Run: 2026-07-07-01KWZ40HCAEEJWTYKAX7V1CHP1

The rain had followed her all the way from Soho. Aurora stood on the worn doormat outside Eva's flat, water dripping from the hem of her denim jacket onto the welcome mat that read "GO AWAY" in faded letters. She'd walked the forty minutes from Yu-Fei's restaurant, her shift finished at eleven, her feet aching, her mind churning with what she'd seen in the alley behind the casino. The thing with too many teeth that had worn a human face. She lifted her fist to knock, then stopped. The light under the door was on, but that meant nothing — Eva kept lamps burning at all hours, claimed the dark made the shadows restless. Rory could hear the low murmur of a voice inside. Not Eva's. Male. Accented. She should leave. Come back tomorrow. Pretend she hadn't seen what she'd seen, that she didn't need someone to tell her she wasn't losing her mind. The door swung open before she could decide. Lucien Moreau stood in the frame, one hand still on the brass knob, the other braced on his ivory-handled cane. He wore a charcoal suit, tie loosened, top button undone. His platinum hair was slicked back as always, not a strand out of place despite the hour. The amber eye caught the hallway light and gleamed warm. The black one absorbed it. "Rory." His voice carried that Marseille warmth, the vowels slightly stretched. He said her name like it surprised him. "What are you doing here?" He tilted his head, and a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. "Eva called me. She said you were in trouble." "I didn't ask for—" She stopped. Stepped back. "Is she here?" "Went to fetch some things from the shop. Her words, not mine." Lucien stepped aside, gesturing with the cane toward the cramped flat behind him. "She'll be back in an hour. You can wait out here in the hallway, or you can come in and explain why you're soaking wet and shaking." Rory's hand tightened on the strap of her messenger bag. "I'm not shaking." "You are." He didn't say it cruel. Just factual, like he was reading a weather report. "Come in. I won't bite." "Your kind bites." Something flickered in his mismatched eyes — a wince, quickly masked. "Some of us have better manners than others." He held the door wider. She should leave. The thought came again, clearer this time. She should turn around, walk back down the four flights of stairs, and figure this out on her own. That's what she'd been doing for six months. That's what she'd chosen, the morning she'd walked out of his flat in Mayfair with her bag packed and her jaw set. But the thing in the alley had had three rows of teeth, and it had looked at her like she was dinner, and she didn't have anyone else to ask. Rory stepped inside. The flat smelled like sandalwood and old paper, the same as always. Eva's research covered every surface — stacked on the coffee table, piled on the armchair, spilling off the kitchen counter. Ptolemy the tabby lifted his head from his perch on a stack of books, blinked at her, and went back to sleep. Lucien closed the door and turned the three deadbolts one by one. The clicks echoed in the small space. "Tea?" he asked, moving past her toward the kitchenette. "Don't put anything in it." He paused, his back to her. "I wouldn't." "You did before." He turned, and there it was — the thing she'd been avoiding for half a year. The weight of what they'd barely started before she'd run. His amber eye caught the lamplight, earnest in a way that didn't match his reputation. "That was a drought of clarity. To help you see clearly what you were running from. I told you what it was before you drank it." "You told me after." "Would it have changed anything?" Rory didn't answer. She dropped her messenger bag by the door and walked to the window, looking down at the wet street below. Brick Lane was quiet at this hour, the curry houses closed, the bagel shop still glowing at the corner. "I saw something tonight," she said. "Something that doesn't exist." "Many things that don't exist in your world exist in others." "Don't." She turned to face him. "Don't do the cryptic fixer thing. I need—" She stopped, pressed her palm to her forehead. "I need a straight answer. Just once." Lucien set the kettle to boil and leaned against the counter, crossing his arms. The movement pulled his jacket open, revealing the harness beneath. She'd seen it before. Knew the knife that sat under his arm, the one he'd shown her once, how to grip it, how to drive it upward into soft tissue. "What did you see?" "A man. Looked normal. Expensive suit, good shoes, cufflinks." She dropped her hand. "Then he opened his mouth to laugh, and his jaw unhinged like a snake's. Three rows of teeth. Going all the way back." Lucien's expression didn't change. "What happened then?" "I ran." "Smart." "He looked at me. Before I ran. He knew I saw." "Then he'll come looking." Lucien said it flat, like he was commenting on the weather again. "You'll need protection." "I don't want your protection." "Didn't say you'd get it from me." He pushed off the counter and walked toward her, the cane tapping a rhythm against the floorboards. He stopped a foot away, close enough that she could smell his cologne — something dark and woody, with a hint of smoke. "But you came here. To Eva's. And Eva called me before she left. So you're going to get it whether you want it or not." Rory held his gaze. The black eye was hard to read, but the amber one was not. It held concern and something else she didn't want to name. "I didn't come here for you." "No." His voice softened. "You never do. But you keep ending up in my orbit regardless." She should have stayed outside in the rain. Should have walked the other way, found a cheap hotel, called in sick tomorrow. Made this someone else's problem. "Tell me what it was," she said. "A ghoul. Low-ranking. They serve higher powers in the city. Scavengers, mostly. They clean up what the others leave behind." He reached out, slowly, giving her time to pull away. When she didn't, his fingers brushed a strand of wet hair from her face. "You crossed paths with the wrong one at the wrong time." "And now?" "Now you stay here tonight. We talk to Eva when she gets back. Tomorrow, we figure out why a ghoul was in Soho when they're supposed to keep to the river districts." "We." "Yes." His hand dropped. "We." Rory's chest tightened. She looked away, at the books, the cat, the rain-streaked window. "I can't do this again, Luc." He didn't pretend not to understand. "I'm not asking you to stay. I'm asking you to survive until morning." She let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. It shook on the way out. She hated that it shook. "Fine." The kettle clicked off. Lucien turned to pour the water, and Rory watched the muscles move beneath his suit jacket, watched the careful precision of his hands. The same hands that had once traced the crescent scar on her wrist and told her it meant she was lucky. The same hands she'd pushed away three months ago because she was too afraid of what she felt when he touched her. He set a mug on the table. "Milk, no sugar. You used to drink it that way." "You remember." "I remember everything." She wrapped her hands around the warm ceramic and didn't say anything at all.