Run: 2026-09-25-01M3CKE6SKN2ADMVWT95JH50V4

The first knock came just as Rory was wiping grease from her fingers onto her already-stained jeans. She froze, the dishcloth still clutched in her hand, and listened. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, ears twitching. Another knock, sharper this time, followed by the faint jingle of metal against wood—someone was fiddling with the deadbolts. Rory’s pulse jumped. No one just *showed up* at Eva’s flat unannounced. Not unless they were either very brave or very stupid. She set the cloth down and moved silently across the cluttered floor, stepping over a stack of books on occult symbolism and a half-unrolled scroll that had been there since last week. The third deadbolt clicked, and the door swung open before she could reach it. Lucien Moreau stood in the doorway, his platinum hair slicked back as always, his charcoal suit immaculate despite the drizzle that had started outside. Rain glistened on the shoulders of his coat, and his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—flickered over her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. He leaned slightly on his ivory-handled cane, though she knew he didn’t need it. Not really. “You’re letting the cold in,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. Lucien’s lips quirked, just barely. “And you’re letting the cat on the windowsill judge me. He’s been staring since I turned the corner.” Ptolemy let out a low, disapproving mrrow, as if to confirm this. Rory exhaled through her nose, a half-laugh, half-sigh. She should’ve known. Of course he’d notice the damn cat. “What do you want, Luc?” He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet click. The flat suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. His presence had always been like that—impossible to ignore. “Can’t a man visit an old friend?” “Cut the shit.” She crossed her arms. “We both know you don’t do ‘visits.’” His gaze dropped to her wrists, lingering for a fraction of a second on the crescent-shaped scar on her left one before lifting back to her face. “No. I suppose I don’t.” The silence stretched, heavy with everything they weren’t saying. Rory turned away first, moving back toward the kitchenette where a half-eaten plate of takeaway noodles sat congealing on the counter. She grabbed it and scraped the remains into the bin, her back to him. “You’re dripping on Eva’s floor.” “She’ll survive.” Rory turned, leaning against the counter. “Eva’s not here.” “I know.” His voice was low, almost a murmur. “I came to see you.” The words settled between them, sharp and undeniable. She swallowed. “Why?” Lucien’s fingers tightened around the head of his cane. For a moment, she thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, with a slow exhale, he said, “Because I owe you an apology.” That wasn’t what she’d expected. Rory pushed off the counter, her boots scuffing against the worn wood. “For what, exactly?” “For leaving the way I did.” His jaw tightened. “For not looking back.” She barked out a laugh, but there was no humor in it. “You mean when you vanished into the night after that job in Whitechapel went sideways? After you promised we’d split the take and instead I got a knife to the ribs and a week in the hospital?” His expression darkened. “I had my reasons.” “Everyone’s got reasons, Luc.” She took a step toward him, her fingers curling into fists. “But you didn’t even *tell* me yours. You just—” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “You just *left*.” He was close enough now that she could see the faintest shadow of stubble along his jaw, the way his black eye seemed to absorb the dim light of the flat. “I thought it was safer.” “Safer for *you*, maybe.” “For *both* of us.” His voice was rough, the polished veneer of the fixer cracking. “You think I wanted to walk away? You think I didn’t spend the next three months telling myself I should’ve stayed?” Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t known that. Hadn’t let herself imagine it. “You could’ve *called*.” “I couldn’t.” His free hand lifted, as if he might reach for her, but then it fell back to his side. “Not after what I saw in the cards. Not after the whispers started.” She went still. “What whispers?” Lucien’s gaze flicked to the ceiling, as if he could see through it to the storm clouds gathering above. “The kind that get people killed. The kind that were *meant* for me, but would’ve found you if I’d stayed.” Rory’s stomach twisted. She knew that look. Knew the way his voice dropped when he was talking about things that weren’t quite human. “You’re being dramatic.” “Am I?” A bitter laugh escaped him. “You think I don’t know what happens to mortals who get tangled up in my father’s business? You think I don’t remember what happened to my mother?” The raw edge in his voice made her flinch. She’d never asked about his past—never pushed, even when she’d wanted to. But the pain there was impossible to miss now. She exhaled, some of the fight draining out of her. “So what changed? Why are you here now?” His shoulders tensed. “Because the whispers are back. And this time, they’re not just about me.” A cold finger traced her spine. “What’s that supposed to mean?” Lucien’s cane tapped once against the floor, a sharp, deliberate sound. “It means someone’s been asking questions. About the Whitechapel job. About *us*.” Rory’s mind raced. That job had been a mess—someone had double-crossed them, and the fallout had been brutal. She’d assumed it was just bad luck, a deal gone wrong. But if Luc was right… “You think it was a setup?” “I *know* it was.” His voice was grim. “And I think whoever set it up isn’t done with us yet.” She rubbed her temples, suddenly exhausted. “And you’re just telling me this now because…?” “Because I couldn’t risk pulling you into it before I was sure.” He took a step closer, his voice dropping. “And because I couldn’t stay away any longer.” The admission hung between them, heavy and fragile. Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to be angry. Wanted to hold onto the hurt, the betrayal. But the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing in the world worth coming back for—made it hard to remember why she’d built those walls in the first place. “You’re an idiot,” she muttered. The corner of his mouth lifted. “I’ve been called worse.” She huffed, but the fight was gone. “You’re still dripping on the floor.” Lucien glanced down at the small puddle forming around his shoes, then back at her, one eyebrow raised. “Your hospitality is overwhelming.” Rory rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t stop the smile tugging at her lips. “There’s a towel by the door. Dry off before Eva gets back and skins you alive.” He moved to do as she said, his cane clicking softly against the wood. As he bent to grab the towel, his coat shifted, and for the first time, she noticed the way his left hand trembled slightly as he blotted the rain from his sleeves. She frowned. “You’re hurt.” “It’s nothing.” “Bullshit.” She was across the room in two strides, grabbing his wrist before he could pull away. His sleeve was damp, the fabric sticking slightly to his skin. She pushed it up, revealing a long, shallow cut along his forearm, the edges already bruised. “Lucien.” “It’s just a scratch.” “It’s *not*.” She turned his arm slightly, examining the wound. The skin around it was too hot, the bruising spreading faster than it should have. “This isn’t from a knife.” His jaw tightened. “No.” She looked up at him, her grip tightening. “What the hell did you get into?” For a moment, he didn’t answer. Then, quietly, “A demon’s claw. One of my father’s… associates.” Her stomach dropped. Demon wounds didn’t heal like normal ones. Not without help. “You need a healer.” “I’ll be fine.” “You’re *not* fine.” She released his arm, but only to grab his coat, tugging him toward the small sofa crammed between stacks of books. “Sit down before you fall down.” He let her guide him, though the stubborn set of his jaw told her he wasn’t happy about it. “Rory—” “Shut up.” She knelt in front of him, rolling up his sleeve the rest of the way. The wound was worse than she’d first thought, the edges already blackening at the tips. “When did this happen?” “Last night.” She shot him a glare. “And you didn’t think to *mention* it?” “I had other things on my mind.” “Like tracking me down to drop a cryptic warning?” “Like making sure you were still alive.” The words hit her like a punch. She looked up at him, her fingers stilling on his skin. His amber eye was warm, the black one unreadable, but the way he was looking at her—like she was the only thing keeping him anchored—made her throat tighten. She swallowed. “I’m fine.” “Good.” His voice was rough. “Because I don’t think I could’ve lived with myself if you weren’t.” The air between them was charged, thick with something neither of them had ever named. Rory’s pulse pounded in her ears. She should pull away. Should remind him that they weren’t this—that whatever they’d been, it was over. But then his hand lifted, his fingers brushing against her cheek, and she forgot how to breathe. “Rory,” he murmured, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw. “I missed you.” She closed her eyes, leaning into his touch just for a second. It was a mistake. She knew it was. But God, it felt good to be touched like this again. Like she mattered. When she opened her eyes, he was watching her, his expression raw. “I should’ve come back sooner.” “Yeah,” she whispered. “You should’ve.” His hand slid to the back of her neck, his fingers tangling in her hair. “Let me make it up to you.” She wanted to. God, she wanted to. But the wound on his arm was a reminder of what he was—of the world he lived in. The one she’d barely escaped with her life last time. She pulled back, her hands dropping to her lap. “You can start by telling me what the hell is going on. And then we’ll see.” Lucien’s expression shuttered, but he nodded. “Fair enough.” Rory stood, moving to the small cabinet where Eva kept her first aid supplies. She grabbed the antiseptic, the bandages, and a small bottle of something stronger—something Eva had labeled *For When the Usual Doesn’t Work*. She hoped it was enough. As she knelt back in front of him, she uncapped the antiseptic and met his eyes. “This is going to sting.” He smirked, but it was strained. “I’ve survived worse.” She didn’t doubt it. But as she began to clean the wound, she couldn’t shake the feeling that this time, the worst might still be coming.