Run: 2026-10-07-01M4ATKCQ4D0F18Y4MME032X8R

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. Three sharp raps, then silence. Too deliberate to be Eva, who’d just barge in with a key. Too patient to be Silas, who’d already be shouting through the door about some emergency at the bar. Another knock. Ptolemy, the tabby, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, ears twitching. Rory exhaled through her nose and tossed the cloth onto the counter. The flat was a mess—takeout containers littered the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of wine sat open on the kitchen counter, and her notes on the latest supernatural anomaly were spread across the floor like confetti. She didn’t have time for visitors. She padded to the door, bare feet silent on the worn hardwood, and peered through the spyhole. Her breath hitched. Lucien Moreau stood in the dim hallway, his platinum hair slicked back, his charcoal suit immaculate as always. He held his ivory-handled cane in one hand, the other resting casually in his pocket. His heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—were fixed on the door with unsettling intensity. Rory’s pulse spiked. She hadn’t seen him in six months. Not since that night in the back room of the Black Dog, when words had turned sharp and she’d walked out before either of them could say something they’d regret. Or maybe something they’d meant. She unlatched the first deadbolt, then the second, then the third, her fingers fumbling. The door swung open before she could steel herself. Lucien didn’t smile. He never did, not really. But his gaze flicked over her, lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, the one she’d gotten as a child climbing a fence she shouldn’t have. “You look well,” he said, voice low, accented. Rory crossed her arms. “Liar.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “You look *alive*. That’s something.” She should’ve slammed the door in his face. But the way he was looking at her—like she was a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for years—rooted her in place. “What do you want, Luc?” He tilted his head slightly, the motion almost predatory. “Can I come in?” Ptolemy chose that moment to slink between her legs, tail flicking against her ankle. She stepped back, gesturing him inside with a sweep of her arm. “Don’t expect tea.” Lucien stepped over the threshold, the scent of bergamot and something darker—something like gunpowder and old books—filling the space between them. He took in the flat with a single glance, his black eye catching the light. “Still living like a student.” “Still dressing like a funeral director,” she shot back. His lips quirked. “At least I don’t have to apologize for my taste.” Rory shut the door harder than necessary and leaned against it. “Cut the charm, Luc. Why are you here?” Lucien turned, his cane tapping once against the floor. “I need your help.” She barked a laugh. “That’s rich. Last time I checked, you were the one who told me to stay out of your world.” “And yet,” he said, stepping closer, “here you are. Still tangled in it.” Rory’s throat tightened. She swallowed. “That’s not an answer.” He sighed, running a hand over his jaw. For the first time, she noticed the faint shadow of stubble there, the only sign that the man was anything less than perfectly composed. “There’s a job. A dangerous one. And you’re the only person I trust to pull it off without getting yourself killed.” “Flattery won’t work on me.” “It wasn’t flattery.” His voice dropped, the amber eye softening just a fraction. “It’s the truth.” She wanted to look away, but she couldn’t. There was something in his gaze—something raw, something he usually kept locked away—that made her stomach twist. “What’s the job?” Lucien reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, the edges singed. He held it out to her. “This was delivered to my office this morning. No sender. No explanation.” Rory took it, her fingers brushing his. A spark, static or something else, jumped between them. She ignored it, unfolding the paper carefully. The message was short, written in a looping script she didn’t recognize: *The Malphora bloodline holds the key. Find her before they do.* Her breath caught. *Malphora.* The name she’d used once, briefly, when she’d first arrived in London and needed to disappear. The name Lucien had given her, back when they’d been… whatever they’d been. She looked up at him, her pulse roaring in her ears. “You gave them my alias.” Lucien’s expression darkened. “I didn’t. But someone did.” “And you think I’m just going to waltz into whatever this is because you asked nicely?” She crumpled the parchment in her fist. “I’m not your errand girl, Luc.” “No,” he said, stepping closer still. The space between them was charged, the air thick with the history they’d never quite shaken. “You’re not. But you *are* the only one who can figure this out before it gets us both killed.” Rory’s chest heaved. She wanted to hate him. Wanted to slam the door and pretend this conversation never happened. But the truth was, she’d missed him. Missed the way his mind worked, the way he saw the world in shades she couldn’t. Missed the way he looked at her like she was the only thing worth looking at. She tossed the parchment onto the coffee table. “Fine. But we do this my way.” Lucien’s cane tapped again, a slow, rhythmic sound. “And what way is that?” “No secrets. No bullshit. And if this goes sideways, you don’t get to walk away again.” His jaw tightened. For a moment, she thought he’d argue. But then he gave a single, sharp nod. “Agreed.” Rory exhaled, some of the tension leaving her shoulders. “Good. Now sit down before you make my cat nervous.” Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the armchair, tail flicking as if to say, *Too late.* Lucien’s gaze followed the cat, then returned to her. “You’ve redecorated.” She glanced around at the chaos. “Yeah. Minimalism didn’t suit me.” He almost smiled. Almost. “I can see that.” Rory grabbed the wine bottle from the counter and poured two glasses, handing one to him. “Start talking.” Lucien took the glass, his fingers lingering against hers just a second too long. “Six months ago, a group of collectors acquired an artifact. A mirror, said to show the true reflection of a person’s soul.” Rory snorted. “Sounds like a scam.” “It’s not.” His voice was grim. “Three people have died trying to steal it. And the last one…” He hesitated. “The last one whispered your alias before he died.” The wine in Rory’s glass suddenly felt too heavy. She set it down. “You think this is about me.” “I think,” Lucien said, his black eye fixed on hers, “that someone is using you as bait. And I think we’re running out of time to figure out why.” Rory’s mind raced. The alias, the mirror, the deaths—it all felt too deliberate, too personal. She’d spent years running from her past, from the people who knew her as Aurora Carter, as Malphora. And now it was catching up to her. She looked at Lucien, really looked at him. The sharp cut of his suit, the way his cane rested against his palm like a weapon. He was a man who controlled everything—his business, his emotions, his world. But right now, he looked… uncertain. And that scared her more than the note. “Why me?” she asked quietly. “Why come to *me* with this?” Lucien’s answer was a long time coming. When he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “Because I trust you. And because…” He trailed off, his amber eye flickering with something she couldn’t name. “Because I don’t want to lose you again.” The words hung between them, heavy and fragile. Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to reach out, to bridge the gap between them. But old wounds didn’t heal that easily. Instead, she grabbed her jacket from the back of the chair and slung it on. “Then let’s get to work.” Lucien’s shoulders relaxed, just a fraction. “Where are we going?” Rory smirked, despite everything. “To see a man about a mirror.” He raised an eyebrow. “You have a lead?” “No.” She grabbed her keys, then paused, looking back at him. “But I know someone who does.” Lucien followed her to the door, his cane tapping a steady rhythm. “And who’s that?” Rory grinned, the thrill of the chase already coursing through her veins. “Silas. And if anyone knows where to find a magical mirror, it’s the man who’s been hiding from his own reflection for a century.”