Run: 2026-09-03-01M1KRCNMSAQEZ4C3QENGXJYM0

The cane tapped three times on the landing, then stopped. Aurora had the first deadbolt half-turned when the sound came through the door. She froze with her hand on the cold metal. The curry house downstairs was frying onions for lunch and the smell threaded up through the floorboards. Ptolemy yawned from the armchair and stretched a paw over a pile of loose scrolls. She finished the bolt and the second. The third clicked. She pulled the door open. Lucien stood in the hallway with his hat in his hand. Rain clung to the slicked-back platinum of his hair and beaded on the shoulders of his charcoal suit. The ivory handle of his cane caught the weak light from the stairwell. "You're not supposed to be here," Aurora said. "Neither are you," he said. He stepped past the threshold without waiting for an invitation. The flat smelled of old paper and cardamom. Books leaned against every wall. A half-finished cup of tea had gone cold on a stack of research notes. Ptolemy opened one eye. "You live above Silas' bar," Lucien said. "I am at Eva's," Aurora said. "You know that." "I know a lot of things," he said. He set his hat on the only clear inch of the coffee table. The cat watched him. "The deadbolts are new." "So is the cat," she said. "So is the lease." He looked at her. His amber eye caught the light. The black one didn't. "You left a message," she said. "In French. You never leave messages in French." "I left a message in English too," he said. "You deleted it." She closed the door. The three deadbolts slid home with a sound like teeth. "You were going to use my name in a report," she said. "I was going to ask you to dinner," he said. "Same difference," she said. He took his cane off and propped it against the wall. The ivory handle glinted. She watched his fingers brush the brass ferrule. He always touched it when he was nervous. "You didn't answer," he said. "You didn't ask right," she said. He moved into the room. There was no room to move. He had to duck under a hanging string of dried herbs. A scroll slipped from the edge of the desk and landed on his shoe. "Careful," she said. "I am careful," he said. He picked the scroll up and set it back exactly where it had been. "You are not." The scar on her left wrist showed when she pulled her sleeve down. A small crescent. Childhood. "That still bothers you," he said. "That still bothers you that it bothers me," she said. He smiled without warmth. "I remember everything." "I remember you leaving," she said. "I remember you not calling," he said. Silence settled between them, thick as dust. The radiator clanked. Somewhere downstairs a trolley rattled. "You came here because of the file," she said. "I came here because you are here," he said. "Don't," she said. He didn't stop. "Eva told me you were staying. I didn't know until last night." "Eva talks too much." "Eva talks to me because I pay her for information," he said. "You should be grateful." "I should be annoyed," she said. He sat on the edge of the armchair, careful not to crush the stack of books beneath him. Ptolemy rose and claimed his lap. "You smell like the restaurant," he said. "Yu-Fei makes me work the late shift," she said. "I deliver." "Deliver what?" "Food. And gossip. And the occasional dead body." He laughed. It was a short sound. "You're joking," he said. "I wish I were," she said. He leaned forward. The amber eye narrowed. "Tell me," he said. She didn't. She picked up her cold tea and drank it anyway. "You want the name," she said. "I want you to stop doing this alone," he said. "I'm not alone. Eva is downstairs. Silas is downstairs. Ptolemy is in your lap." "Ptolemy is a cat," he said. "Exactly." He set his hands on his knees. The cuffs of his suit were perfect. "You used to call me Luc," he said. "You used to call me Rory," she said. "Still do." "Don't." He stood. The flat was too small for him to stand fully without his head nearly touching the low ceiling. He brushed a book off his shoulder and handed it to her. "I brought something for you," he said. She took it. A thin notebook bound in black leather. "What's this?" "A list," he said. "Names. Addresses. People who asked about you after the Evan business." Her fingers tightened on the cover. "You can't just hand me a hit list," she said. "It's not a hit list," he said. "It's a warning list." "Why are you giving it to me now?" "Because you won't take it from anyone else," he said. She opened the notebook. The first page was in his neat hand. One name underlined twice. "That one is new," he said. "Who is he?" "A buyer," he said. "He wants the thing you found in Cardiff." She closed the notebook. "I didn't find anything," she said. "Liar," he said. The word hung. She set the notebook down on the desk, hard enough to make the tea cup rattle. "You left Cardiff," he said. "You left me a note on my car. In Welsh." "I left a note in English," she said. "You speak four languages. You read it." "I read it after you were gone." "I had to be gone," she said. "You had to be safe," he said. "Same thing," she said. He took a step closer. She didn't move back. The books pressed in on both sides. "You could have told me where you were going," he said. "You could have stayed," she said. "I stayed as long as I could," he said. "And then?" "And then I was a fixer and you were a target," he said. "I don't fix targets." "Now I am one." "Now you are," he said. Ptolemy jumped down and disappeared under the bed. The hallway outside was quiet. No footsteps. "You shouldn't be here," Aurora said again, softer. "You shouldn't be here either," Lucien said. "Your flat is above a bar. This flat is above a curry house. Both are bad places to hide." "I like curry," she said. "I like you in a bad place," he said. She looked at him. Bright blue against amber and black. "Get out," she said. He didn't. He picked up his cane. "I'm not going to touch you," he said. "Good," she said. "I'm not going to ask you to come back to my place," he said. "It's too loud." "Good," she said. He moved toward the door. The three deadbolts waited. "Don't delete the message this time," he said. "I don't get messages anymore," she said. "You do," he said. He opened the door a fraction. "You always do." The stairwell air smelled of rain and cumin. He stepped out. She watched him go down, cane tapping once, twice, three times on the landing. She locked the deadbolts. The notebook stayed on the desk.