Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA1CK7VHZQ30KDGWJ36T5E

The hallway reeked of simmering spices and stale beer—the usual aroma clinging to the building. Rory squinted, fumbling with her keys. Another late shift. Another mountain of orders to navigate through London’s snarling traffic. She finally got the lock to click and shoved the door open, expecting the familiar chaos of her flat. Instead, Lucien Moreau leaned against the doorframe, a silhouette framed by the dim light of the stairwell. He looked impeccably out of place amongst the peeling wallpaper and mismatched furniture. A tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, the platinum blond hair slicked back flawlessly. He radiated an unsettling calm. He didn't smile. Didn't offer a greeting. Just watched her, those unsettlingly mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—pinned on her. Rory’s hand froze on the doorknob. “Lucien? What…what are you doing here?” “Surprising you, I trust,” he replied, his voice smooth, laced with a faint French accent. He pushed off the doorframe, stepping inside without invitation. The scent of his cologne—expensive, unfamiliar—cut through the curry and beer. She closed the door, a futile gesture. “You could have called.” “Where’s the fun in that?” He surveyed the flat, his gaze lingering on the overflowing bookshelves, the chipped mugs on the counter. “Still living amongst the detritus of academia, I see.” “It’s called ‘organized chaos’,” Rory retorted, crossing her arms. “And you’re trespassing.” “I’m merely visiting an old friend. Haven't I earned that much?” He moved further into the flat, ignoring her pointed glare. A wave of memories crashed over her—late nights in dimly lit bars, whispered conversations about secrets neither of them fully understood, the electric charge that crackled between them. And the fallout. The sharp, painful end. “It’s been… a while, Lucien,” she said, her voice quieter this time. “Indeed. Three years, seven months, and eleven days, to be precise.” He didn’t look at her when he recited the time. Instead, he picked up a small, tarnished silver paperweight from her desk, turning it over in his fingers. “You still collect these, I see. Odd little trinkets.” “They’re interesting.” Rory tried to project an air of indifference, but her pulse hammered against her ribs. He finally looked up, his eyes meeting hers. “Interesting. Like you?” The question hung in the air, heavy and charged. Rory swallowed, refusing to be drawn into his game. “What do you want, Lucien?” “Direct as always, Rory. Refreshing.” He placed the paperweight back on the desk with a quiet click. "I require a…favor.” “A favor? From me? After everything?” She laughed, a short, brittle sound. “That's rich.” “Circumstances have changed.” His expression didn’t alter, but something in his voice shifted—a subtle hardness that made her skin crawl. “Let’s just say…someone needs your particular skillset.” "My skillset? You mean delivering Thai food?" Rory gestured around the small, cluttered flat. “Last I checked, pad see ew wasn’t exactly a sought-after commodity in the supernatural underworld.” He ignored her sarcasm. "Your quick thinking. Your ability to adapt. And, of course, your… tenacity." His gaze traveled down her arm, pausing on the small, crescent-shaped scar on her wrist—a relic from a childhood accident, a detail he remembered with unsettling clarity. Rory instinctively pulled her arm back. “Don’t.” “Don't what?” He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of amusement in his amber eye. “Don’t pretend you care about my ‘tenacity’ or anything else. You left, Lucien. You disappeared. You didn’t even offer an explanation.” Her voice shook, despite her best efforts to control it. “Explanations are often superfluous,” he said smoothly. “And rarely satisfying.” “That’s convenient, isn’t it? Just walk away and leave me to pick up the pieces.” He finally stepped closer, closing the distance between them. Rory felt a familiar heat rise in her cheeks, an unwelcome reaction to his proximity. “Don’t mistake my silence for indifference, Rory. It was a necessity. A…protection.” “Protection? From what? From me?” “From forces you couldn’t possibly comprehend,” he said quietly, his voice losing some of its usual polish. "Forces that would have consumed you." Her defenses crumbled slightly. She knew he wasn't entirely lying. She’d glimpsed snippets of his world—a world of shadows, ancient grudges, and dangerous power. A world she'd desperately tried to escape. “And now?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “What’s changed that suddenly makes me useful?” “There’s a… disturbance. A ripple in the veil. Something is stirring in Avaros.” He paused, his expression darkening. “And it concerns you.” “Avaros? Your home?” Rory knew enough about demonology to understand the implications; Avaros was a volatile realm, a source of immense power and unimaginable corruption. “Why would it concern me?" “Your mother.” His words hit her like a physical blow. Rory stared at him, her mind reeling. Her mother? Jennifer Carter, a Welsh schoolteacher with a penchant for gardening and a deep suspicion of anything remotely unusual? “My mother has nothing to do with any of this,” she protested, but the denial lacked conviction. Rory had always sensed a hidden depth to her mother, a quiet strength that belied the ordinary facade. “Don't be so sure.” Lucien turned away, walking towards the window and gazing out at the bustling street below. "She possesses something... a lineage. An inheritance. Something that someone in Avaros very much wants back." He paused, then added, almost casually, “They believe you hold the key.” Rory felt a chill run down her spine. “And you need me to… what? Stop them?” Lucien finally turned back to her, his mismatched eyes serious. “I need you to find out who they are. What they want. And why they believe you can help them.” "And what's in it for you?" Lucien smirked. "Let's just say I have…investments in maintaining the equilibrium between our worlds." He paused. "Besides, a little bit of familial loyalty. It goes a long way." A tabby cat, Ptolemy, emerged from beneath a pile of books, winding around Lucien’s legs. He absentmindedly stroked the cat’s fur. "You expect me to trust you, after you left me? To walk into this mess—this whole *world*—because my mother has some ‘inheritance’?" Rory asked, frustration rising in her voice. "I am offering you an opportunity, Rory." Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers. “An opportunity to understand the past. To protect your future. And perhaps...to finally settle what was left unfinished.” The air in the flat thickened with unspoken words, with the weight of their shared history. Rory looked at him, really looked at him, past the expensive suit and the practiced charm. She saw the weariness in his eyes, the burden he carried. And something else—a flicker of something that might, perhaps, have once been genuine affection. She hesitated. Everything in her screamed at her to refuse. To slam the door in his face and forget he ever appeared. But a part of her—a stubborn, reckless part—was intrigued. And terrified. "What kind of 'ripple' are we talking about?" Rory asked, walking past him towards the kettle. "And why didn't you tell me about this before?"