Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYASTSEJ4PZHHYAB6NW47KY

The deadbolts clicked, a sound that echoed too loudly in the cramped hallway. Rory squinted, the dim light of the stairwell failing to illuminate the figure standing on the other side of the door. She’d expected silence, the comforting weight of solitude after another evening dodging rush hour traffic on her delivery bike. Not this. “Lucien?” The word slipped out, a hesitant question. She braced herself, her hand still on the doorknob. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. “May I come in, Aurora?” His voice, a low, smooth rasp she’d spent months trying to forget, cut through the quiet. His accent, the subtle curl of French vowels, hadn’t softened with time. If anything, it was more pronounced, more deliberate. Rory felt her pulse jump. She unlocked the final bolt, the metallic scraping a counterpoint to the sudden rush of… something. Discomfort, certainly. And a familiar, unwelcome tremor of attraction. He stepped inside, filling the doorway, a stark silhouette against the fading light. He was just as she remembered him: impeccably tailored in a charcoal suit, his platinum blond hair slicked back from a high forehead, highlighting the sharp angles of his face. The heterochromia—one amber eye, one black—was even more striking in the dimness, a constant reminder of the otherness that clung to him. He held his ivory-handled cane, leaning on it with an unconscious elegance. “What are you doing here?” Rory asked, trying to keep her voice level. She stepped back, gesturing vaguely towards the cluttered space. “I wasn’t expecting anyone.” “A surprise visit,” he said, his lips curving in a faint smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Forgive the intrusion. I hoped you might have a moment.” The flat was a controlled chaos of books, scrolls spilling from shelves, and scattered research notes. Eva, her childhood friend, hadn’t been keen on minimalist aesthetics. Rory tolerated it – it was Eva’s space as much as it was hers. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby cat, emerged from beneath a pile of ancient texts, regarding Lucien with a languid disinterest before hopping onto the nearest armchair and settling down with a purr. “A moment?” Rory repeated, her fingers tightening around the doorknob. “Lucien, we haven't… spoken in a while.” An understatement, really. ‘A while’ was six months, a chasm of silence filled with unspoken accusations and the lingering ache of a relationship that had imploded with spectacular force. He surveyed the room, his gaze lingering on a half-finished sketch of a gargoyle that lay on a drafting table. “Indeed. Six months, four days, to be precise.” Rory’s eyebrows shot up. “You’ve been counting?” He ignored her sarcasm. “I needed to speak with you. Urgent matters.” "Urgent enough to show up on my doorstep?" Rory countered, folding her arms. "Couldn't you have sent a message through one of your… contacts?" “The urgency precludes intermediaries,” he said, his voice hardening slightly. “This concerns the Avaros shard.” The mention of it sent a jolt through her. The Avaros shard. The reason they’d even met in the first place, the reason they’d gotten involved in something far beyond their comprehension. And the reason their brief, intense relationship had fractured so violently. Rory busied herself with fiddling with the lock, pretending to secure it, although there was little more she could do. “What about it? What’s happened?” “It’s been moved,” Lucien stated, his gaze fixed on her. “Taken from its secure location.” “Moved? By whom?” “Unknown,” he replied. “But the trail leads here. To London.” He paused, and for a moment, the carefully constructed facade of aloofness seemed to waver, revealing a glimpse of something vulnerable beneath. Rory used to see it, that flicker of something… human, in his eyes. Now, it was buried beneath layers of calculated control. “Why me?” she asked, her voice softer. “Why show up here? What does this have to do with me?” Lucien finally met her gaze. His amber eye seemed to bore into her, assessing, probing. "Because you were the one who first detected its presence. Because you possess a unique… sensitivity to its energy.” He’d been a patronizing when he said it before. But hearing it now, still clipped, still precise, it stirred something uncomfortable within her. A sense of responsibility, maybe. Or a lingering resentment. “And you need my help,” she finished for him. He inclined his head. “Naturally. Your expertise is… required.” Rory let out a short, humorless laugh. “My expertise? I’m a delivery person for a Chinese restaurant. And I live above a bar.” “You’re also a linguist with an aptitude for ancient languages and a knack for solving puzzles. Skills that proved invaluable during our previous collaboration.” She flinched, the mention of ‘our previous collaboration’ a painful reminder of what they’d had – and lost. “That collaboration ended badly, Lucien. Let’s not pretend it was some glorious partnership.” He didn’t deny it. He simply said, “Circumstances change. The shard’s disappearance presents a significant threat. Ignoring it is not an option.” “Threat to who?” Rory challenged, crossing her arms again. "You? Your supernatural friends?" “To everyone,” he said, his voice low and serious. "The Avaros shard is a conduit. A gateway. If it falls into the wrong hands…" He trailed off, the unspoken implications hanging heavy in the air. Ptolemy, disturbed by the rising tension, let out a disgruntled yowl and swatted playfully at Lucien’s trouser leg. Lucien ignored him, his focus solely on Rory. “And what makes you think I want to get involved again?” Rory asked, trying to sound defiant, but the tremor in her voice betrayed her. The memory of the last time she’d trusted him, the devastation that had followed, was still a raw wound. He took a step closer, closing the distance between them. Rory felt a sudden, suffocating awareness of his presence, the subtle scent of expensive cologne and something else—something indefinable, faintly exotic—that always clung to him. “Because you are resourceful, Aurora. Clever. And you have a conscience.” He paused, his gaze flicking down to her left wrist, where a small, crescent-shaped scar pulsed faintly beneath her skin—a souvenir from a childhood accident. “And because I suspect you don’t have the luxury of walking away.” Rory’s hand instinctively went to the scar. It was a familiar gesture, a grounding mechanism when she felt overwhelmed. She looked up at him, her bright blue eyes challenging his. “And if I do?” He met her gaze, his expression unreadable. “Then London is at risk.” He straightened, the subtle curve of his lips returning. "Quite inconvenient, don’t you think?" A flicker of the old humor, sharp and wry, crossed his face. The one she used to find both infuriating and endearing. “So, I’m being blackmailed with the fate of the city?” Rory said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “Let’s call it a… persuasive invitation,” Lucien corrected, his gaze locking with hers. The air between them crackled with unspoken history, with regret and a complicated, undeniable pull. Rory looked around the cluttered flat, at the stacks of books and the sleeping cat. She looked at Lucien, at the man who had once captivated her, and then shattered her world. “Fine,” she said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. “But this time, Lucien, we do things my way.”