Run: 2026-10-07-01M4ATSSM4TS7FQPD0EKS9XFVN

The first knock came just as Rory was pouring herself a second cup of tea, the steam curling into the dim light of Eva’s flat. She froze, the chipped mug halfway to her lips. No one ever knocked. Eva had a key, Silas just let himself in, and the delivery boys from the Golden Empress knew better than to disturb her on her rare day off. The second knock was sharper, more insistent. Ptolemy, the tabby cat, uncoiled from his perch on the windowsill and slunk under the sofa, his tail flicking like a metronome set to *alarm*. Rory set the mug down with deliberate care. The flat was a mess—scrolls unrolled across the coffee table, a half-eaten plate of samosas congealing beside an open book on demonic sigils, and her own discarded hoodie draped over the back of the armchair. She didn’t bother tidying. Whoever was on the other side of that door wasn’t here for the aesthetics. She padded to the entrance, bare feet silent on the worn hardwood, and pressed her eye to the peephole. The distorted fish-eye lens showed her a man in a charcoal suit, his platinum hair slicked back, one hand resting on the ivory handle of his cane. The other hand was raised, poised to knock again. Her breath hitched. *Lucien.* The name settled in her chest like a stone dropped into still water. She hadn’t seen him in six months. Not since that night in the back room of Silas’ bar, when he’d looked at her with those mismatched eyes—one amber, one black—and said, *You’re not ready for what I am.* Not since she’d walked away without looking back. She should have known he’d find her eventually. Lucien always found what he wanted. Rory exhaled, then turned the first deadbolt. Then the second. Then the third, because Eva was paranoid and Rory was glad for it now. The door swung open, and there he was, filling the frame with his presence, the scent of bergamot and something darker—something like gunpowder and old books—washing over her. “Rory,” he said, his voice low, smooth. French-accented, but not so much that it softened the edge beneath. His gaze flicked over her, taking in the oversized band T-shirt, the sleep shorts, the way her black hair hung loose around her shoulders. “You look… comfortable.” She crossed her arms. “It’s my day off.” His lips quirked, just a little. “And here I thought you’d be pleased to see me.” “Didn’t think you’d be stupid enough to show your face here.” The words came out harsher than she intended, but she didn’t take them back. Six months of silence didn’t just evaporate because he’d decided to grace her with his presence. Lucien’s fingers tightened around his cane. “I had no choice.” That gave her pause. Lucien Moreau didn’t do *no choice*. He was a man of options, of back doors and side deals and information traded like currency. If he was here, it was because he’d exhausted every other avenue. Rory stepped back, gesturing him inside with a jerk of her chin. “Then you’d better come in before someone sees you.” He didn’t move immediately. His heterochromatic eyes studied her, as if memorizing the new lines around her mouth, the way her scar—just a pale crescent on her left wrist—stood out against her skin. Then, with a slow nod, he stepped over the threshold. The flat felt smaller with him in it. Or maybe it was just that he took up more space than any man had a right to. He moved like a predator who knew exactly how much room he needed to take, his cane tapping softly against the floor as he surveyed the chaos. His gaze lingered on the sigils, the notes, the half-empty glass of whiskey Eva must have left out last night. “You’ve been busy,” he murmured. “None of your business,” she shot back, but the words lacked heat. She was too busy watching the way his shoulders filled out his tailored jacket, the way his fingers—long, elegant—adjusted the cuffs of his sleeves. He turned to face her, and for a moment, the air between them thickened. Rory’s pulse kicked up. Damn him. Damn her, for still reacting to him like this. “Sit down,” she said, more to break the tension than out of hospitality. Lucien didn’t sit. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment, its edges singed. “I need your help.” Rory didn’t take it. “Last time I helped you, I ended up with a knife in my ribs and a demon’s mark on my wrist.” “And yet, here you are, alive and unmarked.” His voice was dry. “Mostly.” She glared. “That’s not the point.” “The point,” he said, stepping closer, “is that there’s a contract out on your life.” The words hit her like a physical blow. Rory’s stomach twisted. “What?” Lucien’s jaw tightened. “A week ago, a bounty was placed in the underworld. Your name, your description, your habits. Someone wants you dead, Rory. And they’re willing to pay *very* well for it.” She swallowed. “Who?” “I don’t know.” His fingers flexed around the parchment. “But I know who placed the bounty.” Rory’s hands clenched at her sides. “Tell me.” “Not until you agree to help me stop it.” She barked out a laugh. “That’s rich. You show up out of the blue, drop a bomb like this, and expect me to just—what? Fall in line? Trust you?” Lucien’s amber eye darkened. “You don’t have to trust me. But you *do* have to survive.” Rory turned away, pacing to the window. The street below was quiet, the usual hum of Brick Lane muted by the late hour. She could see her reflection in the glass—pale, wide-eyed, a smudge of ink on her cheek from where she’d been scribbling notes earlier. She looked young. Vulnerable. She hated it. “Why me?” she asked, her voice quieter now. “Because,” Lucien said, his voice low, “you’re the only one who can.” She whirled around. “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the only one I have.” He took a step toward her, then another, until he was close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his amber eye, the way his black eye seemed to absorb the light. “There’s a relic. An old one. It can break the contract before it’s fulfilled.” “And you need me to get it.” He nodded. “It’s in Avaros.” Rory’s breath caught. Avaros. The demon realm. Lucien’s father’s realm. The place where half of him had been forged. “You want me to go to *hell* with you.” Lucien’s mouth twisted. “It’s not hell. But yes.” She should have said no. She should have laughed in his face, slammed the door, and called Eva to warn her that Lucien Moreau was back in town. 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 even imagine. Missed the way he looked at her like she was the only thing worth looking at. And now he was telling her someone wanted her dead. Rory exhaled sharply. “Fine. But we do this my way.” A slow smile spread across Lucien’s face, the kind that made her stomach flip. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.” She should have known better. Should have remembered the way he’d left things between them—the way he’d looked at her like she was a puzzle he couldn’t solve, and then walked away. But here he was, back in her life, and the old pull between them was still there, humming beneath the surface like a live wire. “When do we leave?” she asked. “Now,” he said. “Before the hunters tracking you get here first.” Rory’s pulse spiked. “Hunters?” Lucien’s expression was grim. “They’re already in the city.” She didn’t have time to pack, to think, to do anything but grab her boots and the knife she kept hidden under Eva’s bed. Lucien watched her, his gaze dark, as she laced up her boots with quick, efficient movements. “You’re not scared,” he observed. Rory shot him a look. “I’m terrified. But that’s never stopped me before.” Something flickered in his eyes—respect, maybe. Or something warmer. “That’s why I came to you.” She stood, rolling her shoulders. “Let’s get this over with.” Lucien offered her his arm. She hesitated, then took it. His skin was warm, the muscle beneath the fabric of his suit solid and real. For a moment, she let herself lean into him, just a little. Just enough to remember what it felt like to be close to him. Then she stepped back. Business. This was business. “Lead the way,” she said. Lucien’s smile was sharp. “With pleasure.” He turned toward the door, but Rory didn’t move. Not yet. “Lucien,” she said, and he paused, glancing back at her. “If we’re doing this… if we’re really doing this…” “Yes?” She swallowed. “Don’t lie to me. Not this time.” For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then, slowly, he nodded. “No lies.” It wasn’t a promise. Not really. But it was enough. Rory followed him out the door, into the London night, and toward whatever fresh hell awaited them in Avaros.