Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA4ME4PRP13KDQWNXJJMM3

The door creaked open before Rory could even reach for the deadbolt, the hinges protesting like old bones. She froze, her fingers hovering over the lock, the scent of rain and something sharper—like ozone after a storm—filling the hallway before she could turn. Lucien stood there, his cane tapping once against the linoleum, the ivory handle catching the dim light from the streetlamp outside. His platinum blond hair was still slicked back, but the charcoal suit looked rumpled, the lapels slightly askew. One amber eye flicked toward her, the other black, unreadable. "You’re not supposed to be here," Rory said, her voice steadier than she felt. Lucien didn’t move. "I know." The words hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Rory exhaled through her nose, her pulse hammering in her throat. She should’ve locked the door. Should’ve known better than to leave it ajar, even for a second. But the flat had been quiet—too quiet—and she’d been half-asleep, the weight of the day pressing down on her like a wet blanket. Lucien stepped inside, his boots scuffing against the worn carpet. "You look tired." Rory crossed her arms, her knuckles brushing the scar on her wrist. "And you look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge backward." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Flattery won’t get you in here." "Try it again." He didn’t. Instead, his gaze dropped to the stack of unopened takeout containers on the kitchen counter, the scent of garlic and soy sauce thick in the air. "Still working for the Golden Empress?" "Still surviving," she corrected, though the word tasted bitter. She turned, grabbing a mug from the sink and filling it with water from the tap. The faucet dripped loudly, the sound filling the silence between them. Lucien watched her, his expression unreadable. "You left without saying goodbye." Rory didn’t look at him. "I didn’t owe you one." "No," he agreed, his voice low. "You didn’t." She set the mug down with a sharp clink, the sound echoing in the small space. "What do you want, Lucien?" His cane tapped again, once, twice. "I need your help." That got her attention. She turned, leaning against the counter. "With what?" "Something that requires… discretion." Rory raised an eyebrow. "You mean something that requires me to get involved in something I don’t want to be involved in?" Lucien’s lips twitched. "Something like that." She pushed off the counter, crossing her arms again. "Why me?" "Because you’re good at this," he said, gesturing vaguely at the flat, the books piled on the coffee table, the half-finished research notes scattered across the desk. "Because you don’t ask questions you don’t need to ask. And because you’re the only one I trust not to blab." Rory scoffed. "That’s a low bar." "Is it?" he countered. "Or is it just honest?" She opened her mouth, then closed it. The truth was, she didn’t know. She didn’t know why she’d let him in, why she wasn’t slamming the door in his face. Maybe it was the way his voice had dropped, rougher than usual, like he was already tired. Maybe it was the way his cane had rested against his thigh, the blade hidden beneath the ivory handle glinting in the dim light. Or maybe it was just the way he’d looked at her when she’d first opened the door—like he’d been waiting for her to do exactly that. Rory exhaled sharply, rubbing her temples. "Fine. What’s the job?" Lucien’s gaze flicked to her wrist, the scar she’d tried so hard to hide. "I need you to find something for me." She followed his gaze, her fingers twitching. "What?" "A person." Rory’s breath hitched. "Who?" Lucien hesitated, then reached into his jacket, pulling out a folded piece of paper. He unfolded it slowly, revealing a single name scrawled in ink: *Evan Carter.* Rory’s stomach dropped. She didn’t need to ask who it was. She knew. She’d known the moment he’d said *person.* Her fingers curled into fists. "You’re joking." Lucien’s expression didn’t change. "I’m not." Rory’s laugh was sharp, bitter. "You want me to find my ex?" "Your *ex*," Lucien corrected, his voice smooth. "Yes." She turned away, her back to him, her pulse roaring in her ears. "Why?" "Because he’s in trouble." Rory whirled back around. "And you think I care?" Lucien’s cane tapped once against the floor. "I think you might." She wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that she didn’t give a damn what happened to Evan Carter. But the words stuck in her throat, because she knew he was right. She did care. She’d cared once. And maybe, just maybe, she still did. Rory clenched her jaw, her fingers digging into her palms. "What kind of trouble?" Lucien’s gaze darkened. "The kind that gets people killed." Rory’s breath caught. She knew that kind of trouble. She’d seen it before. And she’d been right in the middle of it. She exhaled sharply, her voice steady despite the storm raging inside her. "When do I start?" Lucien’s lips curled into a smile, slow and dangerous. "Now." Rory didn’t wait for him to finish speaking. She grabbed her jacket from the hook by the door, pulling it on without looking back. The fabric brushed against her scarred wrist, the sensation grounding her. Lucien followed her out, his cane tapping against the stairs as they descended. The night air hit her face, cool and sharp, the sounds of the city fading into the background as she turned to him. "One condition," she said, her voice low. Lucien raised an eyebrow. "And what’s that?" She met his gaze, her own unflinching. "No more secrets." Lucien’s smile widened, just slightly. "Deal." Rory didn’t wait for him to say anything else. She turned and walked away, her boots echoing against the pavement as she disappeared into the night.