Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA7C5549Q9NB557EMHRC6S

Rory fumbled with the third deadbolt’s brass latch, her left wrist’s crescent scar catching the dim curry-house glow seeping through Eva’s flat window. She’d been hunched over a tattered scroll mapping Avarosian demon portals for an hour, her straight black hair falling in a curtain over her bright blue eyes, when the sharp rap on the door jolted her. The latch clicked free after a second of jiggling—Eva’s deadbolts jammed with even the faintest rain, a quirk Rory had memorized after a dozen late-night crashes. She yanked the door open, a half-unrolled scroll crumpling in her right hand. Lucien stood on the step. His tailored charcoal suit fit him like a second skin, the fabric catching the streetlamp’s yellow haze so that every stitch looked intentional. His platinum blond hair was slicked back, no strand out of place, a habit he’d picked up to hide the faint Avarosian horn nubs that sometimes protruded when he was stressed. His ivory-handled cane tapped the concrete once, a quiet warning she recognized from old missions—he only did that when he thought danger lurked nearby. One amber eye locked on hers; the black one glinted, a faint flicker of the Avarosian blood thrumming in his veins that he usually hid with contact lenses (but he’d foregone them today, a sign he was being unguarded). She let the scroll drop. It unfurled across the doorframe’s scuffed wood, its inked runes smudging slightly against the curry-house’s sticky air—cardamom and burnt naan clinging to every breath she took. Ptolemy’s tabby form launched from the windowsill, where he’d been napping on a stack of Eva’s research notes about Avarosian enforcers. He landed on a taller stack of leather-bound books, sending two clattering to the floor (their pages fluttering to reveal sketches of demon claws), and hissed—a sharp, guttural sound that cut through the distant clink of curry-house cutlery and the laughter of a group of patrons below. You forgot the deadbolts jam in the rain. Rory’s fingers curled around the doorframe until her knuckles turned white. She’d not heard that lilt of Marseille in months, the accent he only let slip when he was off-guard or afraid—like the night they’d hidden in a London alley after a demon chase, sharing a stolen kebab and watching the stars. She tugged her wrist back, hiding the scar behind the door’s edge, as if he could read her childhood trauma in its crescent curve. I didn’t forget. I checked them twice before you banged. Lucien’s thumb brushed the cane’s ivory handle, a nervous tic she’d never seen him display before. He shifted his weight, his suit’s shoulder pad catching a gust of wind that carried the scent of cardamom and burnt naan up the steps, and his black eye flickered again—this time, a sign of irritation, not Avarosian power. I need to talk. The flat’s cramped air pressed in. Every surface behind her was stacked with Eva’s research: scrolls on demon summoning tied with frayed string, books on Avarosian hierarchy with cracked spines, loose papers scrawled with Eva’s messy handwriting (she’d been working on a theory that Avarosian enforcers tracked humans via their daily routines). She’d come here that morning to help Eva cross-reference portal locations with her Golden Empress delivery routes, but now the room felt like a trap, full of reminders of the mission where he’d left her. No. She moved to slam the door, but his cane shot out. Its tip slid between the door and the frame, stopping her cold. She knew the thin blade hid inside; she’d seen him use it to cut through a demon’s tentacle once, his movements precise, unforgiving, as he’d pulled her out of the creature’s grasp. You’re in danger. The enforcers from Avaros tracked your delivery route last week. They followed you to Silas’ bar, then to the Golden Empress, then here. Rory’s breath caught. She’d noticed a shadow following her on her runs— a tall figure in a black coat, always lingering by the curry house’s entrance—but she’d brushed it off as a random thief targeting delivery workers. She stepped back, the door creaking open a fraction more, and her boot kicked a loose scroll. It skittered across the floor, landing at Ptolemy’s paws. He batted it once, then curled up on top of it, his purr a quiet counterpoint to the tension in the room. You left me to face enforcers alone six months ago. Why do you care now? Lucien’s amber eye softened. He pushed the door open further, his cane retracting slightly, and stepped over the unfurled scroll. He didn’t touch anything—didn’t brush the books, didn’t glance at the research notes—like he was scared to taint the space with his presence, scared to remind her of the night he’d vanished without a word. I had a contract. Avarosian nobles forced me to leave. They kidnapped my human mother from her Marseille flat, threatened to send her to Avaros if I didn’t abandon the mission and complete a secret task for them. I couldn’t tell you; they would have killed Eva, too—they knew she was your closest friend, your weak spot. Rory’s bright blue eyes narrowed. She’d spent six months replaying that night: she’d been pinned under a demon’s claw, her left wrist scraping against a brick wall (the childhood scar throbbing so badly she’d thought she’d pass out), yelling for him, and he’d vanished. No note, no warning, just his cane’s faint tap fading into the dark. She’d walked back to Silas’ bar alone, her clothes torn, her hands shaking, and had lied to Eva about what happened. You could have sent a message. A single rune, a word with Silas. Anything. She turned away, her straight black hair swinging over her shoulder, and knelt to pick up the two books Ptolemy had knocked over. Their faded spines read *Avarosian Enforcer Hierarchy* and *Demon Summoning for Beginners*, and she brushed dust off them before stacking them back on the pile. Ptolemy stood, stretched, and rubbed against her leg—his purr a quiet comfort she’d come to rely on when things felt too heavy. I tried. The enforcers were watching Silas’ bar 24/7. They intercepted every note I sent, every rune I scrawled on a wall. I had to lay low in a safe house in Kent for three months, then work the contract for another three. I didn’t sleep for weeks, worrying you’d get caught by the enforcers I left you to face. Lucien’s voice dropped. He moved closer, his suit’s fabric brushing a stack of scrolls, and his black eye flickered—this time, a sign of guilt. She could hear the truth in his words, the tremor he tried to hide, and her anger softened a fraction. I’m here now. I can fix this. I can get the enforcers off your back. Rory stood. She turned to face him, and her elbow knocked a stack of research notes. They toppled over, sending loose papers fluttering across the floor—each one scrawled with Eva’s sketches of demon portals, each one a reminder of the things they’d left unsaid. She watched them fall, and she thought about the night in the alley, the way he’d pulled her out of the demon’s grasp, the way he’d leaned in so close she could feel his breath on her cheek, the way he’d stopped at the last second and said he couldn’t risk hurting her. You can’t fix what you broke. Rory’s voice cracked. She’d not let herself cry about him since he left, but now the tears pricked the corners of her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, her fingers brushing her black hair, and she could feel the scar on her wrist throbbing again. I have proof. Lucien pulled a small scroll from his suit’s inner pocket. He unrolled it, revealing a signed contract from the Avarosian nobles—their seal stamped in red wax (a circular mark with a demon’s head in the center), their handwriting scrawled across the paper in a language she didn’t recognize (but she’d seen it on the demon that had pinned her). The scroll had a translation scribbled in the margin in his neat handwriting: he’d been forced to leave her to retrieve a stolen artifact from a London museum, and he could return only when the enforcers were distracted by the artifact’s recovery. I stole it from their safe last night. I had to fight three enforcers to get it. It’s proof I didn’t abandon you by choice. Rory stepped closer. She leaned in to look at the scroll, and her shoulder brushed his. The scent of his suit’s lavender detergent mixed with the curry-house’s cardamom, a familiar combination that made her heart race faster than it had during the demon chase six months ago. She pointed to the seal—she’d seen it on the demon’s chest, a bright red mark that had glowed when it attacked her. That’s their seal. I saw it on the demon that pinned me. Lucien nodded. He rolled the scroll back up, tucking it into his suit pocket, and his cane tapped the floor once, a quiet affirmation that he was telling the truth. I can take you to a safe house in the countryside. It’s hidden from Avarosian enforcers, has a portal to a neutral realm if we need to flee. I’ve already packed supplies—your favorite tea from the Golden Empress, the book on Pre-Law you left in my car last year. Rory’s fingers curled into a fist. She thought about her Pre-Law days in Cardiff, her abusive ex Evan (who’d hated her quick thinking, who’d tried to break her), the way she’d fled to London at Eva’s behest to start over. She thought about the missions with Lucien, the way he’d always had her back until he didn’t, the way he’d remembered her favorite tea (jasmine, with extra honey). She thought about the night in the alley, the way he’d nearly kissed her, the way she’d wanted him to. What about the things we didn’t say? Lucien’s amber eye widened. The black one flickered, a faint glow that told her he was being completely honest. He stepped closer, his face inches from hers, and she could feel his breath on her cheek—warm and steady, a contrast to the chaos of the past six months. We can say them. All of them. We can talk about the alley, about the way I’ve been in love with you since the day you outsmarted a demon enforcer with a delivery bag full of dumplings. We can talk about your Pre-Law days, about your fear of getting hurt again. But first, we have to get you safe. The enforcers will be here in an hour. Ptolemy jumped from the counter. He landed at their feet, rubbing against Lucien’s suit leg—a surprising gesture, since the cat hated strangers (he’d scratched a delivery man once for leaning against Eva’s door). Lucien looked down, a small smile tugging at his lips, and his amber eye softened. He likes you. Rory’s lips twitched. She’d never seen Ptolemy warm up to anyone but Eva and her. She glanced at Lucien’s cane, then at his eyes, and she knew she had to trust him—even if it scared her, even if she still hurt from his departure. She stepped back, her boot crunching on a loose scroll, and walked to the corner of the flat where her Golden Empress delivery bag was tucked under a stack of books. I need to grab my bag. It has my phone, my wallet, the crescent-shaped locket my mother gave me. She slung the bag over her shoulder, her fingers brushing the locket through the bag’s fabric, and turned back to him. He was standing by the door, his cane in hand, waiting for her—no longer the distant fixer she’d known, but the man who’d saved her life, the man who’d loved her in secret. The enforcers will be here soon. Rory nodded. She stepped toward him, her hand brushing his arm—her first deliberate touch since he’d left. His suit was soft, his skin warm under the fabric, and she could feel his heart racing through his coat.