Run: 2026-03-25-01KMJ7QRFT9RW4W71T7PKYN4AH

The door to the flat creaked as Aurora fumbled with her key, the scent of cumin and ginger from the curry house below clinging to her clothes. She’d just dropped off a late delivery at the Golden Empress and the ache in her feet made the narrow staircase up to Brick Lane feel endless. The three deadbolts clicked open with a muffled clatter, and she stepped inside, muttering a curse as she bumped her hip against the doorframe. A knock followed immediately. She froze. The flat was a warren of stacked books and loose papers, every surface colonized by Eva’s obsessive research. There was no guest—just Ptolemy lounging on the windowsill, tail flicking like a metronome. Aurora crossed the room, her reflection in the warped peephole making her wince. Her black hair hung limp, and the dim corridor light cast her crescent scar in shadow. She opened the door. The scent of sandalwood and something sharper hit her first—smoke, maybe, or blood. Lucien Moreau stood in the hall, one boot propped against the base of the door, his suit pristine despite the uneven streetlights staining the pavement gray. He looked her up and down, the way he’d used to when they’d gone undercover in Paris, and she felt like she’d been tapped over the head with a teacup. “Well,” he said. “You got slower.” The cat meowed from the window, a note of warning in the sound. Aurora crossed her arms, feeling the habit of distrust settle like a second skin. “If I let you in, do I get a reason or just more riddles, Luc?” His smirk didn’t reach his eyes—the amber one glinted, but the black one stayed flat, unreadable. He tapped the head of his cane against the doorframe. “I hear you’ve been asking questions about Evan.” Ice slithered down her spine. The name sliced through the cluttered room behind her, knocking over Eva’s notes, spilling the names of dead ends and half-truths. She swallowed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He stepped inside anyway, the cane sweeping past her hip like a metronome’s arm. “You know exactly what I mean. You think I haven’t checked the records? Domestic violence reports, restraining orders—charming, really. A barrister’s son, breaking fingers in aFlat on Brick Lane.” Aurora slammed the door shut behind him. “He’s dead, Lucien. You think I’d still be asking questions if he wasn’t?” His laugh had a brittle edge. “And yet here you are. Cardboard boxes full of *Divination for Beginners*, I imagine. Clueless owls in bow ties giving you data on ghosts.” He flicked his fingers at the mess on the kitchen table, the stack of books with Eva’s frantic annotations in the margins. “Perhaps you should let people who understand a bit more handle this.” She moved to block him, shoulders squared, the old argument rising between them like a phantom. He’d always been like this—too sure, too far above the rules, always brushing against the danger she’d been trained to avoid. “I don’t need a fixer with a death wish,” she snapped. “I need someone who can tell me what really happened the last time you got in over your head.” The silence stretched. Somewhere in the room, Ptolemy hissed. Lucien’s face shuttered. “You’re still angry about Marseille,” he said quietly. “Angry?” Aurora mimicked, her voice cold. “You left me on a street corner while an Obsidian Circle enforcer fired three rounds into the air. Anger doesn’t begin to cover it.” He took a step closer, the cane forgotten beside him. Moonlight seeped through the grimy windowpanes, catching the crescent scar on her wrist. For a moment, she thought he’d reach for it. “You were supposed to be safe,” he said. “Do you think I wanted to drag you into this?” “Too late for that.” She gestured at the room, at the trinkets Eva had bought from market stalls, the half-verified theories. “You think I believed the story about a ‘contract dispute’?” His jaw tightened, the demon blood in his veins making his pulse visible beneath his skin like a silver thread. “What if he didn’t kill himself? What if it wasn’t a suicide?” Aurora stiffened. The police report had been clean, the coroner’s findings unremarkable, but she’d seen the way the left side of Evan’s neck had healed—too fast, too smooth. It wasn’t something a human body did. Lucien watched her reaction, the smirk returning, slower now. “You saw it, didn’t you? The mark. He was being hunted.” She reached for the door. “I don’t have time for your theories, Lucien. I’m not your—” “Clever girl,” he interrupted, “but you’re standing in the same storm as me now. That mark on your ex? It’s from a weapon made by the same guild that tried to gut me in Marseille. You think I’m here for the *pleasure* of your company?” The sarcasm was a blade, but so was the weight of his gaze. Aurora hesitated. The scar on her wrist itched, as if the old cuts were still fresh. “What do you want?” He leaned in then, so close she could see the black pupil bleed into the amber, the unnatural shift of his gaze. “Information,” he whispered. “You have it. I’ll take whatever you’re holding back.” The air between them crackled. Somewhere downstairs, a car radio blared a French chanson. Aurora’s fingers curled into her palm. “If this is some half-cocked mission to prove your damn worth, I swear—” The phone in her pocket buzzed. Lucien was out the door before she could react, the slam of the lock echoing in the heavy silence. On the windowsill, Ptolemy arched his back and purred. Aurora stared at her scar, the phone blinking with an unknown number. It took her a full minute to realize she was trembling.