Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYATJKHYQWDK43AKSHXQXH4

The rain hammered against the windows of Eva’s flat, a relentless percussion against the cluttered stillness within. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, shifted on the worn velvet armchair, blinking slowly at the gloom. Rory stacked takeaway containers on the already precarious pile beside the small refrigerator, the scent of General Tso’s chicken battling with the musty odor of old paper. She’d been arranging them by order of delivery – Golden Empress, then Marco’s, then… she paused, scanning the list. Silas’ bar. A knock, sharp and insistent, cut through the rain’s insistence. It wasn't the hesitant tap of a familiar face. It was deliberate. Rory straightened, pulling a dish towel from her pocket. “Just a minute,” she called, then opened the door. Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold, rain plastering his platinum blond hair to his forehead. The charcoal suit, immaculate even after the deluge, seemed to absorb the grey light of the room. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one the deep black of obsidian—assessed her apartment with a cool, detached gaze. He held a single, crimson rose, dripping slightly onto the worn floorboards. “You haven’t changed,” he stated, his voice a low rumble, accented with a Parisian lilt. Rory felt a jolt, a familiar shock that had nothing to do with the tempest outside. “Neither have you,” she replied, keeping her tone level. She didn’t bother closing the door entirely; the space between them narrowed, shrinking the flat into something smaller, tighter. “I apologize for the intrusion,” Lucien said, stepping inside, carefully avoiding the precarious stacks of takeout containers. Ptolemy, sensing an unwelcome guest, puffed up and let out a low hiss. “I know it’s been… a while.” “Seven years,” Rory said, arranging the dishes with the precision of someone deliberately avoiding eye contact. “A significant amount of time.” He moved toward the small, scarred table, pulling out a chair with a quiet click. The movement was fluid, economical, like a predator sizing up its prey. “Time has a way of accumulating regrets,” he observed, tilting his head slightly. “And I have a considerable collection.” Silence descended, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the drumming rain and Ptolemy's continued grumbling. Rory glanced at the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a permanent reminder of a childhood accident, a primitive echo of a past she’d tried so hard to bury. “What brings a man like you to my doorstep?” she asked, her voice sharper than she intended. Lucien leaned back, the ivory handle of his cane glinting in the dim light. “Rumors,” he said, his amber eye fixed on her. “Whispers about a… delicate situation. Something requiring a certain… finesse.” “I deal in General Tso’s chicken and lukewarm beer,” Rory retorted, turning back to the dishes. “Not delicate situations.” “Don’t underestimate yourself, Miss Carter,” Lucien said, a ghost of a smile curving his lips. “You possess a remarkable ability to navigate precarious circumstances. A talent I’ve long admired.” She finally met his gaze, the blue of her eyes challenging his. "Admired from a distance, I presume?" He didn’t flinch. “From a considerable distance. And a considerable amount of observation.” He took a slow sip from a glass of water she hadn’t realized he’d produced. "Let's just say I needed someone who understood the value of discretion. Someone who wouldn’t scream if a demon showed up demanding a favor." Rory laughed, a short, dry sound. “Demons? You’re telling me you’re dealing with demons now?” “It’s a complicated world, Miss Carter,” Lucien replied, setting the glass down carefully. “One filled with shadows and secrets. And occasionally, a rather handsome fixer.” He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "This particular situation involves a… misplaced artifact. One with the potential to unravel a rather significant portion of the established order.” His gaze drifted to the bookshelves crammed with volumes on ancient languages, occult practices, and forgotten lore – a testament to Eva’s research and Rory’s quiet, methodical absorption of it all. “I’m not interested,” Rory stated firmly. "I have a job. Rent to pay. A cat to feed." “You always were fiercely independent,” Lucien murmured, stepping closer. The scent of sandalwood and something else, something wild and undeniably demonic, filled the air. He raised his cane, not threateningly, but as a subtle extension of his presence. “Perhaps a little… persuasion is in order.” Rory moved to block his path, her hand instinctively reaching for the edge of the table. “Don’t,” she warned, her voice low. “Why ever not?” “Because I don’t want to talk about it,” she said, her eyes flashing. “And I don't want you here.” “Is that a refusal, Miss Carter?” “It’s a boundary.” She held his gaze, unwavering. “And you’re about to cross it.” Lucien studied her face, a flicker of something unreadable in his dark eye. He lowered his cane slightly. "You haven't lost your sharpness, I’ll give you that." He walked to the window, peering out at the rain. "Seven years. A lifetime, really, considering the circumstances." He turned back then, a subtle shift in his posture revealing a hint of vulnerability. “I should have come sooner. I made mistakes.” “Some mistakes are bigger than others,” Rory said, her voice hardening. The scar on her wrist throbbed faintly beneath her sleeve. “I know,” he admitted, his voice quiet. “And I’ve carried the weight of them with me.” He moved closer again, this time not as a threat, but as if drawn by an invisible force. He stopped a mere arm’s length away, and the air seemed to thicken. “I failed you, Rory. I let fear dictate my actions. I allowed another man to hurt you.” The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken regret. Rory felt a strange mixture of anger and a long-dormant tenderness stirring within her. She wanted to push him away, to retreat back into the solitary comfort of her cluttered flat, but something held her rooted to the spot. “You left,” she said, the words clipped and cold. “I was protecting you,” he countered, his voice laced with a familiar, infuriating defensiveness. "From a man who intentionally sought to break you.” “Protecting me by disappearing without a word?” She reached for a dish towel, scrubbing furiously at a smear of soy sauce. Lucien stepped even closer, invading her personal space. She didn't flinch. “I was… compromised. Involved in something far beyond my control.” He gently brushed a strand of hair from her face, his touch sending a surprising wave of heat through her. “I needed to buy time. To find a way to… rectify the situation.” Rory tilted her head back, meeting his gaze directly. His heterochromatic eyes seemed to hold both the depths of the ocean and the burning embers of a distant star. She felt a pull, a magnetic attraction that had been dormant for years, suddenly, fiercely insistent. “And now?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “Now,” Lucien said, his voice low and intimate, “I need your help.”