Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0A11180CN2RFB1K5E5959T

The neon flicker of a chicken tikka sign painted Eva’s living room wall alternating gold and red. Through the thin curtains, Brick Lane’s evening bustle rumbled below—car horns, shouts, the occasional bass drop from a passing car. Rory froze halfway between the door and the kitchen, the tea towel still twisted in her hands. The knock came again, sharper this time. Three raps, then a pause, then two more. A pattern. Her pulse jumped. That wasn’t Eva’s rhythm. Eva knocked like she was playing a piano with one finger—PTOOOM, PTOOOM, PTOOOM—never in code. The cat, Ptolemy, lifted his head from the pile of receipts he’d been napping on. His yellow eyes locked onto the door. A slow blink. Disapproval, maybe. Or just judgment. Rory set the towel down. Pressed a finger to the peephole. Blue iris glowing back. One amber eye. The other black, almost swallowed by the pupil. Pup. Of course it was him. She yanked the door open. Lucien Moreau stood in the hallway, bathed in the sickly glow of the curry house sign behind him. Tailored charcoal suit, immaculate even in the dim light. Platinum blond hair slicked back like polished metal. Ivory cane resting against the doorframe, the Knife inside it no doubt whispering against the bone handle. He didn’t smile. Never did. “Rory,” he said, voice smooth as aged brandy, rolling the r perfectly. She didn’t move. Didn’t step back. Just stood there in her faded jeans and stained tee, barefoot on the threadbare mat. “Lucien,” she said. Warm evening air rushed in, carrying the scent of fried onions and diesel. The cat slunk closer, tail flicking against Rory’s ankle. She felt his judgment like a cold draft. He tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking past her into the flat. “Eva’s not here.” “Wasn’t expecting her.” A beat. His gaze dropped to her wrist—the small crescent scar peeking out from under her sleeve. The one he’d seen a dozen times before, each time tying another knot in whatever invisible thread still connected them. “May I come in?” he asked. She exhaled through her nose. Not a laugh. Not a sigh. Just air leaving lungs, the kind that carries away something you didn’t mean to keep. He stepped across the threshold before she could answer. The flat reacted instantly—walls covered in bookshelves bowed under the weight of occult texts, yellowed maps, stacks of handwritten notes in Eva’s looping cursive. A skeleton of a crow hung from the ceiling fan, catching the neon’s glow like fractured stained glass. The cat wound between Lucien’s polished shoes, affectionate as a shadow. Rory closed the door. The deadbolts clicked into place like the last notes of a bad song ending. Lucien turned. “You look well.” She crossed her arms. “You look expensive.” He gave her the ghost of a smirk. “That’s the idea.” Ptolemy leapt onto the windowsill, tail lashing as he surveyed the street below. The cat had opinions. Rory knew what his were. “What are you doing here, Luc?” He tapped the cane once against the floor, a single, deliberate strike. “Business.” “In Brick Lane? Since when?” “Since always.” He crossed to the small table where Rory kept her kettle and a chipped mug. Ran a fingertip along the rim. “You still take it black, no sugar.” “You still remember trivial shit about me.” “You still leave your tea to go cold.” She picked up the towel, folded it neatly. “You’re not here to talk about tea.” He set the cane against the table, leaned on it lightly. “No. I’m here about the location charm Eva handled last week.” Rory stilled. “You mean the one she didn’t get paid for?” “Exactly.” “So you show up when she’s out? Convenient.” “I showed up when I had reason to believe she might have information I need.” “Or you knew I’d be here.” He looked at her. Really looked. Not with his usual polished detachment, but with something raw beneath it. Something hungry. “You left Cardiff without a word,” he said. She tossed the towel onto the counter. “I told you I was leaving.” “Not the same.” “It is when you don’t warn people.” “You think I wanted to scare you?” “You wanted me to run?” His jaw tightened. Just for a second. But she saw it. Saw the fracture in his armor. “Rory,” he began, then stopped. The flat felt too small. The neon bleed too bright. She moved to the window, pulled the curtain tight except for a sliver. The street below jittered with life—drunk students, a guy selling bootleg DVDs, a young couple arguing over a kebab. She spoke without turning. “I trusted you.” “And?” “And you let me walk into that warehouse like it was nothing.” He exhaled through his nose. A sound like a man bracing for impact. “I told you the risks.” “You didn’t tell me Evan would have friends with real metal.” A pause. She felt it like a blade between ribs. “He shouldn’t have known you were there.” “He knew.” She turned. “He knew, Luc. That only happens if someone talks.” The flat was deathly still. Even Ptolemy had gone rigid, belly pressed to the windowsill like a furred lodestone. Lucien’s fingers tapped once against the cane. One. Two. Three. “You think I sold you out.” “I think,” she said, voice low, “that you didn’t check your sources well enough.” “You think I’m careless.” “Or complicit.” He went very still. The air thickened. The neon behind her pulsed, painting his face in flickering amber and black. Then he laughed. Not a sound of humor. A sound of defeat. “Christ, Rory. After everything—” “After what? After you taught me to load a revolver in an alley behind a jazz club? After you showed me how to spot a glamour from a mile out? After you kissed me in the back of that taxi and told me it wouldn’t complicate things?” She stepped closer. “Complications don’t just vanish, Luc. They *roost*. And yours flew back to me in a black van with Evan’s initials.” He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “You think I wanted that?” he asked quietly. “You didn’t *prevent* it.” Silence. The curry house sign outside cast a sickly rhythm over them—red, gold, red, gold—like a pulse. Then Lucien moved. Just a shift of weight, but it changed the room. The cane came up, ivory handle glinting. “Eva took payment in favors,” he said. “Not coin. Last night, her flat was broken into. Nothing taken. No signs of forced entry. Just… *bother*.” Rory went very quiet. “You think they were looking for something.” “Or sending a message.” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap down and rub against her leg. She reached down absently, fingers threading through his fur. “Why tell me now?” “Because you’re part of this too.” He tapped the cane against the floor again. *Thud. Thud.* “Eva’s gone. Left a note saying she needed fresh air. Your friend in Cardiff—Brendan—answered his phone once, slurred. Said you left in a hurry. Then silence.” She swallowed. “You tracked me down.” “I followed the trail to where it ended.” Another beat. The flat felt like a cage. “And?” “And,” he said, “I need your help finding whatever they took from Eva’s place. And I need it *now*.” Rory barked a laugh. Sharp. Bitter. “Wow. Direct. No nostalgia. No apologies. Just business.” “Would an apology change anything?” She stared at him. Blue eyes meeting heterochromatic gaze. The scar on her wrist itched. “Probably not.” “Then we skip it.” She turned to the kettle. Filled it at the sink. The sound of running water filled the silence. “Fine,” she said. “But I’m not doing this because you asked nicely.” He almost smiled. “I never asked nicely.” She plugged the kettle in. Waited for the click. “Where did they hit Eva’s place?” “Front door,” he said. “Not broken. But the lock’s been *reworked*. Like someone picked it in reverse.” Rory glanced back. “Like the charm we lifted from the Thames docks last year.” “Exactly like.” She exhaled through her teeth. “So they’re not just amateurs. They’re methodical.” “Or lucky.” “Or *both*.” The kettle rumbled to life. Rory leaned against the counter, arms crossed again. “You realize if we go poking, we’re walking into the same viper pit.” “That’s why I came.” She looked at him. Really looked. No easy words. No grand gestures. Just two people who knew each other’s rhythms, who’d danced this dance before, under different names, different disguises. And this time, the music was wrong. Lucien’s cane tapped once against the floor. Waiting. She turned off the kettle before it could boil. “Get your coat,” she said. “We’re going window shopping.”