Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY89W41BBBDMZ652DH2S3SC

The key turned in the lock with a stick. Rory paused, hand hovering over the door, and listened. Below, Silas’ bar hummed—clinking glass, a laugh, a man calling for more ale. She’d just clocked out from the Golden Empress, linen uniform still crisp under her jacket, delivery bag slung over one arm. The smell of jasmine rice clung to her sleeves. She pushed the door open. The hallway light flickered. A shadow stepped from the dark. Rory froze. The bag slipped. She caught it, fingers white, as the other person moved into the glow. Platinum hair, slicked back like it’d been lacquered. A charcoal suit, tailored to the bone, despite the grimy brick walls. The ivory cane, tip tapping the floor. And those eyes—amber and black, slicing through her like a scalpel. “Christ,” she said. Her voice cracked. She cleared her throat. “What are you doing here.” Lucien Moreau. The Frenchman. The fixer who knew too much, who’d once looked at her like he might break her—then fixed her, even when she didn’t want fixing. Evan had hated him. Evan had been *good* at hating people. He didn’t answer. Just stood there, hands in the pockets of his suit, like he might reach for her. Like he always had. “You can’t be here,” she said, taking a step back. The doorframe bit into her shoulders. “This flat’s got deadbolts. Three. You think I haven’t learned?” “Eva let me in,” he said. His voice was low, like fire through stone. “Said you’d want to know.” Rory’s chest tightened. Eva. She’d called Rory three days ago, voice wild: *“Lucien’s in town. He says it’s about Evan. About… about the scars.”* Evan’s scars. The ones he’d left on her—on her wrist, on her cheek, on the inside of her thighs. The ones she still dreamt about, sometimes, when the whiskey was too strong. “Where is he?” she asked. It came out sharper than she meant. “Gone,” Lucien said. “I tracked him to a warehouse in Bow. He’s got a new crew—people who don’t ask questions. They think he’s a enforcer, but he’s not shit. He owed money. To the wrong people.” Rory stared. The delivery bag slipped again, this time from her loose grip. She kicked at it with her boot. “Why are you telling me—” “Because you found out the hard way what happens when you don’t run,” he said. His cane tapped a staccato. “I saw you last. The night you left. Evan had the lamp. You stood in the doorway, bleeding, and he laughed. Said you’d never get far. And you didn’t—until I helped you.” She staggered back, hitting the door. The paint was chipped, one corner peeling like a scab. “You think this is—” Her throat closed. She swallowed. “You think this is gratitude?” “It’s not,” he said. “It’s owed.” Her left wrist burned. She pressed it to her stomach, hiding the crescent scar. Evan had done that with a beer bottle. *“To teach you to run back,”* he’d said. *“To prove you need me.”* “You should go,” she said. “Before I call Silas. He’ll—” “Silas knows you need protection,” Lucien cut in. “He saw you at the bar last week, shaking. He asked me why I wasn’t there. Said you ‘used to glow’ when you laughed with him.” “Glow,” she repeated. Her lip trembled. *Don’t cry.* Don’t let him see the cracks. “You left. You had your world, your demons, your customers with wings. You didn’t stay. Why start now?” He took a step forward. The cane tip scraped the floor. “Because you were the first person who ever looked at me like I wasn’t a weapon. Like I was… *human*.” Silence. The bar below roared with another laugh. A truck rumbled past outside. Rory closed her eyes. When she opened them, he was closer—so close she could smell his cologne, sandalwood and something sharp, like ozone. “You’re half-demon, Lucien,” she said. “You think *human* is an option?” He stopped. His eyes softened—just a little. “You’re the first person who ever asked *why* I’m half-demon. The first who didn’t flinch when I told you about Avaros, about the fire that eats souls. You listened. You *cared*.” “I cared about a *liar*,” she said. But her voice was weak. She hated how weak it was. Hated that he could still unravel her with a single look. “You weren’t a liar,” he said. “You just… didn’t let me in. Not really. The night you left, I stood in the rain for an hour, because I couldn’t bear to watch you drive away. You didn’t even look back.” She opened her mouth to snap, but the words died. She *had* looked back. She’d seen him standing there, rain soaking his suit, his amber eye glistening like a broken star. And she’d gunned the engine. Because if she didn’t, she’d climb out, take his hand, and never leave. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. He reached out. His fingers brushed her cheek—warm, calloused, not like Evan’s. She didn’t flinch. “You don’t have to be. I’m here now. For as long as you want me.” The cane fell to the floor with a thud. His hand cupped her neck, his thumb brushing the scar on her wrist—the one she’d forgotten, until he traced it. *The accident*, she thought. *How small that seems now.* “You have a flat,” he said. “A cramped one, with books and scrolls. And a cat that hisses at me every time I come over.” Rory laughed. It was a wet, shaky sound, but a laugh all the same. “Ptolemy’s a coward. He hides under the sofa.” “He stared me down,” Lucien said. “For ten minutes. Said, ‘Humans, always with the lies.’” She smiled. Just a little. “He’s right, you know. You’re a liar. You said you’d never get involved.” “I changed my mind,” he said. His voice dropped. “I always change my mind when it comes to you.” She tilted her head. “Why now? What do you want?” He stopped. His eyes flickered—black, amber, black—before settling on hers. “I want to know you. All of you. The Rory who argues with me over tea, who fixes my cane when it’s broken, who still flinches when I raise my voice. The one who ran from Evan, who ran from me… but maybe, deep down, you wanted to stay.” Rory’s chest ached. She stepped into him, pressing her forehead to his. The scent of his cologne wrapped around her, softening the edges. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe I still do.” He kissed her then—slow, careful, like he was afraid she’d break. His hands slid down her back, holding her close, and she clung to his suit, to his shirt, to the fabric that smelled like rain and secrets and home. Somewhere, a car alarm wailed. Somewhere, Eva laughed, loud and long, as if she’d known this would happen all along. But for now, it was just them—two people, scarred, broken, and finally, *found*. The cane lay on the floor. The door stood open. And for the first time in years, Rory didn’t care about the future. She just cared about the man in front of her. And the way he looked at her, like she was the only thing that mattered.