Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB7XMZNDJMCQ7TYS9GJ0NC

Rory fumbled with the third deadbolt, her bright blue eyes narrowed at the persistent rap that cut through the curry house’s below-stairs garam masala fumes seeping through the scuffed wooden floor. She’d stacked three leather-bound grimoires against Eva’s flat doorframe that morning, a half-hearted backup to the locks, and she kicked one aside as she twisted the final latch. The wood creaked open an inch before she slammed a palm against it, her left wrist’s crescent scar pulling tight enough to make her grind her teeth—until she caught a glimpse of slicked-back platinum blond hair and a tailored charcoal suit sleeve. She let the door swing wide. He stepped over the fallen grimoire, his ivory-handled cane tapping once against the floor. The cane’s hidden blade didn’t rattle—he’d oiled it, a habit she’d mocked once when they’d snuck into a supernatural smuggling ring’s warehouse together. His heterochromatic eyes locked on hers, amber and black clashing like a wildfire snuffed by night. You don’t get to show up here unannounced. He gestured to the books and scrolls caking every surface—Eva’s research notes on Avarosian portals, Rory’s pre-law textbooks from Cardiff University, a stack of faded fairy wing sketches tucked under a coffee table leg. Eva’s flat is the only place you’d hide when you think you’re unassailable. Ptolemy slinked out from under a mountain of scrolls, his tabby fur dusted with ink. He rubbed against the stranger’s suit pants, purring loud enough to cut through the curry fumes. Ptolemy doesn’t like strangers. He bent slightly, his cane resting against his ankle. He plucked a smoked salmon treat from a hidden pocket in his suit—an old stash he’d left for the cat months prior. He’s not a stranger. I left him a treat last time I helped Eva track a fairy thief who’d stolen a witch’s spellbook. Rory snatches a scroll from the coffee table, crumpling its edge. The scroll’s Avarosian script blurs under her fist—she’d helped Eva transcribe it for three nights straight after a wraith attacked her bar flat. You left more than salmon treats. You left a half-scrawled note on my bar flat’s counter and vanished for six months. He picked up a research note about Avarosian wraiths, his fingers tracing the faded ink of a demon’s horn. His half-demon blood hummed at the mention of his father’s realm. Avarosian wraiths traced my blood to your bar. I couldn’t risk you getting dragged into the war my father’s kin is waging. Rory dropped the scroll. It fluttered to the floor, its pages spreading like wounded birds. Her hand flew to her left wrist scar, the childhood broken bottle accident’s mark throbbing in time with her pulse. You didn’t ask me. I don’t need you to play hero. Your hair’s grown an inch. You used to tuck the ends behind your ear when you’re lying to yourself about being fine. He nodded at her black shoulder-length hair, now falling in unbrushed strands she’d been pushing behind her ear since he appeared. Rory’s breath caught—he remembered the smallest details, even after six months. I’m not lying. I’ve been delivering dim sum for the Golden Empress and avoiding supernatural messes without you. She stepped closer, her shoulder hitting a shelf of scrolls. A dozen tumble to the floor, their pages scraping the wood. The curry house’s neon pink sign flickered outside the window, casting a strange glow over his tailored suit. Evan’s been talking to Avarosian spies. He’s trading information about your father’s barrister cases for a way to track you down. His cane tapped twice, a signal he’d used when they were in danger—once when they’d been cornered by a vampire in Soho, once when they’d snuck into a fairy court’s garden. Rory’s delivery bag fell off the doorframe, its strap catching on a deadbolt’s latch. The leftover dim sum containers clatter to the floor, their lids popping off to reveal steamed har gow and siu mai. Lucien’s gaze drifts to the containers, his voice softening. You used to bring me dim sum after we finished a job. You said the har gow’s translucent wrappers reminded you of the fairy wings we’d tracked in Hyde Park. Rory’s hand goes to her hair again, tucking the ends behind her ear. She’d never admitted to herself that she’d been saving extra dim sum for him, stashing containers in her delivery bag just in case. I still bring extra. In case… She trails off, her voice cracking. She’d refused to cry since he left, but now hot tears prickle her bright blue eyes. In case I came back? His arms tighten around her, his sandalwood cologne wrapping around her like a ghost of their old nights on the bar flat’s rooftop. His thumb brushes her crescent scar, a gentle touch that contrasts with his usual sharp demeanor. Rory nods, her tears spilling over. I thought you’d forgotten about me. About us. I could never forget. Avarosian wraiths tried to erase my memories of you, but they couldn’t. My human half clung to every detail—the way you laugh when you burn dim sum wrappers, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re solving a puzzle, the way you kissed me on the bar’s rooftop the night before I left. The basement’s rumble grows stronger, shaking the neon sign outside the window. The pink letters flicker out, leaving the flat in dim lamplight from Eva’s desk lamp. Ptolemy hisses, jumping off the coffee table and hiding under the bed. The scratches from the curry house’s basement grow louder, a low growl cutting through their conversation. Rory pulls away, grabbing a map from the coffee table. She marks a spot on the curry house’s basement with a red pen—her quick out-of-the-box thinking kicking in. The map’s edges are worn from Eva’s constant folding, its lines marking supernatural hotspots across East London. The portal’s ritual needs a focal point. The curry house’s tandoor oven—its fire is the only thing hot enough to power the wraiths’ spell. We can douse it with your Avarosian holy water. He picks up his cane, drawing the hidden blade with a quiet snick. He slides a small vial of Avarosian holy water from his suit pocket, handing it to her. The vial’s glass is cool against her palm, its label marked with his father’s realm’s script. You lead. I’ll cover your back. Rory takes the vial, her fingers brushing his. The attraction simmers between them, thick enough to cut with his cane’s hidden blade. The hurt lingers too—six months of silence, a half-scrawled note, the fear that he’d abandoned her. But now there’s a spark of hope, the unsaid things finally starting to spill out. She glances at the fallen dim sum containers, at the crumpled scrolls, at Ptolemy’s hidden form under the bed. The three deadbolts still hang open, a reminder that she’d let him in, even after everything. Before she can speak, the basement’s rumble explodes into a roar. The floor shakes, sending Eva’s research notes flying into the air. The neon sign outside flickers back on, its pink light casting a strange glow over Lucien’s heterochromatic eyes. Rory’s pre-law textbook falls off the shelf, its pages fluttering to a chapter on criminal defense—something she’d studied before fleeing Cardiff, before she met Lucien, before everything changed. She grabs the map again, folding it quickly and tucking it into her pocket. She grips the vial of holy water, her fingers tightening around it. She’s ready to fight, ready to face Evan and the Avarosian wraiths, ready to finally say all the things she’d left unsaid for six months.