’s gaze never left hers. "Help me stop it." She looked down at the book again, then back at him. The air between them crackled, charged with something she couldn’t name. "Why me?" "Because," he said, "you’re the only one who can."