Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYARK1HACNHAY17X0V518ST

The knock was tentative, a soft rap against the aged wood of the door that felt jarringly out of place in the cramped hallway. Rory hadn’t expected anyone. Not tonight. She was buried behind a stack of delivery manifests for Golden Empress, the scent of ginger and chili oil clinging to her clothes, a dull ache thrumming behind her eyes from a particularly brutal shift. Her fingers, stained with ink from correcting invoices, hovered over the lock. Another knock, louder this time, insistent. “Rory?” The voice was a ghost, a memory dredged up from the murky depths of her past. It snagged on her ribs with a painful, unfamiliar resonance. She took a slow, deliberate breath, forcing herself to relax the tight coil in her shoulders. “Go away, Lucien,” she said, the words sharper than she intended. “That’s not really an invitation.” He paused, and Rory could hear the faint, almost musical cadence of his French accent. “I need to talk to you.” Her gut twisted. Talking to Lucien Moreau was never simple. Never pleasant. It was invariably laced with a potent mixture of attraction and regret, a complicated cocktail that always left her feeling more unsettled than she’d been before. She considered ignoring him, retreating further into the chaos of her flat, but the pull, the undeniable magnetic force that still tethered her to him, was too strong to resist. She unlocked the door, pulling it open just enough to peek out. He was standing on the landing, bathed in the sickly yellow glow of the streetlamp outside, a silhouette of impeccably tailored charcoal against the brick wall. He held his ivory-handled cane, resting it casually against his thigh, a silent declaration of his authority. His heterochromatic eyes – one amber, one black – scanned the room with a cool, assessing gaze. “You haven’t changed,” he observed, his voice low and measured. Rory narrowed her eyes. “And you clearly still enjoy making dramatic entrances.” He gave a small, almost imperceptible smile. “Habit, I’m afraid. Particularly when the subject of my dramatic entrances is rather… elusive.” He stepped inside, the door closing behind him with a soft click, cutting off the sounds of the street. The scent of sandalwood and something subtly metallic, something undeniably *Lucien*, filled the small space. Ptolemy, her tabby cat, unfurled from his customary spot on a pile of research notes and regarded him with a disdainful flick of his tail. Rory instinctively moved to shield him, a reflexive reaction ingrained from years of shared space. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice tight. “Information,” he stated simply, his gaze sweeping over the room – the overflowing bookshelves, the scattered maps, the half-eaten takeout containers. “Specifically, information about a certain… Malphora.” The nickname, a cruel reminder of the aliases she’d adopted after fleeing Evan, felt like a brand on her skin. “It’s Rory,” she corrected, her voice flat. “And I don’t deal in information.” “Not generally,” Lucien conceded. “But you do work for Madame Cheung. You have access. And I have a… vested interest in uncovering certain truths.” He took a slow step closer, his eyes boring into hers. “Truths that involve a rather unfortunate incident involving a stolen artifact and a demon lord named Vorlag.” Rory’s breath hitched. Vorlag. She’d deliberately avoided any mention of him, burying the details of her last encounter with him deep within the recesses of her memory. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Don't insult my intelligence, Rory,” Lucien said, his voice hardening slightly. “You were there. You saw him. You helped him.” He raised his cane, the ivory handle gleaming in the dim light. It wasn’t a threat, not exactly, but the sheer presence of it was unnerving. She instinctively shifted, straightening her back, meeting his gaze. “I was trying to survive,” she said, her voice gaining strength. “And I did what I had to do.” “Survival doesn’t always justify complicity,” Lucien countered, his amber eye flashing. “Vorlag is not a man to be trifled with. He’s wreaking havoc in Avaros. And his connection to London is growing stronger.” She turned away, running a hand through her black hair, trying to block out the intensity of his presence. The memory of that night – the fear, the desperation, the chilling realization that she’d been manipulated – clawed at her throat. “I’m done with that. I’m done with demons and artifacts and dangerous men.” Lucien moved closer, closing the distance between them until she could feel the warmth radiating from his body. "You can’t run from your past, Rory. It has a way of catching up with you." He stopped inches away, his breath warm against her cheek. "And frankly,” he added, his voice softening just slightly, “I’m rather fond of you." The admission, unexpected and jarring, caught her off guard. It was a fragile, hesitant declaration, a ghost of an emotion lingering after all these years. She wanted to deny it, to push him away, but her body felt strangely rooted to the spot. "Don't," she whispered, her voice barely audible. “Don’t what?” he asked, his voice laced with a melancholy that echoed her own. “Don’t say that.” He leaned closer still, his gaze locking onto hers. The heterochromatic colors of his eyes seemed to swirl, reflecting the turbulent emotions within her. “I’ve said a lot of things in my lifetime, Rory. This… this is just one of them.” He lowered his head, his lips brushing against her ear. “And I intend to say it again.” The air thickened with unspoken history, with the echoes of a connection that had burned fiercely and then died a slow, painful death. Rory closed her eyes, surrendering to the pull, the undeniable comfort of his presence. She didn’t know what the future held, what dangers lay ahead, but in this moment, standing in the cramped confines of her flat, with the scent of ginger and sandalwood mingling in the air, she realized that perhaps, just perhaps, running wasn't the answer after all.