Run: 2026-03-18-01KM08W4H456ZZ5J88MS51BPRA

The knock came at the door like a summons Rory couldn’t ignore. Three sharp raps, then a pause, then two more—his pattern from before. The knowledge coiled in her stomach before she even moved from the sagging armchair where she’d been skimming a dog-eared paperback on Welsh folklore. Ptolemy lifted his head from the stack of research notes beside her hip, tail flicking once in acknowledgment before settling back into a curl. Rory exhaled through her nose and set the book aside. The flat smelled of old spices from the curry house below, lavender-scented cleaner, and the faint metallic tang of damp London air creeping in through the single grimy window. She stood, joints popping, and crossed the threadbare rug to the door. The deadbolts were a ritual; the first one slipped free with a grinding click, the second with a sharper tug. She hesitated on the third, fingers hovering over the cold metal. *Don’t*. A voice in her head whispered. *Walk away.* But the knock came again, insistent. The third bolt slid aside. When she pulled the door open, Lucien Moreau stood on the other side, bathed in the sickly orange glow of the streetlamp outside. His tailored charcoal suit was immaculate as ever, the ivory handle of his cane glinting under the light. His heterochromatic eyes—amber and black—locked onto hers immediately, and Rory felt the old, familiar jolt in her chest, the one that had nothing to do with logic. “Rory,” he said, voice low, accented. The corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “It’s been too long.” She leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. The space between them was charged, thick with everything they hadn’t said the last time they’d seen each other. “Obviously not long enough,” she replied. Lucien didn’t flinch at the bite in her tone. His gaze flicked past her into the flat, taking in the chaos. Scrolls spilled off the coffee table, textbooks on folklore stacked haphazardly on the floor, the tabby cat—*Ptolemy*—staring at him with unblinking disdain from his perch on a pile of Eva’s notes. “You’re still researching the London shadows,” he observed. “And you're still showing up unannounced.” Rory stepped back, grudgingly, and gestured him inside. The flat was small, the walls lined with bookshelves bowed under the weight of knowledge she didn’t have the space to properly organise. Lucien’s broad shoulders nearly brushed both sides of the doorway as he entered, and he moved with the effortless grace of someone who knew exactly how imposing he was. She shut the door behind him, re-engaging the deadbolts with abrupt efficiency. The sudden click of the final lock sounded like a closing door between them, even if it wasn’t. Lucien didn’t sit. He stood near the armchair, cane hooked over his forearm, surveying the room with detached interest. “You’ve added new scars,” he noted, nodding toward her left wrist where the crescent-shaped mark peeked from beneath her sleeve. Rory tugged her sleeve down reflexively. “Not all of us were born with regrets etched into our skin.” That earned her a brief, dark chuckle. “Fair.” He shifted his weight, and the movement made the cane sway slightly. “I wouldn’t have come if it weren’t urgent.” “Urgent enough to risk this?” She gestured vaguely between them. Lucien’s gaze locked onto hers again, intense. “There’s always been a risk with you.” The words hung between them, heavy. Rory exhaled sharply and moved to the kettle on the counter. The flat’s kitchenette was a mess of mismatched mugs and half-empty takeaway containers. She filled the kettle, more for something to do than actual need. “Tea?” “Whiskey.” She paused mid-pour. Looked at him over her shoulder. “It’s ten in the morning.” “It’s after midnight somewhere.” Lucien stepped closer, close enough that she caught the scent of him—sandalwood and something faintly smoky, like a dying ember. “Unless you’ve lost your taste for good liquor.” Rory turned, leaning back against the counter. “I haven’t lost anything. I’ve just stopped letting people dictate what I should or shouldn’t do.” Lucien’s lips quirked. “Spoken like someone who still cares what I think.” She wanted to deny it. Wanted to throw something at him. Instead, she busied herself with pulling a chipped tumbler from the cupboard and pouring a generous measure of whiskey from the bottle Eva kept for emergencies. Handed it to him. He took it, fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. A spark. A flicker of heat that Rory ignored by turning away to switch on the kettle again. Lucien took a sip, then set the glass down on the counter. “You’re still working for Yu-Fei.” It wasn’t a question. Rory kept her back to him as she rooted through the cabinet for tea. “And you’re still running errands for London’s supernatural elite. Funny how things don’t change.” “You know they do.” He stepped up behind her, close enough that she could feel the warmth radiating off him. His voice dropped, rougher. “You just pretend you don’t.” Rory stilled. The kettle began to rumble, steam curling from its spout. “Pretending is one of my specialties.” Lucien’s breath was warm against the shell of her ear. “Is it?” She turned fast, nearly colliding with him. Close enough to see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his black pupil seemed to swallow the light. “What do you want, Lucien?” For a heartbeat, his gaze dropped to her mouth. The air between them thickened. Then he stepped back, retrieving his glass. “Information. The kind only you can get.” Rory crossed her arms. “You always come to me when you need something.” “And yet, here I am.” He took another sip. “You’re the only person in London who can translate those scrolls Eva left you.” The mention of Eva’s name sent a pang through her chest. She turned away, busying herself with the tea she didn’t want. “Eva’s notes are mine. Personal.” “Personal, or just another way to keep people out?” Rory gripped the counter. “You don’t get to psychoanalyse me from across the room. Not after three years.” Lucien set the glass down with a soft *clink*. “I know. That’s why I’m here in person.” She wanted to throw the tea at him. Wanted to scream. Instead, she faced him again, chin lifted. “What scrolls?” He reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a folded parchment, yellowed at the edges. Unrolled it just enough for her to see the strange, looping script—Elder Welsh, maybe, or something older. Something that made her pulse jump. “Eva was looking into the Hollow Church,” he said. “Specifically, what happened to the congregation that vanished eight years ago.” Rory’s fingers itched to take it. To touch the parchment. To see Eva’s handwriting in the margins. “You have no right—” “I have every right,” Lucien cut in. “Because whatever’s in that church is waking up, Rory. And it's not just humans disappearing this time.” She stared at him. The flat felt too small, the air too thick. The Hollow Church—the ruins on the edge of Epping Forest—had been a graveyard of whispers even before Eva started digging. Before whatever had happened to her. Rory snatched the scroll from him and retreated to the armchair, sinking into it with the parchment clutched in her hands. Ptolemy abandoned his perch and leapt onto her lap, a warm, heavy weight. Lucien didn’t sit. He loomed, cane planted beside him. “You're translating that tonight.” “Why should I help you?” “Because,” he said softly, “you know I’m not the one who hurt you.” The words hit like a blade twisted in an old wound. Rory’s breath caught. She looked up at him, really looked, and saw the truth in his eyes—whatever game he was playing, this wasn’t about revenge. Or at least, not hers. She unfolded the scroll, fingers trembling only slightly. “Fine. But you're staying out of my way.” Lucien exhaled, something like relief flickering across his face. “Deal.” But he didn’t move. Didn’t leave. Just stood there, watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Rory swallowed hard and bent her head over the scroll, the words blurring as her vision narrowed to the ink before her. The parchment smelled of dust and something older—like burnt offerings and forgotten prayers. Behind her, Lucien set his glass down again. This time, when he spoke, his voice was closer. Almost intimate. “Rory.” She didn’t look up. “What?” “You can pretend all you want.” His fingers brushed her hair aside, just for a second—too brief to be anything but an accident. “But I remember every sound you make when you're lying.” Her breath hitched. Lucien’s cane tapped twice against the floor, a silent step backward. “I’ll be downstairs. At Silas’.” She didn’t answer. The door clicked shut behind him a moment later. Rory stayed still, Ptolemy purring against her thighs, the scroll burning in her hands. And for the first time in years, she felt something shift inside her—not resolution, not forgiveness, but the tiniest crack in the dam she’d spent three years building.