Run: 2026-04-24-01KQ0A4TT848Q7D0E7QMFVM68V

The knock came at half past eleven. Three sharp raps against the door, the kind that demanded an answer rather than requested one. Rory set down Ptolemy's food bowl. The tabby wound between her ankles, complaining about the interruption to his dinner. She crossed the cramped living room, stepping over stacks of Eva's research papers, and peered through the peephole. Her stomach dropped. Three deadbolts. She'd promised Eva she'd use all three. Her fingers hovered over the first, then the second, then the third, each click echoing through the quiet flat. She pulled the door open. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway, platinum hair slicked back as though he'd just stepped from a tailor's shop rather than the rain-soaked streets of East London. Water darkened the shoulders of his charcoal suit. His ivory-handled cane hung from his right hand, and those mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—met hers with an intensity that made her chest tighten. "Rory." "Don't call me that." "Ah." His jaw shifted. "Aurora, then." She leaned against the doorframe. "How did you find this place?" "Finding people is what I do." "And showing up unannounced at half past eleven—is that also what you do?" Ptolemy trotted over to investigate, pressing his orange fur against Lucien's trouser leg. The Frenchman glanced down, and something soft flickered across his features before he composed himself again. "May I come in?" "No." The word hung between them. Rain dripped somewhere outside, the sound filtering through the old building's pipes. Lucien's grip tightened on his cane. "I wouldn't have come if it weren't important." "Important to who? You?" She crossed her arms. "Because the last time we spoke, you made it rather clear that your interests and mine don't align." "That's not—" "What? Not what you meant? When you told me I was a liability? When you said I'd get myself killed if I kept asking questions about Avaros?" She heard her own voice rising and forced it down. "You were pretty explicit, Lucien. No ambiguity there." He removed his hand from the cane and placed it flat against the doorframe, leaning closer. Amber and black held her gaze without flinching. "I was wrong." The admission landed like a stone in still water. "You were—" She huffed. "That's it? Three months of nothing, and you show up at my friend's flat in the middle of the night to tell me you were wrong?" "What would you have me say?" An apology would be a start. The words bubbled up, but she swallowed them. Demanding apologies felt like asking for something she'd already decided she didn't need. Ptolemy meowed, pawing at Lucien's shoe. "You should let me in," Lucien said. "There are things happening in the underworld. Things you need to know." "The underworld can wait until morning." "It can't." She searched his face—the sharp line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the way water clung to his collar. Something had shaken him. Lucien Moreau didn't rattle easily, but tonight he carried an energy she'd never seen in him before. "Five minutes," she said, stepping aside. He entered the flat, and the space seemed to shrink around him. Every surface covered with books and scrolls, the low ceiling, the single window overlooking Brick Lane—it all felt smaller with his presence filling it. Lucien surveyed the chaos of Eva's research. "This is where you've been staying?" "Eva's been kind enough to let me crash here while I figure things out." "And the delivery work? Yu-Fei's restaurant?" She stiffened. "Keeping tabs on me?" "Keeping track." His eyes met hers again. "There's a difference." Ptolemy hopped onto the sofa, settling atop a pile of papers as though claiming territory. Lucien remained standing, his cane planted between his feet, watching her. "So," Rory said. "What's so urgent that it couldn't wait until a reasonable hour?" Lucien reached into his jacket pocket and withdrew a folded paper. He held it out to her. She didn't take it. "What is that?" "A photograph. Taken yesterday evening outside the Golden Empress." Her pulse picked up. She kept her hands at her sides. "And?" "Look at it, Aurora." The way he said her name—full, formal, as though it carried weight—made her stomach flip. She reached for the photograph. The image showed a figure lurking in the shadows across from the Golden Empress. The quality was poor, grainy, clearly taken from a distance, but something about the posture, the breadth of the shoulders— "Evan." The name fell out of her like a curse. "He's been watching the restaurant," Lucien said. "Which means he's watching you." She handed the photograph back, her hand trembling. She curled her fingers into a fist to hide it. "I can handle Evan." "Can you?" The question wasn't dismissive. It was genuine, searching. She turned away, facing the cluttered bookshelves. Eva's notes on Avarosian gateways and demonic hierarchies stared back at her, incomprehensible in her current state. "You didn't come here to warn me about Evan," she said. "You came here because whatever's happening in the underworld involves him somehow. Doesn't it?" Silence stretched behind her. "Lucien." "He's made contact with someone from Avaros. Someone connected to my father's lineage." She spun to face him. "What does that mean?" "It means your ex-boyfriend has aligned himself with forces that could destroy him—and you along with him, if you remain in his orbit." "My orbit?" She barked a bitter laugh. "I left. I'm the one who walked away. If he's circling, that's not my orbit, that's his refusal to accept reality." Lucien set the photograph on top of a stack of books. He moved closer—close enough that she caught the scent of rain and sandalwood emanating from him. "I told you to stop asking questions because I wanted to protect you." "Right. Protection. That's why you cut me off without explanation." "I thought distance would keep you safe." "Well, it didn't." She jabbed a finger toward the window. "Evan's still out there. And now apparently he's tangled up with demons from another realm. So tell me, Lucien—how's that distance working out?" His expression shifted. Hurt surfaced, naked and unguarded, before he masked it again. "Poorly," he admitted. The admission knocked something loose in her chest. Ptolemy chirped from the sofa, demanding attention. Neither of them moved. "You should sit down," she said finally. "You're dripping rain onto Eva's floor." "I don't intend to stay long." "Sit down anyway." He hesitated, then lowered himself onto the edge of the sofa. Ptolemy immediately claimed his lap, purring with shameless enthusiasm. Lucien's hand came up to stroke the cat's fur, and the gesture was so unexpectedly tender that Rory had to look away. She perched on the edge of Eva's desk, arms crossed. "Start from the beginning. Who contacted Evan, and what do they want?" "A demon named Vorath. He deals in bargains—specifically, bargains that exploit human weakness." Lucien's mismatched eyes lifted to hers. "Evan made a deal. I don't know the terms yet, but I know Vorath doesn't offer anything without extracting triple the value in return." "And you're telling me this because..." "Because you're in danger. Because Vorath knows you're connected to me, and that makes you a target." "Connected to you?" She tilted her head. "You told me we weren't connected. You told me—" "I know what I told you." His voice sharpened. "I was trying to keep you safe." "And I told you—I don't need protection. I need information. I need to understand what's happening so I can make informed choices." "Like the informed choice you made when you left Cardiff?" The blow landed. She stood, her pulse loud in her ears. "That's low." "I apologise." He said it stiffly, formally, but his hand had stilled on Ptolemy's back. "That was uncalled for." "Damn right it was." They stared at each other. The flat felt airless, the walls pressing inward. "Why are you really here?" she asked. "I told you—" "You told me about Vorath. You told me about Evan. But you didn't tell me why you, specifically, came to tell me in person at eleven-thirty at night." She stepped closer. "You have people who work for you. Messengers. Fixers. You could have sent someone else." "I needed to see you." The words dropped into the space between them. Ptolemy leapt from Lucien's lap, abandoning him for the warmth of the radiator. Without the cat as a buffer, Lucien looked almost vulnerable—a look she'd never associated with him. "I needed to know you were safe," he continued. "I needed to see for myself." "Lucien..." "Three months." He rose, closing the distance until he stood close enough that she could count the water droplets clinging to his eyelashes. "Three months of convincing myself that staying away was the right choice. That leaving you alone was the only way to keep you from the chaos of my world." "And now?" "Now I'm standing in your friend's flat at half past eleven, realising that staying away didn't protect you at all." His voice dropped. "It only kept me from protecting you myself." She should step back. She should tell him to leave, to stick to his original conviction, to stop confusing things that were already complicated enough. She didn't move. "This doesn't change anything," she said. "No?" "You still walked away. You still decided for both of us what was best without asking me." "I did." "And you think you can just show up with a photograph and an apology and—what? Pick up where we left off?" His jaw tightened. "I don't expect anything." "Then what do you want?" The question hung there, demanding an answer. Lucien's hand lifted—slowly, giving her time to pull away—and touched her cheek. His fingers were cool from the rain, and the contact sent a shiver through her. "I want," he said quietly, "to not make the same mistake twice."