Run: 2026-09-03-01M1K5HXVSVXC7F41NFQTCPS7N

The first deadbolt gave under her thumb. The second stuck. Rory braced a shoulder against the door of the flat on Brick Lane and shoved the third bolt home with the heel of her palm. The curry house below breathed heat and cumin up through the floorboards. It clung to the stacks of books and the loose scrolls and the research notes that buried each surface of Eva's one-bedroom. Ptolemy wound between her ankles. His tail brushed her calf. She pulled the door in. Lucien Moreau filled the landing. Rain beaded on the shoulders of his charcoal suit. His platinum hair lay slicked back from his forehead. Rain darkened the ends. His left hand gripped the ivory handle of his cane. One eye burned amber in the hall light. The other stayed black all the way through. Rory kept her hand on the edge of the door. "You." "You screen visitors through a peephole first." "I know who lives here." His gaze swept past her into the crush of paper and lamplight. Ptolemy pressed his forehead to her shin and stared at the stranger with round green eyes. "Is Eva home?" "No." "Good." He stepped forward. Rory did not move back. The toe of his shoe met the threshold. The cane tapped once against the worn lino. "You came all the way to Brick Lane for small talk." "I came because you stopped answering your phone." "I changed my number." "I know." The hall smelled of fried onions and damp wool. A bus growled past on the street below. Rory tightened her fingers on the door. The crescent scar on her left wrist paled against her skin. "You walked out in Marseille Street. You do not get to knock now." "I waited three hours." "You left after four." His jaw worked. He looked at her mouth, then at the scar, then back to her eyes. Bright blue caught amber and held. "You remember the exact count." "I remember a lot of things." Ptolemy mewed and pushed through the gap. He sniffed Lucien's trouser cuff. Lucien glanced down. He shifted his weight off the cane and nudged the cat aside with polished leather. "Let me in, Rory." "No." "Eva asked me to come." That landed. Rory straightened. Black hair stuck to her cheek where the steam from below had dampened it. She pushed it back with her scarred wrist. "Eva has not called me in two days." "I know where she went." The landing bulb buzzed. Moths knocked against the cage. Rain drummed the window at the turn of the stairs. Rory studied the line of his mouth, the crease between his brows, the rain on his collar. She stepped aside. He entered sideways to keep the cane clear of the doorframe. The flat swallowed him. Books towered on kitchen chairs. Scrolls spilled from the sink. Research notes papered the fridge with magnets shaped like fruit. The air tasted of turmeric and old paper and cat. Lucien took in the mess with a flick of his mismatched eyes. "She added to the collection." "She sleeps under it now." Rory kicked the door shut with her heel and threw the bolts. One. Two. Three. The clicks rang loud in the small room. She turned. He stood too close in the narrow galley between table and wall. The lapel of his suit brushed her sleeve. She moved to the kettle. "You want tea." "I want five minutes." "You never drink tea." "I drink it when you make it." The kettle clicked onto the hob. Rory struck a match. The gas caught with a soft whump. Blue flame licked the blackened base. She folded her arms and leaned back against the counter. The edge dug into her spine. "Talk." Lucien set the cane against the table and shrugged out of his jacket. Water scattered from the shoulders onto the notes. He folded the jacket over a chair already piled with hardbacks. His waistcoat strained at the buttons. His shirt cuffs bore small onyx links. "Eva chased a name I gave her." "What name." "Malphora." Rory went still. Ptolemy jumped onto the table and kneaded a stack of photocopies. His claws pricked through the top sheet. "You told her to stop." "I told her to wait." "You told me the same thing in London last spring and then you vanished." His amber eye narrowed. His black eye seemed to drink the lamplight. "You told me to go." "I told you to pick a side." "I picked yours." The kettle hissed. Steam curled up and fogged the window above the sink. Drops ran down the glass and cut lines through the grime. Rory turned and grabbed two mugs from the drainer. One bore a chip on the rim. The other read CARDIFF UNIVERSITY in faded red letters. She set them down hard. Tea sloshed from the caddy as she spooned leaves. "You picked silence. Three weeks. No calls. No notes at the Golden Empress. Yu-Fei asked where you went. I had no answer." "I kept watch on your flat above Silas." Her hand stopped mid-air. Loose tea dusted her knuckles. "You did what." "I sat in the car across the road." "That is not an answer." "It kept Evan from the door." The name dropped between them and stayed there. The gas flame roared under the kettle. Rory wiped her knuckles on her jeans and left a dark smear. "Evan found me through you." "No." "He followed one of your runners." "He followed your delivery route." "Because you put me on the late run." Lucien picked up his cane again. He rolled the ivory handle between his palms. A thin seam ran round the shaft where the blade hid inside. "I put you on the late run because the day run went past his cousin's shop." Rory stared at him. Her pulse beat high in her throat. She pressed her thumb into the crescent scar until the skin blanched white then flooded pink. "You never told me that." "You never let me finish a sentence." "I let you finish plenty in Marseille Street." Colour rose up his neck and into his cheeks. He took a step closer. Books hemmed him in on both sides. Ptolemy flattened his ears and slipped down behind the toaster. "Do not." "Do not what." "Rewrite that night." The kettle boiled over. Water spat onto the flame. Rory yanked the kettle off and poured with a fast hand. Steam scalded her wrist above the scar. She did not flinch. She shoved the chipped mug toward him. "Drink." He did not touch it. He watched her hands. Her fingers shook once around the Cardiff mug, then steadied. "You kissed me first." "You stayed." "You left before dawn." "I left to meet the man who sold your address." Rory set her mug down so fast tea crowned over the rim and pooled on the counter. She ignored it. The liquid crept toward the edge and dripped onto her shoe. "Who." "A clerk from the courts. Brendan Carter's old circuit." "My father has nothing to do with this." "Your father has everything to do with why Evan keeps finding lawyers to bury the charges." Lucien reached into his waistcoat pocket. He drew out a folded slip of paper, creased and soft at the edges. He laid it on the table beside the cat hair and the crumbs. Rory did not pick it up. "What is that." "An address in Limehouse. Eva went there last night." "Alone." "She would not wait." "Why call on you at all." "Because the door there opens for my blood." His hand rested on the cane head. His knuckles showed white. The amber eye caught the lamplight and threw it back. The black eye gave nothing. Rory unfolded the paper with her scarred hand. The ink bled at the folds. An address. A time. A name written in Eva's quick slant underneath his neat capitals. She looked up. He stood within reach now. Close enough for the rain on his shirt to darken the cotton at the shoulder. Close enough for the heat off his skin to cut through the curry steam. "You should have told me on the phone." "You would have gone alone." "You do not know me." "I know you work double shifts for Yu-Fei and sleep four hours and feed that cat chicken from your own plate." Ptolemy meowed at the word chicken. Rory glanced at the tabby, then back at Lucien. Her blue eyes searched his face. "You watched that too." "I watch what matters." The paper crinkled in her fist. The kettle ticked as it cooled. Rain hammered the flat roof and ran gurgling down the drainpipe past the window. "Last time I trusted you, I woke up cold." "I left my coat." "I sold it." A muscle jumped in his cheek. He leaned his cane against his leg and freed both hands. He did not touch her. His fingers hovered near her elbow, near the scar, near the damp cuff of her sleeve. "Keep the money." "I spent it on locks." She nodded toward the three deadbolts on the front door. His mouth tilted. Not a smile. Something older tugged at the corners and died there. "Three bolts. Good girl." "Do not." "Do not what." "Talk to me like that." "Like what." "Like you stayed." He dropped his hands. He picked up the chipped mug and drank. His throat moved. He set the mug down empty and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. A tea leaf clung to his lower lip. Rory reached before thought caught her. She brushed the leaf away with her thumb. Her thumb rested a beat too long against his mouth. His breath hit her skin. The paper in her other hand tore along the fold.