Run: 2026-09-23-01M36P1R3GBX72QR0F80W6SYTJ

The door opened a hand’s width, stopped by the chain. Rory stared through the gap at Lucien Moreau. His platinum hair caught the hall light; rain beaded on the shoulders of his charcoal coat. The ivory handle of his cane rested beneath one gloved hand. Neither of them spoke. Behind Rory, Ptolemy leapt from a stack of books and landed on the kitchen counter. A scroll slid to the floor. Lucien’s gaze moved from her face to the chain, then back again. “You’ve added a lock.” “Three, actually.” Rory kept one hand on the door. “You’ve found the first.” “I wasn’t aware you’d become so fond of security.” “I wasn’t aware you’d become so fond of arriving without warning.” His mouth tightened. In the narrow gap, she caught the faint scent of wet wool and something sharper beneath it, like smoke left in a sealed room. She had once found that smell comforting. That had been before he’d disappeared from her life with a warning, a lie, and no explanation she could use to hate him properly. “What do you want, Lucien?” “To speak with you.” “You’ve had months.” “I know.” “Then you’ll understand why I’m not inviting you in.” He looked past her, toward the cluttered flat. Books leaned against the walls in uneven towers, research notes pinned above the sofa, a chipped mug balanced on a closed dictionary. His eyes paused on the crescent scar at her wrist where her sleeve had slipped back. “Rory.” “Don’t.” He lowered his gaze. “I have information about the people who have been asking after you.” The sentence took the heat out of her anger. It didn’t erase it. It simply gave it a new place to stand. “Who?” “I’d prefer not to discuss it in the hallway.” “Convenient.” “Accurate.” She kept the chain fastened. “If you brought trouble to my door, you can take it back downstairs.” “I didn’t bring them.” “That’s not the same as saying they aren’t here.” A door shut somewhere below. Footsteps crossed the landing beneath them, then faded toward the curry house. Lucien didn’t look away from her. “May I come in?” he asked. “No.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I expected that.” “Good. You’re adjusting.” Rory pushed the door closed. His hand caught the edge—not forcing it, just holding it there. She froze. Lucien released it at once and raised both hands, cane balanced in one. “I won’t cross the threshold without your permission.” “You already crossed the city without asking.” “I can’t undo that.” “No. You can’t.” For a moment, the hallway filled with the old silence between them: the kind that had once stretched across late-night conversations, his shoulder beside hers at a crowded bar, his attention fixed on her mouth whenever she stopped speaking. Then the memory of the last time he’d looked at her rose up, too. His face closed. His voice went cold. Go home, Rory. This was never yours to carry. She’d gone. He’d let her. “What happened?” she asked. “And don’t give me another polished half-truth.” “I won’t.” “You said that before.” “I know.” Ptolemy wound around Rory’s ankles and gave a demanding yowl. Rory glanced down. The cat had never trusted Lucien; it had once bitten through one of his gloves. “Your audience is losing patience,” Lucien said. “Ptolemy has no patience. It’s one of his few consistent qualities.” “Then I’ll try to keep this brief.” She studied him through the gap. Rain had darkened the blond hair at his temples. He looked thinner than she remembered, though his suit sat precisely on his shoulders. The familiar heterochromia held her attention against her will: one amber eye, one black, both fixed on her with a care he had once hidden behind wit. “What information?” she asked. “Someone has been asking about the delivery routes from the Golden Empress.” Her fingers tightened on the door. “Who?” “I don’t know their name.” “Then you know nothing.” “I know they’re paying for details about a woman who works there. Black hair. Blue eyes. A scar on her wrist.” She went still. Lucien’s expression hardened at the sight of it. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t spend that yet. Who asked?” “A broker in Camden. He turned them away.” “Why?” “Because I reached him first.” “Of course you did.” “Rory, this isn’t a favour you owe me.” “I didn’t say it was.” “You’re treating it like one.” “I’m treating you like the man who left me alone with a warning he wouldn’t explain.” His grip shifted on the cane. “I was trying to keep you out of something dangerous.” “You kept me out of the truth.” “I had reasons.” “You always had reasons. You never had the decency to share them.” His eyes flickered. For a second, she saw the man who’d sat beside her on the floor of this flat at two in the morning, sorting through Eva’s research while Ptolemy slept on his jacket. He’d translated a page of Avarosian script and laughed when she called his handwriting criminal. He’d touched her wrist as he passed her a cup, thumb brushing the small scar. Neither of them had moved away. Then he’d taken his hand back. “May I come in now?” he asked. “You can tell me what you know from there.” “I’d rather not expose you to the whole building.” “That sounds like a problem for you.” His mouth softened, almost a smile, then thought better of it. “You haven’t changed.” “I have. You missed the interesting parts.” The words landed. He looked down at the threshold. “Can I at least close the door?” he asked. “The draught is making your cat consider violence.” “Ptolemy always considers violence.” The cat chose that moment to swipe at Rory’s heel. She shifted back, keeping one hand on the chain. Lucien didn’t take advantage of the movement. He stayed in the hall, shoulders squared beneath his damp coat. Rory unhooked the chain but left the door only partly open. “You get five minutes,” she said. “Thank you.” “That wasn’t gratitude. It was a timer.” “I understand.” She stepped aside. Lucien crossed the threshold with care, leaving the cane tip on the mat until she nodded toward the small strip of clear floor beside the bookcase. He wiped his shoes, hung his coat over the back of a chair, and kept his gloves on. Rory closed and locked the door. All three deadbolts slid home. Lucien listened to each one. “You remember the order,” she said. “I remember the night Eva installed them.” “You were here.” “I was.” “You were here a lot.” His gaze met hers. “Yes.” The flat seemed to contract around them. Paper crowded every surface; the single window showed a smeared reflection of the two of them standing several feet apart. Ptolemy hopped onto the arm of the sofa, looked Lucien over, then tucked his paws beneath himself. Rory folded her arms. “Start talking.” “Three days ago, a man came to the broker I mentioned. He had a photograph of you leaving the restaurant. He asked for your address and your usual delivery hours.” “Did the broker give him anything?” “No.” “Because you reached him first.” “Because he knows what happens when people sell information that belongs to me.” “Your favourite kind of explanation. Vague enough to sound impressive.” “It wasn’t meant to impress you.” “Then be precise.” Lucien set his cane against the table. “The man used a false name. His accent suggested the north of England, though I can’t be certain. He wore a silver ring engraved with a split circle. The broker thought the symbol meant nothing. I didn’t.” Rory’s attention sharpened. “What does it mean?” “I’m still checking.” She let out a short breath. “So you came here with a symbol and a stranger’s accent.” “I came because the man knew you worked for Yu-Fei. He’d been watching the restaurant.” “Did he follow me?” “I don’t know.” “You should have called.” “I don’t have your number.” She stared at him. “I deleted it,” he added. The honesty cut more cleanly than an excuse would have. Rory looked away first, toward the scattered pages on the table. “You could have asked Eva.” “I did.” “And?” “She told me to stay away from you.” “That was sensible.” “She also told me you’d decide for yourself.” “Eva enjoys making other people’s lives difficult.” “She does.” A silence settled between them. It wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. Rory remembered his voice in three languages, the easy shift between them. She remembered how he’d once taught her to hold a knife without showing fear, his hand warm over hers, his breath close to her ear. She pushed the thought aside. “Why are you telling me this in person?” she asked. “You could’ve left a note.” “Because I need to know whether you saw the ring.” “I don’t know. I deliver food, Lucien. I don’t catalogue strangers’ jewellery.” “Think.” “I do think.” “I know.” His tone gentled, and that made her angrier than the warning had. “You notice things other people miss.” “Don’t flatter me into doing your work.” “I’m asking because you might have seen it.” She studied his face, searching for the old artifice. “Did you come here only for information?” “No.” There it was. The second answer, quiet and bare. “Then what else?” “I wanted to see you.” “You could’ve started with that.” “I thought you’d shut the door.” “I nearly did.” “I know.” “Stop saying that.” His lips pressed together. He took off one glove, finger by finger, and set it on the table. The hand beneath showed a narrow cut across the knuckles, not fresh enough to bleed but not healed. Rory noticed despite herself. “What happened to your hand?” “Nothing that matters.” “Don’t answer my questions with the same rubbish you used before.” “A doorframe.” “You fought a doorframe?” “It was a very hostile doorframe.” The dry attempt at humour stirred something she didn’t want stirred. Her mouth almost responded. She looked at the cut instead. “Sit down before you fall down.” “I’m not going to fall.” “Then sit to prove it.” Lucien lowered himself onto the edge of the chair. He left the cane within reach. Rory remained standing. “You could’ve let me think you didn’t care,” she said. “That would’ve been kinder.” His fingers closed around his bare glove. “I cared.” “You said I was a liability.” “I said you were in danger.” “You called me a liability.” “I was wrong.” “You were cruel.” “Yes.” The answer stopped her. He didn’t dress it up. Didn’t lay out reasons like papers on a desk. Rory’s arms loosened at her sides. “Why?” “I thought if you hated me, you’d keep your distance.” “That’s the plan you chose?” “It was the only one I could see.” “Then you weren’t looking very hard.” His gaze held hers. “No. I wasn’t.” For a moment, she couldn’t find anything to say. The room hummed around them: pipes in the wall, a car passing outside, the soft scrape of Ptolemy’s claws as he shifted on the sofa. Lucien reached for the cane, then stopped before his hand touched it. “I don’t expect you to forgive me.” “Good.” “I don’t expect anything from you.” “Also good.” “I still wanted to tell you the truth.” “You’ve told me one truth.” “Which one?” “That you wanted to see me.” His eyes moved over her face. He looked as if he might say something else, then chose not to. Rory felt the old pull between them—irritating, immediate, stubborn as a bruise. She hated that it had survived his silence. “Five minutes are nearly up,” she said. “Then I’ll ask the question I came to ask.” He leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Did you see anyone watching the restaurant this week? Anyone who didn’t belong?” Rory glanced at the table, where her delivery sheet sat beneath Eva’s notes. The previous evening returned in fragments: a man by the bus stop, his face half-hidden beneath a cap; a silver flash at his hand when he lifted a phone. She looked back at Lucien. “There was someone outside on Tuesday,” she said. “I didn’t see his face.” His attention sharpened. “What did you see?” “A ring. Silver. Split circle.” Lucien stood. The chair legs scraped the floor. “Where did he go?” “Don’t move.” Rory stepped between him and the door. “You said you wanted information. You have it. Now you’re going to tell me everything you know about that mark before you walk out of my flat.” His gaze dropped to the space between them, then returned to her face. “All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you.”