Run: 2026-02-25-01KJBKT95V5HP1SFXMR9MYH9N4

The chain lock rattled against the wood before the deadbolt clicked. Rory pulled the door open, the brass handle cold against her palm. Rain slicked the narrow hallway, smelling of wet wool and the stale alcohol drifting up from Silas' bar below. Lucien Moreau stood on the threshold, water beading on the charcoal wool of his suit. He held the ivory handle of his cane in a gloved hand, the tip resting lightly on the worn floorboards. He didn't step forward. He didn't smile. The amber eye caught the dim hallway light, while the black one remained a void. Rory leaned against the doorframe, her shoulder pressing into the peeling paint. She kept her left hand tucked into the pocket of her hoodie, fingers tracing the crescent scar on her wrist. You weren't supposed to be here. Her voice came out steady, though her throat felt tight. Lucien tilted his head. The platinum hair, usually slicked back, carried a few stray strands dampened by the London drizzle. Plans change. The city moves fast, Rory. You know that better than most. He shifted his weight. The cane clicked against the floor, a sharp sound in the quiet building. I'm busy. Busy delivering food or busy hiding? The question hung in the air. Rory pushed off the doorframe, stepping back to let him pass. He didn't move until she cleared the space. He stepped over the threshold, bringing the scent of expensive cologne and rain into the cramped flat. The air already held the smell of old books and dust from her research notes scattered on the coffee table. He set the cane against the wall. It stood straight, a silent threat disguised as decor. You're blocking the light. Rory crossed her arms. The fabric of her hoodie stretched over her shoulders. She watched his hands. They were steady. Always steady. I said I'm busy. And yet, you opened the door. Lucien moved deeper into the room. His boots made no sound on the floorboards. He stopped near the kitchenette, looking at the kettle sitting on the burner. A single cup sat on the counter, steam long gone. I didn't open it for you. You did. He turned. The movement was fluid, practiced. He looked at her, really looked at her, the way he used to before the last time they met in the alley behind the market. Before the blood and the fire. I need information. Rory let out a short breath that might have been a laugh. She walked past him toward the window, pulling the curtain back an inch. The streetlights below cast a yellow glow on the wet pavement. You have a phone. You have contacts. You have a network of spies and demons. You don't need me. I need you. The words landed heavy. Rory turned back. She kept her distance, the space between them charged with static. Why? The situation involves something you know. Something you saw. I saw a lot of things. Most of them I'd rather forget. Lucien reached into his jacket pocket. Rory flinched, her hand instinctively moving toward the knife she kept in her boot. He pulled out a folded piece of paper, not a weapon. He placed it on the table. The paper slid across the wood, stopping inches from her hand. It's a location. A time. She didn't touch it. Why bring it to me? Because you think clearly when you're angry. Rory picked up the paper. Her fingers trembled, just once. She smoothed the crease. The address was in the East End. A warehouse district. This is a trap. It's a meeting. With who? Lucien walked to the window, standing beside her. He didn't look at the street. He looked at her reflection in the glass. Someone who knows your father. Rory's grip tightened on the paper. The edges crinkled under her thumb. She looked at the scar on her wrist again. Brendan Carter. The barrister who left Cardiff and never looked back. The man who told her to run. He's dead. Is he? Lucien's voice dropped, losing its polished edge. The amber eye seemed to glow in the dim light. I don't know. That's why I'm here. I need to know if he's alive before I walk into that warehouse. You want me to go with you. I want you to decide. Rory dropped the paper on the table. It landed with a soft thud. She walked to the kitchen, pouring cold water from the tap into the empty cup. She drank it in one long pull, the water sharp and metallic. If I go, I'm not your backup. I wouldn't expect you to be. I'm not your partner. No. You're the only one who can read the cipher on the door. She set the cup down. The porcelain clicked against the laminate. You're asking me to walk into a room with a demon hunter because of a hunch about my dead father. I'm asking you to walk into a room because you're the only person I trust with a gun. Rory turned. She looked at the cane leaning against the wall. The blade concealed within. She looked at the man who held it. You don't trust anyone. I trust you to survive. Rory walked to the coat rack. She pulled down a heavier jacket, shaking the dust from the fabric. She slid her arms into the sleeves, zipping it up to her chin. I need my bag. Lucien nodded. He didn't move from the window. He watched her move, his posture relaxed, but his eyes sharp. Take the knife. I have it. Good. Rory grabbed her bag from the chair. She slung it over her shoulder, checking the weight of the contents. She walked past him to the door. Wait. She stopped, hand on the knob. If this is a setup, Lucien. It isn't. You better be right. She opened the door. The noise from the bar below swelled, a bass-heavy thump that vibrated through the floor. Lucien stepped out into the hallway, closing the distance between them. He didn't touch her, but his presence filled the narrow space. We leave now. Rory looked at him. The rain outside had picked up, drumming against the brickwork of the building. She thought of the scar on her wrist. The pain that never fully faded. Lead the way. Lucien turned, his cane tapping once against the wood. He didn't look back. He knew she was following. He knew she had no choice. They walked down the stairs, the shadows swallowing them one by one. The door to the flat clicked shut, leaving the paper on the table, the steam from the kettle long cold.