Run: 2026-07-07-01KWZ4HN82ETZVC25STJ5D4EK4

The deadbolt scraped against brass as Rory slid it back, the chain rattling next. Three locks. Eva's paranoia had rubbed off on her. She pulled the door open and the smell of curry houses and wet pavement washed in from Brick Lane below. Lucien Moreau stood on the landing, one hand resting on his ivory-handled cane, the other tucked into the pocket of his charcoal suit. Rain clung to his platinum blond hair, darkening it at the temples. "Rory." Her name in that Marseille drawl still did something to her chest. She hated that. "Luc." She kept her voice flat and her grip on the door edge tight. "You're a long way from Soho." "May I come in?" "No." He didn't flinch. His amber eye—the human one—held her gaze while the black one remained unreadable, a polished obsidian bead in the dim hall light. "I've been looking for you." "Found me." She shifted her weight, blocking the doorway with her body. "Congratulations. Now leave." Behind her, Ptolemy yowled from the stack of books on the kitchen counter. The cat hated strangers. Good instinct. Lucien's jaw tightened. A micro-movement, barely there. She'd learned to read those tiny tells during the three months they'd worked together. The way his knuckles whitened on the cane's handle when he was holding back something sharp. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't important." "You're always important, Luc. That's your whole thing." She crossed her arms. "What do you want?" He looked past her into the flat—the chaos of scrolls pinned to the walls, the chalk diagrams on the hardwood floor, the overflowing ashtray on the windowsill. Eva's research had expanded since the last time Rory slept here, covering every surface like a strange, obsessive garden. "You're staying with Eva." "Observant as always." "She's running something dangerous." Rory laughed, the sound hollow and sharp. "And you're the authority on what's dangerous? You, the fixer who trades secrets like poker chips?" Lucien's shoulders straightened. The rain dripped from the hem of his coat, pooling on the worn floorboards between them. "I didn't come here to argue." "Then why are you here?" A beat stretched between them, long enough for the question to settle into something heavier than she'd intended. His gaze dropped to her wrist—to the small crescent scar peeking out from under her rolled-up shirtsleeve. She pulled her arm back, tucking it behind her. He remembered. Of course he remembered. "I made a mistake," he said quietly. "Three months ago. When I let you walk out of that warehouse." Her breath caught, but she forced the air out slow and steady. "You didn't *let* me do anything. I walked because I had to. Because I found out what you were hiding." "Vauquelin's grimoire." "Don't say his name like it's casual." Her voice dropped, low and sharp. "You were feeding information to a demon-backed crime lord while pretending to help me. You used me to get to Eva's contacts." Lucien's hand moved from his pocket, fingers splayed in a gesture of surrender. "I was trying to protect you." "Bullshit." "Vauquelin had eyes on you from the moment you started asking questions about your father's death." His voice stayed even, but something flickered in his amber eye—a fracture in his composure she'd only seen once before. "I fed him enough to keep him satisfied. The real intel I buried." Rory shook her head, stepping back into the flat. "I don't believe you." He moved forward, and the door swung wider. "Then read my correspondence. I kept every letter, every coded message. You'll find nothing that could have led him to you or Eva." "And you just happened to keep proof of your innocence." "I keep proof of everything." He smiled, but it was tired, worn thin at the edges. "I'm a half-demon fixer in London's underworld. Trust isn't a currency I can afford to lose more of." Ptolemy jumped off the counter and wound between Rory's ankles, purring. A traitorous gesture. The cat liked him. Eva's cat liked everyone who smelled of secrets and foreign places. She didn't step aside, but she didn't close the door either. "Say I believe you. Why now? Why show up here after all this time?" "Because I've been watching the network around Eva's research. There's a player she doesn't know about. Someone feeding information to the same faction that burned your father's case files." The mention of her father hit low in her stomach. She'd been ten when Brendan Carter died. A car accident, they said. But the inconsistencies had gnawed at her for fifteen years. "What player?" "A woman called Solenne. No surname. She's been tracking your movements for two weeks." Rory's skin went cold. "And you're just telling me this now?" "I'm telling you this in person because I wanted to see your face when you heard it." His voice dropped, softer now. "I wanted you to see mine and know I'm telling the truth." She studied him—the sharp cut of his jaw, the way his fingers curled around the cane handle, the rain still dripping from his collar. He looked like he'd come straight from wherever he'd been, no time to compose himself. No time to build the careful mask he wore like armor. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The flat hummed with the distant sound of traffic from Brick Lane, the hiss of steam from the curry house below. "Come in," she said, stepping back. "But if you're lying, I'll gut you myself." Lucien crossed the threshold, and the door clicked shut behind him.