Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA2V6B4Z825N23GF9APM3X

The door swung open before the second knock even landed, as if Rory had been hovering just behind it, waiting. She stood there in the dim glow of the hallway light, her bright blue eyes wide, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the faint illumination like a sliver of moon. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. Then Lucien stepped forward, his polished black shoe scuffing against the threadbare rug. "Rory," he said, his voice smooth, almost amused, though his heterochromatic gaze—one amber, one black—burned with something sharper. "You always were quick to answer." She didn’t invite him in. Didn’t have to. He’d already crossed the threshold, his tailored charcoal suit brushing against the doorframe like a shadow given form. The scent of bergamot and something darker, something *demonic*, clung to him, the same way it always had. She should’ve slammed the door. Should’ve told him to leave, to go back to whatever corner of London he’d slithered out of this time. But her fingers curled around the edge of the frame instead, knuckles white. The flat was exactly as he remembered—cluttered, alive. Books stacked precariously on every surface, scrolls pinned to the walls with bent paper clips, the air thick with the scent of old paper and something faintly metallic, like the ghost of Eva’s incense. Ptolemy, the tabby, wound between his ankles with deliberate slowness, tail flicking. He didn’t even glance up. Rory exhaled through her nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. "You’re lucky he hasn’t clawed you yet." Lucien smirked, adjusting the grip on his cane. "I’ve survived worse." She should’ve lied. Should’ve said she didn’t know what he was talking about. But the words died in her throat because, of course, she did. She *always* knew. That was the problem. The silence stretched, thick and brittle, until she finally stepped aside, just enough for him to pass. "You’re not here for small talk." "No." His voice was a velvet rasp. "I’m not." The flat was small, but it had always felt bigger when she was alone. Now, with him filling the space—his presence like a physical weight—she could feel the walls pressing in. She moved to the kitchenette, where a chipped mug sat half-full of cold tea, and busied herself with rinsing it out. The tap squeaked. Lucien leaned against the doorframe, cane propped beside him, fingers tapping against the ivory handle. "You look well." She shot him a glance over her shoulder. "You look like you’ve been dragged through hell and back." His lips quirked. "Flatterer." She turned fully then, arms crossed. "What do you want, Lucien?" He pushed off the frame, stepping closer. Too close. The heat of him rolled off in waves, something primal and dangerous. "I need your help." Rory stiffened. "With what?" His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist—the one she’d gotten when she was sixteen, falling off the roof of her childhood home, trying to prove she wasn’t afraid of heights. He’d been there. Had caught her before she hit the ground. But he hadn’t stopped her from jumping in the first place. She yanked her hand back, hiding it behind her. "Don’t." Lucien didn’t flinch. "I’m not here to dredge up the past, Rory. Not tonight." "Not tonight?" She scoffed, turning away. "When, then? When it’s convenient?" The air between them crackled, charged with something she couldn’t name. Not anger. Not regret. Something older. Something that had always been there, simmering just beneath the surface. Lucien exhaled, slow and deliberate. "There’s a job. Dangerous. And I need someone who can think on their feet." She whirled back around. "You know I don’t do jobs." "Not anymore." His voice was low, almost a growl. "But you used to." She swallowed. Used to. Before Evan. Before the night she’d looked over her shoulder and seen Lucien’s face in the crowd, seen the way he’d *watched* her walk away. Seen the way he’d let her. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the counter, landing with a thud beside her. She grabbed his scruff, fingers tangling in his fur. "I don’t work for you anymore." Lucien’s jaw tightened. "You never did." The words hit like a blade. Because it was true. She’d never *worked* for him. Not really. She’d been his equal, his partner in the few months they’d spent tangled together—before he’d walked away, before she’d run. She set the cat down and turned her back on him, staring out the grimy window at the neon glow of Brick Lane. "What’s the job?" He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer. "A demon. Low-level, but dangerous. It’s been causing problems in the underworld. Stealing, killing. And it’s getting bolder." Rory’s fingers twitched. She missed the rush. Missed the *thrill* of it. But she also missed the way Lucien’s hands had felt on her skin, the way his voice had sounded when he was laughing, when he was *hers*. She didn’t turn around. "Why me?" "Because you’re the only one I trust." The words hung between them, heavy and true. And that was the problem. She *had* trusted him. Once. She finally looked at him, really looked. His platinum hair was slightly disheveled, like he’d been running his hands through it. His suit was immaculate, but his eyes—*god*, his eyes—were tired. "You’re lying." "No." She crossed her arms. "You don’t trust anyone." A muscle in his jaw flickered. "I trust you." The air left her lungs in a rush. She wanted to believe him. Wanted to throw herself into the work, into the danger, into *him*. But the scars—physical and otherwise—ran too deep. Ptolemy meowed, rubbing against her leg. She crouched, scratching behind his ears. "What’s the pay?" Lucien’s lips twitched. "You’ve always been practical." She glared up at him. "I have to be." He reached into his jacket, pulling out a small velvet pouch. The gold clinked as he tossed it onto the counter. "Enough to make it worth your time." She didn’t touch it. "And if I say no?" His gaze darkened. "Then I’ll find someone else." She stood slowly, meeting his stare. "You won’t." For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then, with a sharp exhale, she reached for the pouch. Her fingers brushed his as she took it, and the spark that arced between them was electric. Lucien didn’t pull away. "When?" She weighed the pouch in her hand, the gold heavy and real. "Tomorrow night. Midnight. The usual place." His eyes gleamed. "The usual place." She turned back to the window, but this time, she didn’t look out. She looked at the reflection of his face in the glass—sharp, beautiful, *hers*—and let herself remember. And for the first time in years, she let herself hope.