AI The knock shattered the weary quiet of the evening, a sharp rap against the heavy oak that echoed the thrum of bass from Silas’s pub three floors below. Aurora Carter, curled into the worn armchair by the window, the scent of stale beer and frying onions a constant, familiar perfume, froze. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Her flat, a cramped warren of books and overdue bills, rarely hosted spontaneous visitors. A delivery girl at night, a student of life by day, she knew how to keep her world contained. Her fingers, long and slender, idly traced the faint crescent moon scar on her left wrist, a childhood misadventure that felt like a decade ago .
She rose, her black hair cascading over her shoulders, and padded across the floorboards, past a teetering stack of novels and an ancient law textbook. The door had three deadbolts. All were in place. She slid the top one back with a metallic clack, then the second, holding her breath. Her gaze flickered to the peephole, a distended eye showing a sliver of the dim hallway. What she saw made her breath catch, a sudden, sharp intake that felt like a physical blow . Platinum blond hair, slicked back from a sharp, aristocratic profile. A charcoal suit that fit like a second skin. And those eyes… even distorted, she recognized the impossible contrast of amber and black.
She hesitated, her hand hovering over the final bolt. Then, with a sigh that was half resignation, half a strange, insistent pull, she retracted it.
The door swung inward. Lucien Moreau filled the doorway, a creature of sharp angles and sophisticated disdain. He leaned casually on an ivory-handled cane, the polished wood gleaming under the weak hallway light. His gaze, those unsettling heterochromatic eyes, swept over her, taking in the soft knit of her jumper, the way her hair fell, the surprised apprehension etched onto her face. He didn't smile. He rarely did.
"Lucien," Aurora breathed, the name tasting like ash and forgotten sweetness on her tongue. "What are you doing here?"
He stepped past her, uninvited, his presence immediately shrinking the already small hallway. The faint, expensive scent of his cologne – something leathery and dark – cut through the ambient London grime. He stopped, turning to face her fully, his height a subtle pressure in the cramped space.
"Aurora," he returned, his voice low, a silken rumble that held a hint of his native Marseille. "We need to talk."
Her arms crossed instinctively, a defensive barrier rising higher than any deadbolt. "Talk? Is that what you call it? A unilateral decree delivered on my doorstep?" She gestured vaguely around the room, the stacks of books, the worn Oriental rug, the faint glow of the lamp on her small kitchen counter. "I'm not exactly set up for clandestine meetings."
His lips twitched, a barely perceptible upward curve that might have been amusement, or perhaps something more complex . "Your surroundings are… familiar . Modest." He let his gaze drift, lingering on a framed photograph tucked between two thick tomes on a shelf – it was of her and Eva, younger, laughing. "You’ve made a life for yourself."
"I built a life," she corrected, her voice hardening . "After you walked away. No word. No explanation. Just… gone. I assumed you ’d become a ghost, or worse." Her eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the subtle, almost imperceptible stillness in his posture that spoke of immense power held in careful check. "And now you reappear like… like a bad debt collector."
Lucien finally moved, not towards her, but further into the room, his cane tapping a quiet rhythm on the floorboards. "I didn’t have a choice, Aurora. Not then." He paused, his amber eye catching the lamplight, the black one seeming to drink it. When he spoke again, the casual tone was gone , replaced by an edge of urgency that sliced through her defenses. "And I wouldn't be here now if I didn't have to be."
"Why *do * you have to be?" she pressed, stepping away from the door, closing it with a decisive click. She needed to regain some small sense of control. "Because I’m suddenly useful? Because my pathetic little delivery job accidentally stumbled into something you deem worth your time?" The bitterness was raw, a sharp sting unearthed by his unexpected presence. "Or is this about what *you * left me to deal with?"
He turned, and for a fleeting second, the impeccably tailored facade cracked. A flicker of something – regret? Pain? – crossed his face, gone before she could quite identify it. He took a step towards her, closing the distance between them until she could feel the subtle warmth radiating from him, smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne.
"Your life is in danger, Aurora," he said, his voice a low murmur that vibrated against her skin . His heterochromatic gaze held hers, unwavering , intense. "Something you delivered. A package. A certain address. It’s… complicated."
She scoffed, the sound tight in her throat. "My life is always in danger, Lucien. That's the curse of living above Silas’s or working for Yu-Fei. Random thugs, drunken patrons, the occasional rival delivery crew. What’s so special about this particular peril ?"
"This isn't about random thugs," he stated, his fingers tightening around the ivory handle of his cane . The polished tip tapped against the worn floorboards, a soft counterpoint to the distant music from below. "You were observed. Noticed. And what you carried… or rather, what you *didn't * carry away with you … has drawn attention. The wrong kind. The kind that feeds on the unwary."
Aurora took a sharp breath. She’d delivered a small, nondescript package a few nights ago, to an industrial unit in a part of the city she rarely frequented. The recipient had been… odd. Cloaked, speaking in hushed tones, and the package itself had felt unnervingly cold to the touch, even through her gloves. She’d dismissed it as the strangeness of her job. But Lucien, the fixer, the man who navigated London’s supernatural underbelly with unnerving ease, didn't deal in dismissed strangeness.
"Observed? By who?" Her mind raced , piecing together fragments of memory, the details of that delivery. "This is your world, Lucien. Not mine."
"It is now," he replied, the implication chilling . He stepped closer, his proximity almost overwhelming. She could see the faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip, the tension in the set of his jaw. "Someone believes I have a vested interest in keeping you safe. And they've decided to leverage that… perceived connection." His black eye seemed to bore into her, while the amber one held a flicker of something softer, something that spoke of shared memories, of nights spent entwined, of a tenderness she’d sworn she’d buried deep. "They know where you live. They know about your scar. They know things they shouldn’t."
The casual implication that he monitored her life sent a fresh wave of anger through her, battling with the sudden, cold dread that coiled in her stomach . He knew about the scar. He hadn’t been there for the accident, hadn't been present for any part of her childhood, yet he knew. It was a deliberate, calculated piece of information to wield.
"How do you know about the scar?" she demanded, her voice a low growl . "Were you watching me all this time? Just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and play protector, just like you always did?"
His lips pressed into a thin, hard line. The warmth he’d projected moments before evaporated, replaced by a chilling coolness. "I know many things, Aurora. It is my profession. And yes," he admitted, the words carefully chosen, "I was made aware of your current circumstances. A precaution I took. A mistake, it appears, as it has put you directly in the path of something you cannot handle alone." He reached out, his gloved hand rising as if to touch her cheek, but stopped inches away. The air crackled with an unspoken question, a potent mix of hurt and lingering desire . "This is not about my past mistakes, Aurora. This is about your immediate future. And it’s bleak if we don’t act."
Her breath hitched. The mere suggestion of his touch, so close yet so unfulfilled, sent a traitorous tremor through her. The attraction, buried deep beneath layers of hurt and betrayal, was still there, potent and dangerous. She swallowed, forcing the memory of his sudden departure, the gnawing emptiness that had followed, to the forefront. "And I'm supposed to trust you now? After you vanished when things got complicated?"
"You don't have to trust me," Lucien stated, his voice dropping even lower, drawing her in . His eyes locked onto hers, a silent plea beneath the practiced control. "You just have to let me help you . Before it’s too late." He took another measured step closer, and this time, his hand did make contact, his gloved fingers brushing lightly against the curve of her jaw. Her skin prickled beneath the thin leather. "They are coming for you , Aurora. And I will not let them take you . Not like this." The confession hung in the air , heavy with unspoken history and present danger. "You need to leave this flat. Now."The knock shattered the weary quiet of the evening, a sharp rap against the heavy oak that echoed the thrum of bass from Silas’s pub three floors below. Aurora Carter, curled into the worn armchair by the window, the scent of stale beer and frying onions a constant, familiar perfume, froze. She wasn’t expecting anyone. Her flat, a cramped warren of books and overdue bills, rarely hosted spontaneous visitors. A delivery girl at night, a student of life by day, she knew how to keep her world contained. Her fingers, long and slender, idly traced the faint crescent moon scar on her left wrist, a childhood misadventure that felt like a decade ago .
She rose, her black hair cascading over her shoulders, and padded across the floorboards, past a teetering stack of novels and an ancient law textbook. The door had three deadbolts. All were in place. She slid the top one back with a metallic clack, then the second, holding her breath. Her gaze flickered to the peephole, a distended eye showing a sliver of the dim hallway. What she saw made her breath catch, a sudden, sharp intake that felt like a physical blow . Platinum blond hair, slicked back from a sharp, aristocratic profile. A charcoal suit that fit like a second skin. And those eyes… even distorted, she recognized the impossible contrast of amber and black.
She hesitated, her hand hovering over the final bolt. Then, with a sigh that was half resignation, half a strange, insistent pull, she retracted it.
The door swung inward. Lucien Moreau filled the doorway, a creature of sharp angles and sophisticated disdain. He leaned casually on an ivory-handled cane, the polished wood gleaming under the weak hallway light. His gaze, those unsettling heterochromatic eyes, swept over her, taking in the soft knit of her jumper, the way her hair fell, the surprised apprehension etched onto her face. He didn't smile. He rarely did.
"Lucien," Aurora breathed, the name tasting like ash and forgotten sweetness on her tongue. "What are you doing here?"
He stepped past her, uninvited, his presence immediately shrinking the already small hallway. The faint, expensive scent of his cologne – something leathery and dark – cut through the ambient London grime. He stopped, turning to face her fully, his height a subtle pressure in the cramped space.
"Aurora," he returned, his voice low, a silken rumble that held a hint of his native Marseille. "We need to talk."
Her arms crossed instinctively, a defensive barrier rising higher than any deadbolt. "Talk? Is that what you call it? A unilateral decree delivered on my doorstep?" She gestured vaguely around the room, the stacks of books, the worn Oriental rug, the faint glow of the lamp on her small kitchen counter. "I'm not exactly set up for clandestine meetings."
His lips twitched, a barely perceptible upward curve that might have been amusement, or perhaps something more complex . "Your surroundings are… familiar . Modest." He let his gaze drift, lingering on a framed photograph tucked between two thick tomes on a shelf – it was of her and Eva, younger, laughing. "You’ve made a life for yourself."
"I built a life," she corrected, her voice hardening . "After you walked away. No word. No explanation. Just… gone. I assumed you ’d become a ghost, or worse." Her eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the subtle, almost imperceptible stillness in his posture that spoke of immense power held in careful check. "And now you reappear like… like a bad debt collector."
Lucien finally moved, not towards her, but further into the room, his cane tapping a quiet rhythm on the floorboards. "I didn’t have a choice, Aurora. Not then." He paused, his amber eye catching the lamplight, the black one seeming to drink it. When he spoke again, the casual tone was gone , replaced by an edge of urgency that sliced through her defenses. "And I wouldn't be here now if I didn't have to be."
"Why *do * you have to be?" she pressed, stepping away from the door, closing it with a decisive click. She needed to regain some small sense of control. "Because I’m suddenly useful? Because my pathetic little delivery job accidentally stumbled into something you deem worth your time?" The bitterness was raw, a sharp sting unearthed by his unexpected presence. "Or is this about what *you * left me to deal with?"
He turned, and for a fleeting second, the impeccably tailored facade cracked. A flicker of something – regret? Pain? – crossed his face, gone before she could quite identify it. He took a step towards her, closing the distance between them until she could feel the subtle warmth radiating from him, smell the faint, intoxicating scent of his expensive cologne.
"Your life is in danger, Aurora," he said, his voice a low murmur that vibrated against her skin . His heterochromatic gaze held hers, unwavering , intense. "Something you delivered. A package. A certain address. It’s… complicated."
She scoffed, the sound tight in her throat. "My life is always in danger, Lucien. That's the curse of living above Silas’s or working for Yu-Fei. Random thugs, drunken patrons, the occasional rival delivery crew. What’s so special about this particular peril ?"
"This isn't about random thugs," he stated, his fingers tightening around the ivory handle of his cane . The polished tip tapped against the worn floorboards, a soft counterpoint to the distant music from below. "You were observed. Noticed. And what you carried… or rather, what you *didn't * carry away with you … has drawn attention. The wrong kind. The kind that feeds on the unwary."
Aurora took a sharp breath. She’d delivered a small, nondescript package a few nights ago, to an industrial unit in a part of the city she rarely frequented. The recipient had been… odd. Cloaked, speaking in hushed tones, and the package itself had felt unnervingly cold to the touch, even through her gloves. She’d dismissed it as the strangeness of her job. But Lucien, the fixer, the man who navigated London’s supernatural underbelly with unnerving ease, didn't deal in dismissed strangeness.
"Observed? By who?" Her mind raced , piecing together fragments of memory, the details of that delivery. "This is your world, Lucien. Not mine."
"It is now," he replied, the implication chilling . He stepped closer, his proximity almost overwhelming. She could see the faint sheen of sweat on his upper lip, the tension in the set of his jaw. "Someone believes I have a vested interest in keeping you safe. And they've decided to leverage that… perceived connection." His black eye seemed to bore into her, while the amber one held a flicker of something softer, something that spoke of shared memories, of nights spent entwined, of a tenderness she’d sworn she’d buried deep. "They know where you live. They know about your scar. They know things they shouldn’t."
The casual implication that he monitored her life sent a fresh wave of anger through her, battling with the sudden, cold dread that coiled in her stomach . He knew about the scar. He hadn’t been there for the accident, hadn't been present for any part of her childhood, yet he knew. It was a deliberate, calculated piece of information to wield.
"How do you know about the scar?" she demanded, her voice a low growl . "Were you watching me all this time? Just waiting for the right moment to swoop in and play protector, just like you always did?"
His lips pressed into a thin, hard line. The warmth he’d projected moments before evaporated, replaced by a chilling coolness. "I know many things, Aurora. It is my profession. And yes," he admitted, the words carefully chosen, "I was made aware of your current circumstances. A precaution I took. A mistake, it appears, as it has put you directly in the path of something you cannot handle alone." He reached out, his gloved hand rising as if to touch her cheek, but stopped inches away. The air crackled with an unspoken question, a potent mix of hurt and lingering desire . "This is not about my past mistakes, Aurora. This is about your immediate future. And it’s bleak if we don’t act."
Her breath hitched. The mere suggestion of his touch, so close yet so unfulfilled, sent a traitorous tremor through her. The attraction, buried deep beneath layers of hurt and betrayal, was still there, potent and dangerous. She swallowed, forcing the memory of his sudden departure, the gnawing emptiness that had followed, to the forefront. "And I'm supposed to trust you now? After you vanished when things got complicated?"
"You don't have to trust me," Lucien stated, his voice dropping even lower, drawing her in . His eyes locked onto hers, a silent plea beneath the practiced control. "You just have to let me help you . Before it’s too late." He took another measured step closer, and this time, his hand did make contact, his gloved fingers brushing lightly against the curve of her jaw. Her skin prickled beneath the thin leather. "They are coming for you , Aurora. And I will not let them take you . Not like this." The confession hung in the air , heavy with unspoken history and present danger. "You need to leave this flat. Now."