Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAK1MTGE5R3EMPSQ0PPS42

The chime of the doorbell was a sharp, insistent bleat in the cluttered quiet of Eva's flat. Rory was hunched over a particularly dense tome on Sumerian demonology, a mug of lukewarm tea sweating on the table beside her, when it sounded. She hadn’t expected anyone. Not tonight. Not ever, really. She’d deliberately insulated herself from the echoes of the past, constructing a carefully curated life above Silas’ bar, a life measured in deliveries and the smell of ginger and garlic from Yu-Fei’s kitchen. She glanced at the door, a practiced wariness settling over her. Eva had warned her, repeatedly, about loose lips and unwanted attention. The flat was a fortress, a testament to a life spent building walls. Three deadbolts and a healthy dose of paranoia kept most people at bay. “Just a moment,” she called, her voice sounding thinner than she intended. She hesitated, then pushed herself away from the table, smoothing down the dark, simple dress she’d worn. The small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a pale whisper beneath the fabric, caught the light. It was a reminder, a tiny, insistent pinprick of a memory she preferred to forget. The door swung inward before she could fully steel herself. He was standing there, framed against the dim hallway light, an unnerving elegance radiating from him. Lucien Moreau. Even after all this time, even after the scorched earth they’d both agreed to walk, he was undeniably Lucien. The platinum blond hair, slicked back with an almost painful precision, the charcoal suit that seemed to absorb the light, the disconcerting heterochromia of his eyes – amber and black, swirling like a trapped storm. And, of course, the ivory-handled cane, resting lightly in his hand, a silent promise of lethal grace. “Rory,” he said, his voice a low, carefully modulated rumble. It hadn’t changed, not really. Still carrying the subtle hint of a French accent, still tinged with a weariness that seemed to settle into his bones. “Lucien,” she replied, the word a brittle shard in her throat. It felt wrong, speaking his name after everything. Like reopening a wound she’d painstakingly bandaged. He stepped inside, the scent of sandalwood and something subtly darker – ozone, perhaps – trailing behind him. He didn't bother with formalities, didn't announce himself or offer an explanation for his intrusion. He simply took in the cramped space, the stacks of books threatening to topple, the general air of controlled chaos that was unmistakably Rory’s. “This still smells of ginger and regret,” he observed, his amber eye flicking over the overflowing bookshelves. Rory bristled, instinctively defensive. “It smells of takeout and research,” she corrected, turning back to her Sumerian demonology. It was a pathetic attempt at normalcy, a clumsy shield against the current of something undeniably potent that was building between them. He didn’t move, didn’t react to her defensiveness. Instead, he walked further into the flat, his movements fluid and deliberate, until he was standing a few feet away from her desk. He studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “I needed to see you,” he said finally, his voice softer now, stripped of its initial formality. “You could have,” Rory said, her voice clipped. “You didn’t have to.” “That’s precisely the point,” he countered, a ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his lips. “I didn't want you to *choose* to see me.” The air thickened, charged with the unresolved history between them. It wasn’t a comfortable tension, not one laced with easy affection. It was a brittle, dangerous thing, sharp and edged with the threat of old wounds. “It’s been five years, Lucien,” she said, her gaze fixed on the open page of her book. “Let it go.” “Some things don’t simply *go*, Rory,” he replied, his hand instinctively reaching for the ivory cane. He didn't raise it, didn’t threaten, but the gesture spoke volumes. “Especially not when they’re tied to a certain woman with bright blue eyes and a stubborn streak.” She lowered the book slightly, meeting his gaze. “You always did have a way with words.” “And you always did have a way of pushing me away,” he said, the amusement fading from his face. “That’s the most compelling part of you, isn't it? The resistance.” He moved closer, slowly, deliberately, until he was standing beside her desk, close enough that she could feel the subtle heat radiating from his body. The scent of sandalwood was stronger now, mingled with a hint of something wild, something primal. “I heard about Eva,” he said, his voice low. “She’s… thriving.” “She’s better off,” Rory stated flatly. “Is she?” He tilted his head, his black eye scrutinizing her. “Or is she simply denying the part of herself that remembers you?” The question hung in the air, an unspoken acknowledgment of the connection they’d both tried so desperately to bury. Rory's breath hitched. She turned her gaze away, focusing on the chaotic arrangement of books and scrolls. The scar on her wrist throbbed faintly. “Don’t,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “Don't what, Rory?” he asked, gently reaching out and brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. The touch was feather-light, almost hesitant, yet it sent a jolt of electricity through her. She flinched, pulling away slightly. “Don't dredge it up.” “I’m not dredging anything,” he insisted, his voice laced with a vulnerability that surprised her. “I’m simply observing. You haven’t changed. You’re still fiercely independent, stubbornly intelligent, and devastatingly difficult to reach.” He paused, and for a moment, his amber eye held hers, searching. Rory felt a strange, disorienting pull, a yearning she hadn't realized she still harbored. It was a dangerous feeling, a promise of pain and regret, but it was undeniably there, simmering beneath the surface of her carefully constructed defenses. “What do you want, Lucien?” she asked, her voice tight. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear. “I want to know why you pushed me away,” he murmured, his voice a silken threat. "I want to understand.” The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, with the ghosts of a passionate, destructive affair. Rory closed her eyes, battling the urge to flee, to retreat back into the safety of her carefully constructed solitude. But something held her rooted to the spot, a magnetic force she couldn't deny. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw a flicker of something akin to hope in his heterochromatic gaze. And for the first time in five years, she wondered if maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t quite as good at pushing people away as she thought.