Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA0NVF7FV8X6271TCWW6WZ

The door creaked open before the deadbolt could even click free, the hinges protesting like an old man’s joints. A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain-slicked pavement and something sharper—winter spice, like cloves and burnt sugar. Rory froze, her fingers still wrapped around the handle, the scar on her wrist prickling under the weight of her own pulse. Then the light spilled. A figure stood there, backlit by the flickering neon of the curry house below, their silhouette sharp against the gloom. Tall. Too tall for this flat. Too polished. The cane in their hand looked like it belonged in a museum, not on Brick Lane. “You’re late,” Rory said, voice steadier than she felt. The figure stepped inside, the door swinging shut behind them with a finality that made her chest tighten. The cane clicked against the floorboards as they turned, the amber eye catching the lamplight first—then the black one, like a shadow given form. “Not by much,” Lucien said, his voice smooth as aged whiskey. “But then, you always were a stickler for punctuality.” Rory exhaled through her nose, fingers curling into the fabric of her coat. “What do you want?” Lucien’s lips quirked, just once, before he let the mask slip. “I want to talk.” “About?” “About the job.” She blinked. “The one you didn’t pay me for?” “Ah.” His cane tapped against the floor again, a rhythm that set her teeth on edge. “That. Well. Circumstances have… changed.” Rory crossed her arms, the movement instinctive, protective. “You mean someone else’s circumstances changed, and now they’re paying you to do my work?” Lucien’s gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then away. “Let’s just say I have a new client. One who’s… interested in your particular skills.” “My skills?” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “You mean my ability to get into places I shouldn’t? To lie to people who trust me? To—” “To think on your feet,” he finished, cutting her off. “Yes. That.” She swallowed. “Why me?” “Because you’re the only one who can do it.” The flat felt smaller suddenly, the walls pressing in. She knew that tone—Lucien’s voice when he was playing a game, when he was already three moves ahead. “You’re not here to help me, are you?” “No.” The word hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Rory’s fingers twitched at her sides. “Then what are you doing here?” Lucien stepped closer, the cane between them like a barrier she wasn’t sure she wanted to cross. “I’m here because I owe you an apology.” She should’ve laughed. Should’ve told him to leave. But the way he said it—like it cost him something—made her stomach twist. “For what?” she asked, voice quieter than she intended. “For not telling you the truth,” he said. “For leaving you with half of it.” Rory’s breath hitched. She knew that half. Knew the way he’d looked at her that night, the way his hands had trembled when he’d touched her. Knew the way he’d walked away like she was nothing more than a debt to be settled. “You had your reasons,” she said, but her voice cracked. Lucien’s gaze darkened. “I had excuses. There’s a difference.” She wanted to ask him what the other half was. Wanted to know why he’d come back now, after all this time. But the words stuck in her throat, thick and useless. Then Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome set to fury. He hissed, low and warning, his green eyes locked onto Lucien. Lucien didn’t flinch. “Hello, Ptolemy.” The cat’s fur bristled. “Get out,” Rory said, but it came out more like a plea. Lucien didn’t move. “He doesn’t like me.” “No shit.” “He doesn’t like many people.” She exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. “Just go.” Lucien’s lips curled, just slightly. “I can’t.” “Why the hell not?” “Because,” he said, stepping closer still, “I need you.” The flat seemed to hold its breath. The air between them crackled, charged with something she hadn’t felt in years—something dangerous, something alive. Rory’s pulse hammered in her ears. “You need me to do a job.” “Yes.” “And if I say no?” Lucien’s gaze dropped to her lips, then back to her eyes. “Then I’ll find someone else.” She should’ve told him to try. Should’ve told him to go to hell. But the truth was, she wanted to see him again. Wanted to know what had changed. Wanted to know if he still tasted like cloves and sin. “Fine,” she said, voice rough. “But I want double.” Lucien’s smile was slow, dangerous. “Done.” Ptolemy let out a final, disgruntled meow before flopping onto the couch, tail still twitching. Rory turned away, her hands clenched into fists at her sides. “Where’s the job?” Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor as he followed her into the kitchen. “Tomorrow night. Midnight. A place called *The Velvet Hour*.” “The club?” “Yes.” She paused, stirring the last of the tea in the pot. “Why me?” Lucien’s voice was low, almost a growl. “Because you’re the only one who can get in.” She turned, meeting his gaze. “And if I can’t?” “Then we both lose.” Rory’s breath hitched. She knew that look. Knew the way his eyes darkened when he was serious. Knew the way his voice dropped, low and dangerous. She wanted to ask him what would happen if she failed. But she already knew. She’d lose him again.