Run: 2026-09-23-01M36R8AG362VVH8G98KWYVPTN

The door opened on Lucien Moreau, rain bright on the shoulders of his charcoal coat and blood darkening one cuff. Rory kept one hand on the chain. Behind her, Ptolemy wound between her ankles, his tail held high. “You have the wrong flat.” Lucien’s amber eye flicked to the chain, then to her face. His black eye stayed on the corridor. “Take it off.” “Try asking like a person who hasn’t vanished for six months.” Footsteps climbed the stairs below him. Lucien shifted his weight, ivory-handled cane angled across his body. A second set of steps followed the first. “Rory.” She hated how he could make her name sound like a hand at the small of her back. “Who’s downstairs?” “I don’t know.” “Then you’re not coming in.” “They watched me cross the street. One of them took a photograph of this door.” Rory glanced past him. The stairwell sat empty above his shoulder, its old plaster scored with scratches and pencil marks. The steps below continued, steady and unhurried. “Take off the chain,” Lucien murmured. “Or let them see you ask me questions.” For a beat, she held his gaze. Then she unhooked the chain and pulled him inside by his lapel. Lucien stumbled across the threshold. Rory shut the door and drove each deadbolt home. Ptolemy hissed at the cane. Lucien lifted it away from the cat, then pressed one gloved hand to his bleeding sleeve. “You brought trouble to Eva’s flat.” “I brought it away from your door.” “You don’t know where I live.” “I know where you sleep when you want to be near Eva.” “That isn’t the same thing.” “No.” His mouth tightened. “It isn’t.” A knock landed on the door. Ptolemy darted beneath the bookcase. Rory stepped between Lucien and the entrance, though he had a foot and several inches on her. He didn’t comment. His gaze followed the narrow line of her left wrist, where her sleeve had slipped back and shown the crescent scar. The knock came again. “Police,” a man called through the door. “We need a word.” Rory looked at Lucien. His expression had gone blank in the way she remembered: not calm, not unafraid. A shutter pulled down over a lit room. “Do you know him?” “No.” “Would he say the same?” “He’d say whatever got him inside.” “Great. I’ll ask him for a warrant.” Lucien’s fingers closed around the cane handle. “Don’t.” The silence between them filled with the damp smell of his coat and the sharp iron scent of blood. The man outside knocked a third time. “Miss Carter?” Rory’s stomach tightened. Lucien’s eyes moved to hers. “Stay behind me,” he said. “Not a chance.” She crossed to the tiny kitchen, where Eva kept a jar of brass keys, three chipped mugs and a bread knife on the counter. Rory took the knife and returned to the door. Lucien watched her pass. “I thought you hated being told what to do.” “I do. You’ll notice I’m still holding the knife.” The footsteps shifted outside. A pause. Then the man went down the stairs, one measured step at a time. Neither of them moved until the street door slammed below. Lucien lowered his cane. “We should wait.” “We should call Eva.” “She’ll come straight back.” “She lives here.” “And whoever’s downstairs knows that.” Rory’s thumb hovered over her phone. “You don’t get to make decisions for her.” “I’m not. I’m asking you not to put her in the middle before we know who’s watching.” “Funny. You used to be very good at putting people in the middle.” His jaw worked once. Rainwater slid from his hairline to his temple. The slicked-back platinum strands had fallen loose above one ear. He looked tired, and she resented the way that made her want to touch his face. “Your sleeve,” she said. “Sit down before you bleed on Eva’s research.” “I’m not sure she’d forgive the blood or the research.” “Sit.” He eased onto the edge of the chair by the table. His cane rested against his knee. Rory set the bread knife within reach and fetched the first-aid tin from the bathroom shelf. Eva had labelled it with a strip of tape: BANDAGES. NOT SCROLLS. Rory had added a question mark beside the word after finding a scroll in it last week. Lucien watched her peel off one glove. “Still keeping the kitchen knife close?” “Still arriving without warning?” “I deserved that.” “You deserved worse.” She cut the damp cuff away. A shallow gash ran along his forearm, the edges red and wet. Lucien held still as she pressed gauze to it. His fingers rested on the table, long and pale, one ring catching the light. “You could have gone to a hospital,” she said. “And told them what?” “That you fell on a very sharp door.” “Does that work?” “On people who want to believe you, yes.” His gaze lifted to hers. “Do you?” She tightened the gauze. He flinched, barely. “Believe that you fell?” “Believe me.” Rory wrapped the bandage around his arm. “You don’t get to ask that like we left things on equal terms.” “We didn’t.” “No. You kissed me in the rain outside Silas’s, then told me I was a distraction you’d mistaken for a person.” A small muscle jumped in his cheek. He didn’t look away. “I remember what I said.” “I remember what you did. You made sure I heard the worst version of it.” “I thought you’d leave.” “I did leave.” “Not far enough.” “Don’t.” The word came out low. She tucked the end of the bandage beneath itself, though her hands had started to shake. Lucien glanced down at them. She pulled away. “I didn’t come here to reopen that.” “You came here because you ran out of people who’d take your calls.” “I came because someone asked about you.” “Who?” “An intermediary. He knew your name, your work, and the flat above Silas’s. He asked whether I still had access to you.” “And you told him?” “That I didn’t.” “Could’ve fooled me.” “Rory—” “You don’t get to appear on my doorstep, bleed on my friend’s floor, and expect the old rules to come back.” “I never expected that.” “Then why are you here?” Lucien looked at the bandage she had tied around his arm. His thumb brushed the edge of the gauze, careful not to touch her hand. “Because I saw the man outside take your photograph.” “And you thought I’d believe you?” “No. I thought you’d verify it.” Rory’s mouth pressed shut. He had always known where to put a fact so she would have to pick it up, even when she didn’t want to touch him. She hated that she still understood his silences. Hated more that he had come to protect her after choosing, months ago, to hurt her enough that she would stop following. “Tell me what happened,” she said. “All of it. No polished version.” Lucien’s eyes shifted from her to the window, where the curtains hung across the glass. “I was asked to find a ledger.” “What ledger?” “One that holds names. People who have crossed into London without permission. Some human, most not.” “And my name’s in it?” “I don’t know.” “That wasn’t what I asked.” “No.” He placed both hands on the cane handle. “I don’t know whether your name is in it.” Rory took the chair opposite him. The table between them was crowded with Eva’s open books, a chipped mug and loose notes weighted by a brass paperknife. Lucien’s knee brushed hers beneath it. Neither moved away. “Why would they ask you about me?” “Because they know I helped you.” “You helped me once.” “I did.” “You also left me alone with the mess.” “I did.” The admission hung there without excuse. Rory studied his face: the neat line of his nose, the crease beside his mouth, the different colours of his eyes. In the first weeks after he’d cut her off, she had replayed that face until every detail turned sharp. Then she’d stopped. Mostly. “What did you want me to do?” he asked. “Nothing. I wanted you to tell the truth.” “I thought the truth would make you come after me.” “That was my choice.” “I know.” “No, you knew it then. You just didn’t care.” His hand moved across the table. He stopped before it reached hers, leaving a strip of wood between their fingers. “I cared so much I made a coward’s choice.” Rory looked at his hand. The ring on his little finger had a narrow black stone set in silver. “You don’t get to turn that into something noble.” “I’m not.” “Good.” “Good.” The word landed with the weight of an agreement neither of them trusted. Rory rested her palm on the table. Her scar caught against the rough grain. Lucien’s hand remained where it was, close enough that she felt warmth from his knuckles. “Did you mean it?” she asked. “Which part?” “The kiss.” His gaze fixed on hers. For once, he had no polished answer ready. “No.” The old hurt rose so fast she almost stood. Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping. “I didn’t mean what I said after. I meant the kiss.” Rory held still. Somewhere behind the bookcase, Ptolemy knocked a stack of papers to the floor. “You’re late,” she said. “I know.” “You’re very good at being late.” “I know that too.” She reached for the mug between them and found it empty. When she set it down, her fingers brushed his. Lucien didn’t close his hand around hers. He let her decide whether to pull away. She didn’t.