Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB0WRPTZF359CC2EFSYRYJ

The hallway smelled faintly of curry and stale beer. Rory wrestled with the deadbolt, her fingers clumsy. Three locks—Eva insisted on them—felt excessive, even for Brick Lane. Finally, it clicked. She pulled the door inward, expecting the usual chaos of Eva’s flat, stacks of books threatening to spill into the hallway. Instead, she stared. He leaned against the doorframe, all angles and tailored charcoal. Lucien. Rain plastered his platinum hair to his forehead, dark streaks tracing his temples. He hadn’t bothered with an umbrella. One amber eye, one black, fixed on her, unreadable. He looked…expensive. And dangerous. Both were familiar. “Rory,” he murmured, the French lilt still present beneath his precise English. She blinked, the delivery bag she’d been carrying sliding from her grasp to thud against the floor. “Lucien? What—what are you doing here?” The question sounded ludicrous the second it left her mouth. *What isn't he doing here?* He pushed off the doorframe, moving into the hall with a practiced grace that always managed to make her feel awkward. He didn't offer a smile, his expression remained carefully neutral. “A rather long story,” he said, stepping past her into the flat, oblivious to the mess. Ptolemy, Eva’s tabby, arched his back and hissed, retreating under a pile of research notes. Lucien merely glanced at the cat, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “A story that could have been delivered via phone, or email, or carrier pigeon, perhaps,” Rory retorted, crossing her arms. The scent of rain and something subtly masculine—expensive cologne, likely—followed him. It stirred a memory she’d tried hard to bury. He paused, his gaze sweeping over the cluttered room. “I prefer face-to-face conversations, Rory. Especially when they involve…difficult matters.” “Difficult for whom?” she asked, her voice sharper than intended. She immediately regretted the defensiveness. He ignored the barb, moving further into the flat. "I require your assistance." "My assistance? With what? Escaping Interpol? Retrieving a stolen artifact? Because I'm pretty sure my delivery job at the Golden Empress doesn't qualify me for international intrigue these days.” She gestured to the scattered takeaway containers on the table. Lucien’s lips curved in a faint, almost sad smile. “Nothing so dramatic, I assure you. Though your skills at navigating tight spots seem…remarkably applicable.” He retrieved a stray teacup from a precarious stack, examining it with a wry expression. “Eva is rather lax with her housekeeping.” Rory’s jaw tightened. "Don’t pretend you’re suddenly concerned with Eva's habits. What do you want?” He placed the cup back down, carefully avoiding a collision with a tower of scrolls. “Information. Specifically, information about a certain individual.” “And why would I have information about anyone?” She leaned against the doorframe, mirroring his earlier posture, suddenly wary. “You move in circles I do not,” he said, his voice softening, a hint of apology lacing his words. “You know people. People who know things.” His amber eye caught hers, and for a moment, the years seemed to melt away. Remnants of the heat lingered - a ghost of shared glances, stolen touches, and whispered promises. She looked away, focusing on a chipped paint spot on the wall. “I deliver food, Lucien. I don’t run with… whoever it is you’re hunting.” “This isn’t a hunt, Rory. It's a matter of preventing something… unpleasant.” He paused, choosing his words with unusual care. “Someone is searching for an artifact. A dangerous one. And I believe they are asking questions in certain circles that you might be acquainted with." Rory felt a knot form in her stomach. Dangerous artifacts were typically Lucien’s domain, not hers. "What artifact?" "A small, obsidian box. Bound with silver. Its contents… are best left undisturbed." “Sounds charming,” Rory deadpanned. She kicked at a loose thread on the rug. “So, you’re roping me into this because I’m some kind of… local informant?” “Let’s not be dramatic, Rory. I’m asking for your help because you’re resourceful. And because,” he hesitated, his gaze dropping to his hands, “I trust you.” The admission hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Trust. A commodity in short supply between them. “Trust is a strong word, Lucien. Especially coming from you.” She remembered the last time she'd placed her trust in him—the fallout had been brutal. He raised his head, his eyes locking with hers. "Perhaps, but I have good reason to believe it is warranted now." He stepped closer, closing the distance between them until she could feel the warmth radiating from him. The scent of rain and cologne intensified, and Rory found herself struggling to breathe. “And what makes you think I’d be willing to help you, after… everything?” A shadow crossed his face, a fleeting glimpse of something raw and vulnerable. “I know I hurt you, Rory. I regret it. Every day.” The words were a low murmur, almost swallowed by the quiet of the flat. Rory scoffed, a harsh, defensive sound. “Regret? That’s a convenient emotion to discover now that you need something." “It's not about what I need,” he insisted, his voice gaining intensity. “It’s about preventing a catastrophe. And if I’m being honest, it's also about… trying to make amends.” “Amends? You walked away, Lucien. Vanished. No explanation. No goodbye. And now you just…appear, expecting me to run around for you?” A surge of anger flushed her cheeks. Years of suppressed hurt bubbled to the surface. "I had my reasons," he said softly, his hand rising slightly as if to touch her, then stopping short. "Reasons that didn't involve informing me. Or treating me like a human being." Rory’s voice trembled with barely restrained emotion. “I was protecting you,” he countered, his expression pained. “From forces you didn't understand.” “Protecting me? By disappearing? By leaving me to pick up the pieces while you gallivanted off to… wherever it is you go?” He didn't respond, his silence a tacit admission of guilt. Rory turned away, unable to bear his gaze any longer. "I don't have any information about an obsidian box, Lucien. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have deliveries to make." She started to move towards the door, signaling the end of the conversation. Lucien didn't move. "Please, Rory. This is important. More important than you realize." He paused, his voice taking on a desperate edge. "Someone is after the box, and they won't hesitate to use force." Ptolemy chose that moment to leap from his hiding place, rubbing against Lucien's legs. Lucien bent down to scratch behind the cat's ears, a flicker of genuine warmth in his expression. “Fine,” Rory conceded, her shoulders slumping slightly. "But don't expect me to enjoy this. And don't expect any gratitude. You owe me considerably more than information." Lucien straightened, his eyes gleaming with relief. "Considerably more? Perhaps. But let's focus on the present for now, shall we?" He offered a small, genuine smile. "Shall we start with tea?"