Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB0CS0N91REB8W8DG2ZP43

The chipped paint on the doorframe felt cool under Rory’s palm. Three deadbolts clicked—a practiced sequence after years living above Silas’ bar and, more recently, escaping Evan. She hadn’t expected a visitor. Especially not *him*. Lucien stood bathed in the dim hallway light, looking impossibly sharp in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her month’s rent. Platinum hair, slicked back from his forehead, gleamed. One eye, amber and warm, met hers. The other, black as pitch, tracked the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. “Rory,” he murmured, the sound a low, resonant hum in the cramped space. He hadn’t aged a day. A cruel trick of half-demon physiology, she supposed. “Luc.” She kept her voice even, refusing to betray the jolt that ran through her. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, wound around her ankles, sensing the shift in atmosphere. “May I?” He gestured with a slight inclination of his head toward the open doorway. Rory stepped back, allowing him inside. The scent of sandalwood and something darker, something distinctly *not* human, followed him. It hadn’t changed. She remembered breathing it in, a reckless indulgence, during stolen moments that now felt like fragments of a dream. He surveyed the flat with a slow, assessing gaze. Books stacked haphazardly on every surface, scrolls unfurled across the table, research notes pinned to a corkboard – a testament to Eva’s chaotic genius. “Still a mess, I see,” he commented, his lips curving in a faint smile. “It’s lived in.” She crossed her arms, a defensive maneuver. “What brings you to Brick Lane, Luc? Besides a critique of my housekeeping.” He didn’t answer immediately, instead taking in the space, his amber eye lingering on a chipped mug on the counter. “Eva isn’t here, is she?” “She’s at a conference in Dublin. Archaeology thing.” “Right.” He leaned against the doorframe, the ivory handle of his cane gleaming in the dim light. “I was hoping to catch her.” “And you just happened to swing by, hoping I wouldn’t mention she was away?” Rory raised an eyebrow. “I needed to speak with her. It's… complicated.” “Everything with you always is.” The words slipped out before she could stop them, sharper than intended. Old wounds throbbed. His gaze met hers, the black eye unreadable. “Some things aren’t easily resolved.” “Like leaving without a word?” she pressed, watching for a flinch. “I did what I thought was necessary.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Necessary for *who*, Luc? Certainly not for me.” She’d spent weeks after his departure wrestling with anger, confusion, and a sickening sense of betrayal. She hadn’t realized how much she’d relied on his dry wit, his quiet strength. Or maybe, she’d been in denial about the feelings altogether. He pushed himself off the doorframe, moving further into the flat. Ptolemy, emboldened, rubbed against his impeccably tailored trousers. Lucien didn’t react, not even a twitch. “Don't pretend it was easy for me." “Easy?” Rory laughed, a brittle, humorless sound. “You vanished. One minute we were… whatever *we* were, and the next you were gone. No note, no call, nothing.” “I couldn’t risk involving you.” “Involving me in what? Your shadowy world of demons and fixers?” She paced a small circle, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet. “I was already involved, Luc. You knew that.” He stopped pacing with her, close enough that she could smell the sandalwood, feel the weight of his gaze. "There are forces at play, Rory, that you don't understand.” "Try me," she challenged, refusing to back down. “It’s not something I can simply explain over tea.” “I don’t *want* an explanation. I want to know why you couldn't trust me.” Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Finally, he ran a hand through his platinum hair, disrupting its perfect slickness. It was a rare display of frustration. “I made a mistake, all right?” His voice dropped, roughened with something she couldn’t quite decipher. Regret, maybe. “A mistake?” She scoffed. “That’s it? You upended my life and it was just a ‘mistake’?” “I thought I was protecting you.” “From what? From myself? From the fact that I was falling for a half-demon with secrets he wouldn’t share?” The admission hung in the air, raw and vulnerable. He flinched—a subtle reaction, but she saw it. “Don’t say that.” “Why not? Is it the truth?” She took a step closer, invading his personal space. "I saw how you were, Luc. Always looking over your shoulder, always guarded. I wanted to know what you were hiding, but you shut me out." His gaze locked with hers, the amber eye burning with intensity. "Some things are better left buried." “That’s convenient.” “Practical.” He reached into his inner jacket pocket, producing a small, silver object. It resembled a intricately designed compass, but instead of cardinal directions, shimmering symbols circled the face. “What is that?” Rory asked, trying to ignore the sudden hammering of her pulse. “An artifact. A locator. I need Eva’s help to decipher it.” He held it out towards her. "She's the only one who knows enough about Avarosian symbology.” Rory didn’t take it. "And if she isn’t here?" “Then I hoped you could reach her.” “You come here, track me down, and expect me to be your messenger to Eva?” “It’s not just about Eva, Rory.” His fingers brushed against her hand as he offered the compass again. It was a deliberate, lingering touch. “This concerns something…bigger. Something that could have consequences for both of us.” She hesitated, her fingers hovering over the cool silver. The heat of his gaze felt like a physical touch, stirring a flicker of the old attraction. A dangerous, reckless part of her wanted to take the compass, to be drawn back into his world, to unravel the mysteries he guarded so fiercely. But another part, the part that had spent months picking up the pieces of her shattered trust, urged her to keep her distance. “I’ll forward your message to her,” she finally said, her voice barely a whisper. She wouldn't take the compass from his hand. He didn’t press, but a shadow crossed his face. “Thank you.” The silence descended again, heavier this time. The air felt charged with unspoken words, with regret, with a lingering, undeniable connection. Rory stared at the space between them, bracing for what came next. The past wasn’t yet settled. Not by a long shot.