Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY952GTM19H3AFQRSS026WB

The rain hammered against the corrugated iron roof of Silas’ bar, a relentless, drumming rhythm that usually soothed Rory. Tonight, it just amplified the thud in her chest. A hesitant knock vibrated through the cheap wood. She hadn’t expected anyone. Not after the way things ended with Lucien Moreau. She opened the door. He stood there, leaning against the frame, a tailored charcoal suit clinging to him despite the humidity. The rain plastered his platinum blond hair to his forehead, highlighting the disconcerting, mismatched colours of his eyes – amber and black swirling like oil. Lucien Moreau. A ghost she’d deliberately avoided for nearly two years. “You’re late,” she stated, already stepping back to let him in. The space above Silas’ bar was predictably chaotic: overflowing ashtrays, half-empty bottles of whiskey, and the lingering scent of stale beer and regret. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, regarded him with cautious disinterest from his perch atop a precarious stack of vinyl records. “Time is a fluid concept when dealing with certain… clientele,” he replied, his voice a smooth, accented baritone. He didn’t step inside immediately. Instead, he surveyed the flat with a detached, almost clinical, gaze. “It’s…smaller than I remember.” “It’s the price of living above a curry house,” Rory said, gesturing vaguely at the window overlooking Brick Lane. The neon glow of the Golden Empress restaurant bled through the rain-streaked glass. “You haven’t changed much,” he observed, his gaze lingering on her black hair, now pulled back into a messy braid. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist was still there, a pale, subtle reminder of a past she’d tried to bury. “Neither have you,” she countered, crossing her arms. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken history. He finally stepped inside, his movements precise, economical. He didn’t offer to take her coat. Didn’t even glance at Ptolemy. He moved directly to the small, scarred table by the window, pulling up a chair with a deliberate scrape. “I needed to see you,” he said, his voice low. “Is this about the package?” she asked, the words clipped and guarded. The package had been an assignment – a retrieval job that had brought him, and a fresh wave of uncomfortable memories, crashing back into her life. He didn’t immediately answer. He took a slow sip of something from a small, crystal tumbler. “It’s…complicated.” “Everything with you is complicated,” Rory retorted, turning to stare out at the rain. The city lights blurred into hazy streaks. “That’s a remarkably reductive assessment, considering the circumstances,” he said, his tone laced with a hint of amusement. “The circumstances being you vanishing without a word, leaving me to pick up the pieces after…after Evan,” she said, her voice tight. The name tasted like ash in her mouth. “I knew what I was doing,” he stated, his amber eye hardening. “It wasn't a decision I made lightly.” “Right,” she said, a sardonic smile twisting her lips. “Because running off to Marseille to spend time with a demon father is *totally* a rational response to a messy breakup.” He finally met her gaze, and the effect was disorienting. There was a depth in those mismatched eyes, a flicker of something she couldn’t quite decipher – regret? Perhaps something darker. “My father needs my assistance. Avaros isn’t exactly a welcoming place for half-breeds.” “And I suppose you felt a sudden urge to be a good son?” “It’s not about obligation,” he said, his voice gaining intensity. “It’s about… survival. And perhaps, a little bit of wanting to understand.” Rory shifted uncomfortably. Understanding was a luxury she couldn’t afford. “Don’t. Just don’t.” He ignored her, reaching into his inner pocket and producing a small, intricately carved wooden box. He placed it on the table between them. The wood was dark, polished to a sheen, and felt strangely warm to the touch. “This was part of the package. Untouched.” She cautiously examined the box. It contained a single, iridescent raven’s feather. “What does it mean?” “It signifies a shift in allegiance,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “The sender wants someone else to take over the job. Someone… more discreet.” “And you think I'm discreet?" “You’re resourceful. Quick. You don’t announce your intentions. You simply *do*.” Rory considered him, weighing his words, assessing his motives. There was a desperation in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before, a vulnerability beneath the carefully constructed facade of the aloof, impeccably dressed fixer. “Why now?” she asked, her voice quieter. He hesitated, his gaze flicking to the rain-streaked window, then back to her. “Because I realized I was running away. From you. From everything.” The admission hung in the air, a fragile, tentative thing. Rory felt a strange pull, a knot of conflicting emotions tightening in her stomach. The hurt, the anger, the frustration – they were still there, a familiar ache. But beneath it all, something else stirred. A flicker of the attraction they’d both tried so desperately to extinguish. “It’s been two years, Lucien,” she said, her voice laced with a bitterness she didn’t entirely feel. “A lot of things have happened.” “Some things never change,” he countered, his voice soft, almost pleading. He rose from the chair and moved towards her, his movements fluid, graceful. She instinctively stepped back, but he stopped a few feet away, his hand reaching out to gently brush a stray strand of hair from her face. The touch sent a jolt through her, a sudden, unexpected surge of heat. She stared into his heterochromatic eyes, searching for an answer, a hint of the man she’d once known, the man who had captivated her with his intelligence, his charm, and the unsettling darkness that lay beneath the surface. “You’re still a mess,” she said, her voice strained, a defense mechanism she’d perfected over the years. A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Perhaps. But a mess you still find intriguing.” He leaned closer, his breath ghosting across her cheek. The rain continued to fall, drumming a steady rhythm against the roof, a counterpoint to the quiet intensity of the moment between them. The scent of rain and something else – something faintly metallic and vaguely demonic – filled the small flat. “The package is yours," he murmured, his voice a low rumble. “But I think you deserve a little something more.” He tilted his head, and for a fleeting second, Rory saw a glimpse of the boy she’d fallen for – a boy driven by a reckless curiosity, a thirst for adventure, and a devastatingly charming smile. Then, he straightened, the enigmatic mask sliding back into place. “Consider it collateral.”