Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9SP79KDWGT0D8P0M8G4HB

The hallway smelled of curry and stale beer. Rory didn’t bother locking the door, just pulled it open a crack, peering out. Rain plastered her hair to her forehead. She expected Yu-Fei to be hounding her about a late delivery. Instead, Lucien Moreau stood there, impossibly dry, framed by the dim light of the stairwell. He hadn't changed. The platinum blond hair was slicked back, the charcoal suit impeccable. His eyes, one amber, one black, fixed on her with an intensity that made her stomach clench. “Lucien,” she said, the word escaping before she could stop it. Years seemed to dissolve in the space between them. His lips curved into a slow smile. “Aurora. Fancy meeting you here.” He tilted his head, an elegant gesture that infuriated her. “What are you doing here?” Rory pushed the door wider, attempting a casualness she didn’t feel. “This isn’t exactly a social call.” “I require your assistance.” He stepped inside, ignoring the invitation, the scent of expensive cologne filling the small space. “And I thought a face-to-face meeting would be more…efficient.” Rory bristled. Efficient. That was always Lucien’s word for everything that involved her. He moved with unnerving grace, his gaze sweeping the flat, lingering on the stacks of books threatening to topple from every surface. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, arched his back, hissing from his perch on a particularly precarious pile of scrolls. “I’m a delivery person, Lucien,” she said, trying to inject a note of dismissiveness into her voice. “I deliver General Tso’s Chicken. I don’t ‘assist’ anyone, especially not you.” “A remarkably versatile skillset,” Lucien replied, his voice smooth as silk. He stopped near the worn armchair, the ivory handle of his cane glinting in the weak light. “But I’m confident you'll find this request… compelling.” Rory crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Compelling how?” “It concerns a certain artifact.” He paused, his gaze locking with hers. “One you might recognize.” Her blood ran cold. “What artifact?” The question felt thin, inadequate against the weight of the memories he evoked. Lucien didn't answer immediately. He simply studied her, his expression unreadable. “Let’s just say it involves a rather unfortunate incident in Marseille. Several years ago.” Marseille. The word tasted like ash in her mouth. A humid night, a crowded market, a thrill she’d mistaken for freedom. And Lucien, always just out of reach, a dangerous dance of desire and deception. She shuddered, pushing the memory down. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rory pulled away from the doorframe, needing distance. “Don’t play coy, Aurora. It doesn’t suit you.” Lucien’s smile widened, sharper now. “The Serpent’s Eye has resurfaced. And I believe you have a connection to it.” The Serpent’s Eye. A cursed amulet, rumored to grant the wearer immense power, but at a terrible cost. She'd heard whispers about it back then, dismissed them as folklore. Now, standing here with Lucien, the stories seemed terrifyingly real. “I told you,” Rory repeated, her voice tighter, “I don’t know anything about any artifact.” “You helped retrieve it,” Lucien countered, his voice low. “You were quite instrumental, in fact. A rather impressive display of resourcefulness, if I recall correctly.” Rory squeezed her eyes shut, fighting the onslaught of images, the heat of the Mediterranean sun, the intoxicating scent of spices, Lucien’s hand brushing against hers as they navigated the labyrinthine market stalls. She’d been young, reckless, desperate to escape the stifling predictability of her life. “That was years ago,” she managed, her voice barely a whisper. “I was…different then.” “People rarely change entirely, Aurora,” Lucien said softly. He tilted his head again, studying her with unnerving intensity. “Certain tendencies remain. Certain skills persist.” He took a step closer, and Ptolemy let out a furious yowl, leaping from the armchair and launching himself at Lucien’s ankles. Lucien, with a casual flick of his wrist, deflected the cat with his cane, barely registering the feline assault. “Don’t change the subject,” Rory snapped, scooping Ptolemy into her arms. “I’m not doing anything for you. Now, leave.” Lucien’s smile faded, replaced by an expression that was difficult to decipher. It wasn't anger; it was something colder, more unsettling. “You misunderstand, Aurora,” he said smoothly. “I’m not asking. I’m informing you.” He paused, letting the words hang in the air. “The artifact is dangerous. It requires specific handling. And you, it seems, are the only one who possesses the necessary…expertise.” “And if I refuse?” Lucien shrugged, a gesture of careless indifference. “Then I’m afraid there will be consequences. For you. For your friends.” His gaze flicked to a framed photograph on the mantelpiece – Rory, Eva, and a younger, less guarded version of herself. The threat was clear, unspoken but undeniable. Rory's hand tightened on Ptolemy, the cat’s fur digging into her skin. “Don’t threaten me,” she said, her voice low and dangerous. “I prefer to call it…persuasion.” Lucien’s eyes gleamed with an unsettling amusement. "Consider this a professional courtesy, Aurora. Considering our history." He hadn't mentioned it directly, but the subtext was deafening. The history of stolen glances, whispered promises, and a night she’d tried to forget. She felt a familiar ache in her chest, a painful awareness of the connection that still lingered between them, despite everything. “What do you want me to do?” Rory asked, the words tasting like defeat. Lucien’s smile returned, a predatory curve of his lips. “First, you’ll tell me everything you remember about the Serpent’s Eye. Every detail, no matter how insignificant it may seem.” He paused, his eyes fixed on a small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. “And then, we’ll discuss the next steps.” He moved closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur. “It seems our paths have crossed again, Aurora. Perhaps this time, we can reach a more…satisfactory resolution.” Rory stared at him, a whirlwind of emotions churning within her. Resentment, fear, and a treacherous flicker of something that felt dangerously like attraction. She hated him. She should hate him. But despite everything, despite the hurt and the betrayal, a part of her still recognized the allure, the dark charisma that had drawn her in years ago. She looked down at Ptolemy, nestled securely in her arms, his purrs a comforting rumble against her chest. Eva was upstairs, likely immersed in her research, oblivious to the storm brewing downstairs. Rory had to protect them. She had to play along, at least for now. “Alright,” she said, the word heavy with reluctance. “I’ll tell you what I remember.” Lucien inclined his head. “Excellent. Perhaps this won’t be so tedious after all.” He glanced around the cluttered flat, a hint of something akin to anticipation in his eyes. "Shall we begin with Marseille?"