Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAQ9HZ8FYY8PCRQKC6S0PT

The chime above the door warred with the insistent drumming of rain against the window. Rory hadn’t expected anyone. She’d settled into Silas’ bar with a half-empty glass of amber liquid, trying to outrun the insistent throb behind her eyes, the ghost of Evan’s grip still cold on her memory. A knock. Unexpected. She straightened, pulling her black coat tighter around her. “Just a minute,” she called, her voice a little too loud in the small flat above the curry house. The door swung inward, revealing Lucien Moreau. Rain clung to his charcoal suit, darkening the lapels. He didn’t bother with a pleasantry. His gaze, the odd mixture of amber and black, swept over the cluttered space—the stacks of books threatening to topple, Ptolemy the tabby cat sprawled across a pile of research papers, the worn armchair where she’d spent countless evenings wrestling with ancient texts. “You’re here,” she stated, keeping her tone neutral. “Necessity dictates,” he replied, his voice a low rumble, accented with something indefinable that always felt vaguely Parisian. He moved with a practiced grace, a panther in a tailored suit. “I require information.” Rory gestured to a chair opposite her, the springs groaning in protest. “Information costs.” He didn’t flinch. Instead, he placed his ivory-handled cane precisely on the floor, the polished wood reflecting the weak light filtering through the rain-streaked window. "My rates are competitive.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. “And I have a rather specific need.” She crossed her arms, studying him. Five years. Five years since she’d driven away from London, abandoning the wreckage of their shared past. Five years since she’d last seen his face, his unsettlingly beautiful eyes. Five years of avoiding the pull, the undeniable magnetism that had both drawn her in and ripped her apart. “What is it?” “A gentleman named Silas Thorne. He’s… exhibiting unusual behavior. Disrupting the usual flow.” He tilted his head slightly, a subtle gesture that always seemed to assess her, to dissect her. “He’s been contacting individuals on the darker side of the Veil.” Rory’s jaw tightened. Silas Thorne was a problem. A dangerous one. A collector of esoteric artifacts, a gambler with a penchant for attracting trouble. “And you want me to investigate?” “You possess a particular aptitude for uncovering hidden truths,” Lucien said, his gaze unwavering. “And a… resilience. Something I’ve observed in you over the years.” There was a ghost of something vulnerable in his eyes, quickly masked by professional detachment. Her breath caught. He remembered. He’d always remembered. “I’m not interested,” she said, the words sharper than she intended. He didn’t react to the defensiveness. “It’s not a request, Rory. It’s an imperative.” He took a step closer, and the scent of sandalwood and something darker, something feral, filled the room. “Silas' activities could have wider ramifications. I need to know what he's after." She ignored the unwelcome proximity, focusing on the facts. “Why me? You have contacts, people who specialize in this kind of thing.” “They lack your… intuition,” Lucien stated. “And frankly, your methods are unconventional. You don’t rely on polite inquiries or carefully constructed lies.” A flicker of irritation sparked within her. He’d always been infuriatingly perceptive. "You think I enjoy getting involved in this kind of mess?” “No,” he conceded, his lips curving into a ghost of a smile. “I simply believe you are uniquely capable.” The rain hammered against the glass, a relentless soundtrack to the simmering tension between them. Rory found herself studying his face, searching for something beyond the carefully constructed facade. The heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—held a depth of weariness she hadn’t noticed before, a hint of something hidden. “What do you want me to do?” she asked, the question a grudging admission. “Start with Silas’ movements. Who he’s meeting with. What he’s procuring,” Lucien instructed, his voice precise. “I’ll provide you with the initial contacts, the safe houses, the necessary… resources.” He paused, his gaze lingering on her wrist. “But you must proceed discreetly. Silas has… defenses.” She instinctively touched the small crescent-shaped scar, a constant reminder of Evan’s cruelty, of the past she’d fought so hard to leave behind. “I’m not afraid of defenses.” His eyes darkened. “That’s not what concerns me.” He straightened, regaining his composure. “I am concerned with the consequences. Should Silas' pursuit escalate… there will be casualties.” Rory met his gaze, refusing to yield. "Then let's hope it doesn't." “Hope is a luxury we rarely afford ourselves,” Lucien countered, his voice flat. He turned to leave. "The contact information will be delivered to you at midday tomorrow. Discreetly.” As he reached the door, he paused, his hand on the ornate knob. “Rory,” he said, his voice unexpectedly soft. “Don’t underestimate yourself. You’ve changed. Becoming harder. More… guarded.” She didn't respond, simply watching him disappear into the rain. The door clicked shut, leaving her alone with the lingering scent of sandalwood and the unsettling feeling that everything—every carefully constructed wall she’d erected around her heart—had been subtly, irrevocably tested. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, stretched languidly on the pile of research papers, oblivious to the silent battle that had just taken place. Rory picked up a glass of water, her hand shaking slightly. The rain continued its relentless assault, a mirror to the turbulent emotions swirling within her. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that this wasn't just a simple investigation. This was a collision course with a past she’d desperately tried to bury, and Lucien Moreau, with his cold eyes and unsettling intellect, had just thrown a match onto the pyre. She looked down at her scar. "Damn you," she whispered. The phone vibrated on the table, displaying a message from Eva. *“He’s back. Again.”* Rory took a deep, measured breath. "Right," she murmured to herself. "Let's get to work."