Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8Y5XQDX2ZXRWQRSWYVACR

The third deadbolt clicked shut with a dull *thunk*, the sound swallowed by the thick carpet under Rory’s bare feet. She’d just stepped out of the shower, the steam still clinging to her skin like a second layer, her hair wrapped in a towel. The flat smelled of lavender and old paper—Eva’s signature scent, sharp with the faint metallic tang of Ptolemy’s favourite tuna treats left scattered on the kitchen counter. She was reaching for the robe when the knock came. Not the usual hesitant rap of a friend dropping by. This was three sharp raps, spaced like a code. Her pulse jumped. No one knew that knock but one person. Rory froze. The towel slipped lower, exposing the crescent scar on her wrist, pale against her skin. She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Another knock. Louder this time. *"Aurora. Open up."* The voice was smooth, accented, the kind of voice that could slip into a room and make every other sound fade. She knew it like she knew the weight of her own name. Ptolemy chose that moment to wind himself around her ankles, purring, his tail flicking against her shin. She crouched, scratching behind his ears. "Not helping," she muttered. The doorknob turned. Rory’s stomach dropped. The deadbolts. She’d locked them after the last time—after *him*. But the lock clicked anyway, the door swinging inward before she could stop it. Lucien Moreau stood there, filling the doorway like he owned it. His platinum hair was damp at the temples, his charcoal suit rumpled at the shoulders like he’d been running his hands through it. The cane leaned against the wall beside him, the ivory handle catching the dim light from the hallway. His amber eye locked onto hers. The black one stayed fixed on the towel clinging to her chest. "Took you long enough," he said. Rory’s fingers curled into the carpet. "You don’t knock." "I did." A smirk tugged at his mouth. "You just didn’t answer." She should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve called the police. Should’ve— "Let me in," he said, stepping over the threshold before she could protest. The door clicked shut behind him, the deadbolts engaging with a finality that made her skin prickle. Ptolemy hissed, arching his back. Lucien didn’t even glance at the cat. His gaze was still on her, dark and unreadable. Rory wrapped the towel tighter. "What do you want?" "Same thing I always want." His voice dropped, rough at the edges. "To see you." The words hung between them, heavy with everything unsaid. The way he’d left her that night in Marseille. The way she’d chased him down the docks, her fists bloody, her voice raw. The way he’d turned and looked at her like she was the only thing keeping him from drowning. She swallowed. "You’re in my flat." "And you’re in my way." He took another step forward, close enough that she could see the faint scar along his jawline, the one he’d gotten in a bar fight three years ago. The one she’d pressed her lips to once, before she’d realised what she was doing. Rory’s breath hitched. "Get out." Lucien didn’t move. Instead, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, leather-bound book. The cover was worn, the edges singed. He tossed it onto the coffee table. It landed with a soft *thud*. Rory didn’t touch it. "What is that?" "A ledger." His voice was quiet now, all trace of the smirk gone. "Names. Places. Things people don’t want found." She knew what that meant. Knew what he was. A fixer. A man who cleaned up messes for people who couldn’t afford to be seen. "And?" she prompted. "And I need your help." Rory let out a sharp laugh. "You need *my* help?" Lucien’s jaw tightened. "I need someone who knows this city better than I do. Someone who can move without being noticed." She crossed her arms, the towel slipping again. "I don’t work for you." "You never did." His gaze flicked to her wrist, to the scar. "But you used to." The words hit like a punch. She remembered the first time she’d met him—Eva dragging her into some back-alley bar in Soho, introducing her to a man with a smile like a blade and a reputation for trouble. She’d been twenty, stupid, desperate to prove she wasn’t just her father’s daughter, his disappointment in flesh and bone. And Lucien had looked at her like she was something worth stealing. Rory’s hands clenched. "I’m not that girl anymore." "No." His voice was low, almost a growl. "You’re not." She wanted to hate him. Wanted to turn away, to tell him to leave and never come back. But the ledger was still there, mocking her with its presence. Lucien exhaled, slow and controlled. "There’s a job. High-paying. Dangerous. And it’s the kind of thing you’d take if you weren’t so damn stubborn." Rory’s eyes narrowed. "You think you know me?" "I know you’d rather cut your own throat than ask for help." He stepped closer, close enough that she could smell the leather of his jacket, the faint scent of bergamot. "I know you’d rather burn the world down than let anyone see you bleed." She should’ve pushed him. Should’ve told him to get out, to never darken her door again. But the words stuck in her throat. Lucien’s hand hovered near her shoulder, not quite touching. "I need you, Aurora." The way he said her name—like it was a prayer. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the couch, his tail lashing. Lucien didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. Rory’s breath came faster. The towel was slipping. The ledger was still there. And Lucien was waiting. "Fine," she said. His eyebrows lifted. "Fine?" She crossed her arms, the towel finally securing itself. "I’ll look at the ledger. But that’s it." Lucien’s smirk returned, slow and dangerous. "That’s all I asked for." She knew better than to trust him. Knew better than to let him back into her life, into her flat, into her head. But the ledger was there. And Lucien was watching her like she was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. Rory reached for the book. Her fingers brushed the leather. The past was a knife at her throat. And Lucien was still standing there, waiting.