Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAAGGD61GA9NQDT79BM8XZ

Rory’s fingers brushed a crumpled golden foil wrapper from the Golden Empress as she stacked delivery receipts on a tower of ancient scrolls that teetered next to Eva’s half-finished thesis on Avarosian portal mechanics. Ptolemy’s tabby tail flicked once, sending a loose research note fluttering to the linoleum where curry fumes curled up from the shop below—thick with cumin and turmeric, sharp enough to sting her eyes if she lingered too close to the window. She’d forgotten to shed her navy delivery jacket after her last run, the fabric stiff with dried soy sauce splatters from a clumsy drop-off at a supernatural bookstore where a man with amber eyes had stared her down, his gaze lingering on her left wrist’s crescent scar. A sharp rap on the front door jolted her. She stepped to the door, her boots thudding against a pile of leather-bound grimoires Eva had left scattered after an all-night research bender about a relic that could shield half-demons from their demon parents’ agents. The three deadbolts glinted in the dim lamplight; she’d twisted each into place that morning after a jittery run past a man who’d matched Evan’s build, his shadow stretching long across the brick pavement of Brick Lane. She fumbled with the top deadbolt first, its metal digging into her palm until her knuckles whitened, then the middle, its lock sticking for a beat before clicking free, then the bottom, its rusted edge scraping her thumb. When she pulled the door open an inch, a whiff of tailored wool and clove hit her—Lucien’s signature scent, one she’d tried to scrub from her memories by dousing her flat above Silas’ bar with curry powder. She wrenched the door wider. His slicked-back platinum hair held no stray strands, his charcoal suit pressed so sharp it could have sliced the curry fumes drifting between them—he’d always prided himself on his appearance, an armor against the chaos of the supernatural underworld. His ivory cane rested against his shoulder, his knuckles white where he curled around its handle—she knew the thin blade hidden within, had watched him slide it free once to cut through a locking mechanism when Evan’s goons had blocked her escape from a warehouse in East London six months prior. His heterochromatic eyes locked on hers: one amber, burning like the Marseille sun he’d once described as the only thing that made his half-demon blood feel bearable, the other black as the Avaros realm his father hailed from, a place he’d never spoken of without a flicker of fear. You shouldn’t be here. She crossed her arms, her left wrist’s crescent scar tugging—she’d scraped it on his cane the last time they’d spoken, when he’d burst into her flat above Silas’ bar, mumbled a half-hearted apology, and vanished without a word, leaving only a crumpled note with a Avarosian symbol she couldn’t decode until Eva had translated it last week. Ptolemy jumped from the windowsill, his paws thudding across the scrolls as he pressed against her calf, a low purr rumbling in his chest—he’d never been fond of strangers, but something about Lucien’s scent made him linger. I tracked your delivery route. Found Eva’s name on your emergency contact list at the Golden Empress—Yu-Fei Cheung slipped it to me after I promised to erase her debt to a vampire loan shark. Lucien’s gaze darted to the stack of research notes teetering on the entryway table—Eva’s work on the half-demon shielding relic, the same work that had tangled Rory up with Lucien’s underworld contacts when she’d asked him to track a stolen scroll for her. He shifted his weight, his cane tapping once against the linoleum, a habit he’d picked up when he was nervous. You bailed. Left a crumpled note with a symbol I couldn’t decode until Eva spent three nights poring over her grimoires. It meant “hide”—but you didn’t tell me who or what to hide from. Rory’s voice tightened. She’d spent three nights huddled in Silas’ bar’s back room after Lucien’s disappearance, staring at that note, Eva’s books spread around her, as Evan’s goons banged on the bar’s front door, demanding to know where she was. She’d had to hide in a delivery van for two days before Yu-Fei Cheung had given her a new route to avoid them. The symbol warned of my father’s agents. They’d tracked me to your flat above Silas’ bar. They’d have killed you to get to me—half-human relatives of Avarosian demons are their favorite leverage. Lucien’s gaze fell to her left wrist’s crescent scar, his jaw tightening—he’d never asked about its origin, too caught up in his own fear of his father’s agents to notice the small, faded mark from her childhood accident with a broken glass. He stepped forward, but Rory held up a hand, stopping him at the threshold, her boot kicking a loose scroll across the floor. You didn’t tell me. You just ran. I thought you’d grown tired of my mortal problems, of bailing me out from Evan’s messes. A curry house server’s laugh drifted up from the street below, sharp and bright against the tension between them, followed by the clink of beer mugs. Ptolemy nipped at Rory’s boot, then darted past Lucien’s legs, his tabby fur brushing the hem of his suit, as if testing the waters. I couldn’t risk them using you to get to me. My father’s agents monitored all supernatural comms—even Eva’s scrolls were bugged for a week before I found and destroyed the device. I couldn’t send a word, couldn’t even leave a proper note without putting you in more danger. Lucien picked up the scroll that had slid across the floor, unfurling it to reveal a map of Avaros, Eva’s scribbled notes in the margins about hidden portals. He set the scroll down, his gaze locking on Rory’s bright blue eyes, the same eyes he’d stared at for hours on the fire escape of Silas’ bar, when they’d kissed for the first time, the London skyline glowing behind them. I found your old delivery bag. The one Evan’s goons sliced open outside the Golden Empress. I kept the torn golden foil wrapper from the spring roll you’d stuffed in your bag for later. He pulled a crumpled golden foil wrapper from his suit pocket, the same wrapper Rory had stuffed in her bag the night he vanished, the one she’d thought she’d lost when the goons sliced the bag open. She stared at it, her fingers itching to take it, her breath catching at the small, faded stain of soy sauce on its edge. I thought you’d forgotten. I thought that kiss on the fire escape was just a distraction, a way to make yourself feel better before you ran. I don’t forget the things that matter. That kiss wasn’t a distraction. It was the only thing that made sense in the middle of my father’s chaos. Lucien’s gaze darted to her left wrist, his fingers hovering just above the crescent scar—he’d never touched it since the night he’d scraped it, too afraid of the hurt he’d caused, too afraid of the vulnerability it would bring to admit he cared. Rory leaned into his hand, her breath catching as his skin made contact with hers, the familiar heat of his touch sending a shiver down her spine. The curry fumes drifted thicker into the flat, mixing with the clove scent of Lucien’s suit, as a stack of Eva’s thesis papers teetered on the couch, then fell to the floor with a soft thud. Ptolemy jumped onto the couch, his tail flicking between them, as if sensing the thick attraction that still hummed between them—an attraction they’d never fully addressed, even before the split, too caught up in the chaos of Evan’s goons and Lucien’s father’s agents to talk about what they really wanted. I spent six months hiding my father’s agents. Traced them to a warehouse in East London, took them down with my cane’s blade—they didn’t see it coming. They’re gone now. I can finally be here without putting you in danger. Rory’s breath caught. She’d heard whispers in the supernatural underworld about a half-demon taking down a crew of Avarosian agents, but she’d never connected it to Lucien, too busy running from Evan’s goons to pay attention. She crossed to the windowsill, where a stack of her delivery receipts sat next to a jar of curry powder Eva had stolen from the shop below, her boot kicking a loose pen across the sill. You could have sent a message through Yu-Fei Cheung. She’s not supernatural—she wouldn’t have been monitored. I couldn’t. My father’s agents had her restaurant under surveillance. They’d have killed her if they’d seen her talking to me. Lucien stepped closer, his cane brushing her delivery jacket, the fabric stiff with dried soy sauce splatters. Ptolemy jumped onto the windowsill, his tail flicking between them, as if complaining about the slow pace of their conversation. I need your help. Eva’s been researching a relic that can shield half-demons from their father’s agents. It’s in a warehouse near my delivery route—Yu-Fei Cheung told me the goons who stole it are hiding it there. I’ll help. But you have to promise me one thing. What? Rory’s voice was quiet. She leaned against the windowsill, her gaze locking on Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes, the amber one burning bright, the black one softening with a hint of vulnerability she’d never seen before. You’ll tell me the truth. No more secrets. No more vanishing in the middle of the night. I promise. Lucien stepped closer, his cane resting against the windowsill, his fingers brushing her delivery jacket’s collar. He pulled the crumpled golden foil wrapper from his pocket, handing it to her. Rory took it, her fingers curling around it, the memory of their kiss on the fire escape flooding back—his hands in her black shoulder-length hair, his breath hot against her neck, the sound of Silas’ bar’s jukebox in the background. The curry house below let out a loud cheer, as if celebrating a victory, followed by the clink of beer mugs and the sound of a server yelling an order. A scroll fell from the ceiling—Eva had taped it there, but the tape had loosened after weeks of curry fumes—and Lucien caught it, his fingers brushing Rory’s as he handed it to her. It was a map of the warehouse where the relic was hidden, Eva’s scribbled notes in the margins about the goons’ shift changes. We’ll start tomorrow. At the Golden Empress. Your 7 PM delivery run to the warehouse’s neighboring shop will get us close. I’ll meet you in the back alley. I’ll be ready. I’ll bring an extra spring roll—for the wrapper. Rory’s voice was firm. She tucked the golden foil wrapper into her delivery jacket pocket, her left wrist’s crescent scar tugging as she did, a small smile tugging at her lips—she’d forgotten how to smile without the weight of Lucien’s disappearance hanging over her. Lucien’s gaze locked on her smile, his own lips tugging into a small grin—he’d never seen her smile like that, unguarded, free from fear. Ptolemy jumped onto his shoulder, his tail flicking against his platinum hair, as if giving his approval. I’ll be there. No secrets. No vanishing. That’s all I ask. A stack of Eva’s research notes teetered on the entryway table, then shifted back into place, as if Eva’s invisible presence was weighing in on their truce. The curry fumes wrapped around them, warm and familiar, as Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes held Rory’s, the unspoken words between them thrumming in the cramped flat—words of attraction, of regret, of the future they’d never dared to imagine before he’d knocked on the door.