Run: 2026-03-18-01KM09NSEJ729WJ7DGJ0MVTCCA

The door groaned open before Rory’s knuckles could make contact with the wood again. She froze, one foot still on the stairs, the other on the landing. Eva’s flat always smelled like spices and old paper, but today it carried an extra layer—something metallic, like cut copper. Before she could call out, the scent shifted, softer, warmer. Cinnamon and smoke. Tobacco. Her breath caught. Lucien stood in the doorway, one hand resting against the frame, the other tucked deep in the pocket of his charcoal coat. The ivory handle of his cane glinted under the flickering bulb of the hallway light. His heterochromatic gaze locked onto hers, amber catching the dim glow like fire behind glass. “Surprise,” he murmured, no trace of his usual French accent sprinkled through. Just flat, British enunciation—sharp and clean. Rory’s stomach dropped like she’d missed a step on the stairs. She gripped the railing, knuckles whitening. “What the hell are you doing here?” Lucien didn’t step back. Didn’t smile. Just watched her with that unblinking stare, one corner of his mouth twitching—whether in amusement or regret, she couldn’t tell. “Eva told me you’d moved in. Figured I’d check on an old… acquaintance.” “Acquaintance.” The word tasted bitter. “Right. Just needed to see how the ex-client is doing.” “You were never just a client.” “No?” She tilted her head, voice low, dangerous. “Then what was I?” He exhaled through his nose, slow. “A complication.” Rory’s fingers twitched at her side. She wanted to step forward, to shove past him into the flat, to slam the door in his face. But she couldn’t move. Not yet. Something about the way he stood there—still, composed, like he owned the air between them—rooted her to the spot. “You could’ve called.” “I could have.” He shifted his weight slightly, the cane making no sound against the worn carpet. “But you don’t answer when I do.” True. She didn’t. Not since the job in Marseille. Not since the night he’d kissed her in a back alley while rain slicked down their coats and steam rose off cobblestones like ghosts. Not since she’d left without saying goodbye, not since she’d told herself it was for the best. “What do you want, Lucien?” His jaw tightened. Just once. “To know you’re safe.” Rory let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You? Concerned about my safety? The man who sold information to the Blackthorn Cartel last month? The one who arms half the supernatural underworld in Whitechapel?” His lips pressed into a thin line. “Not all trades are clean.” “No. Some are just rot.” His eyes darkened. “You think I don’t know that?” The silence between them turned thick, suffocating. From inside the flat, Ptolemy yowled—a sharp, demanding sound, like he’d sensed the tension. Rory’s grip on the railing loosened. She took a step back, then another, until she could barely see Lucien through the gap. “I can’t do this. Not now. Not after everything.” “I know.” “Then why are you here?” Her voice cracked. She hated it. Hated that he made her feel raw, exposed. He didn’t answer right away. His gaze flickered past her, into the flat, where Eva’s chaos lived—scrolls spilling off the sofa, a coffee cup ring on a stack of rare books, Ptolemy now visible, tail flicking as he observed them with disdain. “Because I need your help.” Rory laughed again, sharper this time. “Help? From me? You’ve got half of London at your beck and call.” “Not for something like this.” “What’s it for?” “A name.” He pulled his free hand from his pocket. Between his fingers dangled a silver locket—small, intricately engraved, its clasp broken. “This belongs to someone who matters to me. Someone they took.” Rory’s chest tightened. She knew that look in his eyes. Desperation, thinly veiled. It wasn’t something she’d seen often. Never in him. “Who took them?” “Duskborn Syndicate.” She heard the capital S in his voice. Not just any thieves. A cult. Fanatics who believed in restoring the old powers—by force. “Why come to *me*?” “Because you’re the only one who ever found things no one else could.” His eyes locked onto hers. “And because you’re the only one I trust to burn the Syndicate down.” Rory exhaled sharply. “That’s not trust. That’s calculation.” “Maybe.” He held out the locket. It swung slightly, catching the light. “Take it. Or don’t. But the offer stands.” She didn’t reach for it. Inside, Ptolemy yowled again, louder now, edging closer to the door. Lucien’s gaze flicked toward the flat once more, then back to Rory. “You’re not alone in there. Good. I didn’t want to force entry.” “Force entry?” She scoffed. “You? Never.” He almost smiled. Almost. Then he stepped back, just a single pace, enough to give her space. The locket still dangled between them. Rory wanted to slam the door. To lock herself in. To forget she’d ever met him. But the way he stood there—unyielding, vulnerable in his own way—made her fingers twitch. She reached out. Took the locket. Its weight was heavier than it looked. Lucien’s breath seemed to leave him. “You’ll help?” “I’ll think about it.” “That’s all I ask.” She gripped the locket tightly, the cold metal biting into her palm. “Don’t call me again.” For a second, she thought he’d protest. That he’d argue. That he’d remind her of past debts, of favors owed. But he didn’t. “Understood,” he said softly. Then he turned, his polished shoes clicking against the stairs as he descended, coat swaying with each step. The scent of cinnamon and smoke faded first. Then the metallic edge. Until only the spice of Eva’s curry remained, still clinging to the air like a memory. Rory stood there, heart pounding, the broken locket burning in her grip. She waited until his footsteps disappeared down the stairs. Then she shut the door. But before she could lock the three deadbolts, Eva’s voice called from inside. “Who the *fuck* was that?” Rory leaned her forehead against the door, exhaling slowly. “A ghost,” she whispered.