Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY978WG10Q84DQT4Y364KE9

The brass doorknob jiggled, not the usual rhythm. Eva’s key was a dull thud; this was a slow, deliberate pressure, like a finger tracing a scar. Rory’s hand went to the utility knife in her apron pocket before she paused. Not a solicitor. Not a cop. She turned the lock, the deadbolts clicking, and pulled the door open. James stood there. Platinum hair, slimmer than she remembered, but the tailored charcoal suit still hung like a second skin. His cane leaned against his calf, ivory handle scuffed. One eye was amber, the other black. Wait—no. James had hazel eyes. It was—Lucien? But Lucien wouldn’t knock like this. Rory blinked. No, taller. “Lucas,” she said, because that was his name, wasn’t it? The one who left without a word, three years ago. “What are you doing here?” He shifted the cane, causing a faint *clink*—blade, maybe, though he never carried it unless the job called. His thumb rubbed the handle like he was nervous. “Delivery,” he said. The words hung, dry as old parchment. “From the office.” Rory stepped back. The flat’s narrow hallway swallowed him, walls lined with Eva’s research: loose pages with symbols, a magnifying glass half-buried in a pile of books. Ptolemy’s bowl sat by the door, the tabby’s tail twitching. She closed the door, the deadbolts sliding back into place with a *click*. “You could’ve sent a message. I don’t—” “Eva’s not answering,” he said. “Phone’s been dead for a week. I saw your name in the directory. Above the bar. Silas said you’d moved back.” “Moved back?” Rory laughed, sharp. “I never left. Just… closed the door.” He nodded, like he knew the silence between them wasn’t about the address. They’d talked for hours on the phone once, after he’d ghosted. *I’m sorry*, he said. *I have to go*. *Why*? she asked. *Is it someone else?* *No*, he said. *Not like you*. Then the line went dead. Now he stared at the wall, at a water stain shaped like a bird. “My daughter’s sick,” he said, finally. Rory’s throat tightened. Lucas had a six-year-old, Lila. He’d brought her to a pub night once; she’d had his amber eye, and Rory had spent an hour teaching her to count to ten. “What’s wrong with her?” “Demons,” he said. The word hung. “Avaros. They’re… taken her. Not like a kidnapping. Like their air. She breathes it, and she fades.” Rory stepped closer. The flat smelled like takeaway—Golden Empress, Yu-Fei’s signature garlic and ginger—from the night before. “You need help,” she said. It wasn’t a question. He turned, and for a second, she saw the boy she’d fallen for: wide-eyed, a poet, scribbling sonnets in a notebook instead of doing law school papers. But the lines around his mouth had deepened, and his left hand, the one that used to trace the scar on her wrist, twitched. “I need you. Only you.” The scar. It was a crescent, from a kitchen knife when she was eight, Evan’s birthday. Lucas had held her, pressed a cloth to it, and said, *Marks are maps. They show where we’ve been*. Evan had hated it. *Ugly*, he said, and Rory had let him carve at it once, trying to make it go away. Lucas had found her crying, held her, and said, *It’s beautiful. Proof you fought*. “You have Lucien,” she said. “He’s a fixer. He knows the underworld.” Lucas’s laugh was bitter. “He’s Avaros, too. Half-demon. His father’s from that realm. He’ll kill me before he helps.” Rory’s chest ached. She knew Lucien—briefly, at the bar. He’d ordered a black coffee, watched her carry a tray of curry, and said, *You’re running from something, darling*. She’d laughed and said, *You’re a clairvoyant?* But he’d been right. She was always running—from Evan, from the life she’d been forced to build, from the man who’d taught her how to stop. He took a step toward her, the cane scraping the floor. “I can’t lose her. Not again. She doesn’t remember me half the time. Just… *warmth*.” Rory closed her eyes. She saw Lila, chubby cheeks, smearing jam on a biscuit. *Aunt Rory*, she’d said, before Lucas left. *Stay*. And Rory had stayed, because Lucas said, *She needs you more than I do*. And Rory had loved her, fiercely, because Lucas loved her. “I need to see her,” she said. He exhaled, a sound like a door creaking open. “In two hours. The hospital on Endsleigh. Room 307.” Rory nodded. She turned to the kitchen, to the backpack she’d left on the table, stuffed with research: bindings for demon wards, old grimoires, a list of Avaros sigils Eva had copied. Lucas followed, his boots silent. “You’ll come?” he said. She looked at her hands, at the scar, fading now, but still there. “I have to,” she said. “Because you’re an idiot, and you forgot how to ask for help.” He smiled, and for the first time in three years, it reached his eyes. “Only you’d call me that.” Ptolemy jumped onto the counter, eyeing Lucas like he was a new mouse. He knelt, held out his hand, and the cat rubbed against his fingers. “You’re a good man,” Rory said. He stood, his shoulder brushing hers. “You’re a better one.” The flat felt smaller, suddenly, the books leaning in like listeners. Outside, a taxi horn blared, and Rory heard the clatter of Yu-Fei’s kitchen below. Lucas picked up his cane, paused at the door. “Thank you,” he said. “For not hating me.” Rory touched her wrist. “I could never hate the boy who taught me to count scars.” He opened the door, and the cold night air hit him. “I’ll see you at 3.” The door closed. Ptolemy yowled, jumping down. Rory stared at the handle, at the faint indent where his palm had been. She heard her own heartbeat, loud in her ears. Thirty minutes later, she was packing the backpack, shoving in the grimoire, the binding instructions, a roll of salt. The salt wasn’t for Avaros. It was for Evan. She hadn’t thought of him in months, but tonight, his voice—*Ugly. I’ll make it uglier*—echoed in her head. She wrapped a towel around the salt, tucking it into the backpack. Downstairs, Silas was polishing mugs behind the bar. “Rory Carter,” he said, grinning. “Thought you’d gone back to Cardiff.” “Visited,” she said. “Heard you were keeping the place.” “Couldn’t let Yu-Fei take it over,” he said. “She’d put in a kebab machine.” Rory laughed. She pulled a ten-pound note from her pocket, set it on the bar. “Got a delivery for Lucas Moreau. Endsleigh Hospital, Room 307. Tell the taxi to put it in the lobby.” Silas raised an eyebrow. “You know him?” “Used to,” she said. “Now I need to.” She walked out, the night air cool on her face. The taxi was waiting, its meter ticking. She climbed in, the backpack beside her. The driver turned, checking the address. “Night shift?” he said. “Something like that,” Rory said. The car pulled away, and she looked out the window, at the lights of London streaming past. The scar on her wrist tingled. It had never hurt this much, not since Evan. But this time, it wasn’t pain. It was a reminder. *You’ve built a life*, it said. *Now go fix it*. She closed her eyes, and for the first time in a long while, she didn’t feel like running. She felt like fighting.