Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAQS2YCY3Z78B2HTTWWW0W

The hallway reeked of simmering cumin and stale beer—a familiar scent she’d grown accustomed to living above Silas’ bar. Rory wrestled with the deadbolt, shoving her delivery bag further down her arm. A persistent knocking rattled the door. Not a polite tap, but a forceful insistence. She braced herself and pulled the door open. Lucien. He filled the doorway, charcoal suit sharp against the dim hallway light. Platinum hair slicked back, the city lights glinting off its pale expanse. One eye amber, the other black—a constant, jarring reminder of what he was, of the world she tried to ignore. He hadn't aged. Still impossibly elegant, still radiating a controlled power that had both fascinated and terrified her. Rory blinked, shoving a stray strand of black hair behind her ear. The crescent-shaped scar on her wrist throbbed, a phantom echo of a childhood fall. A childish thing compared to what he represented. "Lucien," she stated, voice flat. He offered a small, almost imperceptible nod. "Aurora." No warmth. No apology for appearing like a phantom from a past she’d desperately tried to bury. He didn't close the door. Didn’t wait for an invitation. Just stepped inside, his presence instantly dominating the small space. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, shot from beneath a pile of scrolls, tail puffed up, and hissed. Lucien barely registered the cat, his gaze fixed on Rory. "What are you doing here?" Rory asked, pushing past him, acutely aware of the sudden tension radiating from every corner of the flat. The air, thick with the smell of old paper and forgotten spells, seemed to press in on her. He leaned against the doorframe, the ivory handle of his cane gleaming in the low light. “A rather pointed question. I could ask the same of you.” "I live here," she retorted, gesturing around the cluttered room. "You don't." A flicker of something—amusement, perhaps?—crossed his face. Gone as quickly as it appeared. "Indeed. Though one might argue you're merely inhabiting it. Eva is the… permanent resident." Rory’s grip tightened on the delivery bag. “She's out.” “Is that so?” His gaze lingered on her, a slow, assessing appraisal that made her skin crawl. “And you were expecting company?” “No,” she snapped, then immediately regretted the sharpness of her tone. She was letting him get to her. As always. He pushed off the doorframe, moving further into the flat. The movement was fluid, economical, every gesture deliberate. "I require your assistance." The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken history. Assistance. That was all he called it. After everything. "I don't offer assistance anymore," she said quietly, turning away from him, placing the delivery bag on a precarious stack of books. "Especially not to you." He ignored her, his eyes scanning the room, taking in the chaos of Eva's research. "Don't be coy, Aurora. We both know that's not entirely true.” He paused, his voice dropping a register. “This concerns something… delicate. Something that requires your particular skillset." "My skillset?" Rory scoffed, spinning back to face him. "You mean my ability to deliver Thai food and avoid awkward conversations?" “You possess a certain… acuity. A capacity for lateral thinking. And,” he paused, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips, “a regrettable fondness for meddling.” The past rushed back, a tidal wave of regret and anger. The botched ritual, the near-disaster in Marseille, the fallout that had scattered them both to the winds. Rory clenched her fists. "Don't you dare manipulate me with that." He raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “I simply state facts. Eva is occupied, and I require someone with your… talents. Someone who understands the nuances of the unseen world.” "You could ask anyone," Rory shot back. "There are plenty of people who specialize in 'the unseen world'.” "They lack your… perspective." He circled her slowly, like a predator assessing its prey. Ptolemy let out a low growl, arching his back. "Besides, I prefer working with someone I know can appreciate the finer points of a complicated situation." Rory braced herself against the wall, needing something solid to anchor her. "There are no finer points. There's only you. And your messes." He stopped directly in front of her, close enough that she could feel the faint heat radiating from his body. His amber eye seemed to bore into her soul. "A rather harsh assessment, don't you think? Given the circumstances.” "The circumstances being you showing up unannounced after three years of silence, asking for my help with whatever clandestine scheme you've cooked up?" Rory challenged, refusing to back down. He chuckled, a low, melodious sound that sent a shiver down her spine. "Sentimentality. It suits you, Aurora. Though it's seldom useful.” “You’re one to talk about usefulness,” Rory muttered, turning away to pace the cramped room. The air grew thick, suffocating. He followed her movements, his presence a constant pressure. “The situation concerns one of Avaros’ relics. It has surfaced in London. And its current custodian is… less than knowledgeable about its true power.” Rory stopped pacing, her mind racing. Avaros. The realm of demons. The place of his birth, the source of his power. “Why are you telling me this?” "Because," he said, his voice low and intense, "it poses a significant threat. A threat that could destabilize the balance between our worlds.” Rory stared at him, trying to decipher the truth in his words. He was a master of deception, skilled at weaving intricate webs of half-truths and outright lies. But there was something in his expression, a flicker of genuine concern, that gave her pause. “And you believe *I* can stop it?” “You are resourceful. Observant. And,” he added, his gaze locking with hers, “you possess a stubborn streak that rivals my own.” Rory scoffed. “You’re laying it on thick, Lucien.” He shrugged, a gesture of careless elegance. "Perhaps. But I assure you, the stakes are high. This relic… it can amplify demonic power exponentially. In the wrong hands, it could unleash chaos on a scale London has never seen.” The image of Evan flashed in her mind – a pathetic, volatile man she barely managed to escape. What would he do with power like that? "What relic are we talking about?" she asked, the resistance draining from her. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a small, intricately carved box made of obsidian. "The Vespertine Shard. It amplifies shadow magic." He held it out to her. "I need you to find it, determine its capabilities, and secure it before it falls into the wrong hands.” Rory hesitated, her fingers hovering over the box. This was a trap, she knew it. But the thought of what he said – *chaos on a scale London has never seen* – was worse. And there was that familiar pull, that undeniable attraction, that had always drawn her to him, despite everything. "And what do you get out of this, Lucien?" Rory asked suspiciously. He paused, his expression unreadable. "The satisfaction of knowing that London, and perhaps the world, remains safe." He looked at her intently, a subtle warning in his eyes. "And perhaps… the chance to repair a few fractured alliances.” Rory pulled her hand away. "Alliances? We don't have alliances. We have a history of explosions and near-death experiences." "A shared history," Lucien corrected smoothly. "A foundation upon which we can build." Rory snorted, turning her back to him and walking to the window. The rain had started, blurring the streetlights into hazy halos. "Don't flatter yourself, Lucien." She stared out the window, avoiding his gaze. He didn’t push. He simply waited, his presence a quiet weight in the small room. “Fine,” Rory said after a long moment, her voice barely a whisper. “I’ll do it.” A faint smile touched his lips. “Excellent.” He paused, then added, “Eva will be furious.” "Let her be," Rory mumbled, still staring out the window.