Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AV99R02KG73D55J74VXVD7

The knock came just as Rory was wiping grease from her hands onto her already-stained jeans. Three sharp raps, then a pause, then two more. A rhythm. A code. Her fingers stilled. No one else knew that pattern. Ptolemy, the tabby, lifted his head from his perch on the windowsill, ears twitching. The flat was small enough that the sound carried, sharp and deliberate, cutting through the hum of the fridge and the distant chatter from the street below. Rory exhaled through her nose, tossed the rag onto the counter, and moved to the door. The deadbolts were still locked—she always kept them that way. Eva had drilled it into her. But the knock came again, insistent. She hesitated, then slid the first bolt free. The second. The third. The door swung inward before she could touch the handle. Lucien stood there, filling the frame. Charcoal suit immaculate, not a crease in sight, the platinum blond hair slicked back like always. The cane rested against his shoulder, idle. His eyes—one amber, one black—flickered over her, lingering on the grease stain, the scar on her wrist, the way her hair had come loose from its tie. "Took you long enough." Rory crossed her arms. "You’re early." "Not early. You’re late." A smirk tugged at his mouth. "Or did you forget?" She hadn’t. Two years, and she still remembered the way his voice had sounded the last time they’d spoken—cold, clipped, final. *Don’t call me again.* But here he was. Ptolemy chose that moment to slink between her legs, tail brushing her ankle. Lucien’s gaze dropped. "Still keeping that fleabag around?" "His name’s Ptolemy," she said, but the cat was already winding around Lucien’s polished shoes, purring. Traitor. Lucien stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the scent of bergamot and something darker—gunpowder, maybe—following him. The flat was a mess. Books stacked on the sofa, takeout containers on the coffee table, a half-empty glass of whiskey she’d forgotten about. She hadn’t expected company. He took it in with a single glance, then shut the door behind him. The click of the deadbolts re-engaging was too loud. "You look like hell," he said. She bristled. "And you look like you’ve never eaten a meal that wasn’t served on china." That earned her a real smile, brief and sharp. "I’ve eaten street food, Rory. Just not by choice." She wanted to snap back, but the words stuck. Too much history in the way he said her name. Like he’d tasted it before and still remembered the flavour. He moved further in, the cane tapping lightly against the floorboards. "Eva’s not here, is she?" "She’s in Prague. Some conference on pre-Columbian artefacts." Rory leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Why?" Lucien’s fingers tightened around the cane’s handle. "I need her expertise." "Then you’ll have to wait." "I don’t have time to wait." She arched a brow. "Since when do you care about time?" His jaw tightened. The air between them thickened, charged with something older than the last two years. The last time they’d been in the same room, she’d thrown a glass at his head. He’d caught it, set it down, and walked out without a word. Now, he was back. Ptolemy chose that moment to leap onto the sofa, knocking a stack of books to the floor. The noise broke the tension, just a little. Lucien exhaled, low and controlled. "I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t important." "Important enough to track me down?" "I knew where you were." Of course he did. Lucien knew everything. That was his job. She pushed off the counter. "Fine. Say what you came to say." He didn’t. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a folded sheet of parchment, yellowed with age. The edges were singed. He held it out to her. She didn’t take it. "What’s that?" "A contract. Or what’s left of one." "Whose?" "Yours." Her stomach dropped. "Mine?" "You signed it. Five years ago." She had. The night she’d met him. The night she’d been desperate enough to believe in demons and deals. The night she’d traded a favour for a way out of Cardiff, out of Evan’s reach. She’d almost forgotten. Almost. Her fingers trembled as she took the parchment. The ink was faded, but the words were still there. *Aurora Carter, in exchange for safe passage and protection from Evan Griffiths, hereby owes Lucien Moreau one favour, to be called upon at his discretion.* At the bottom, her signature, shaky and young. She swallowed. "You never called it in." "I didn’t need to." "And now?" Now, his expression was unreadable. "Now, I do." She looked up at him, the parchment crumpling in her grip. "What do you want?" His gaze didn’t waver. "Your help." "With what?" "A job." She barked a laugh. "You? Need *my* help?" His mouth twitched. "Don’t flatter yourself. I need someone with your… particular skills." "Which are?" "You’re good at getting into places you shouldn’t be. And you’re better at getting out." She wanted to argue, but he wasn’t wrong. That was how she’d ended up working for Yu-Fei—delivering more than just food, sometimes. Packages that didn’t have labels. Envelopes that weren’t meant to be opened. But this was different. This was Lucien. And this was a debt. She tossed the parchment onto the counter. "Fine. What’s the job?" He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached into his coat again, this time pulling out a small, velvet pouch. He upended it into his palm, revealing a silver key, intricate and old. "Steal this," he said, holding it up. "From a man who shouldn’t have it." She stared at the key. It hummed, faintly, like a plucked string. Magic. Old magic. "Whose is it?" "A collector. Dangerous. He’s got things that don’t belong in this world." "And you want me to… what? Walk in and take it?" "You’ll have backup." "Yours?" He nodded. She should’ve said no. Should’ve told him to get out, to call in someone else’s favour. But the key pulsed, and the parchment burned in her peripheral vision, and the way he was looking at her—like she was the only person who could do this—made her chest tight. "When?" "Tonight." She scoffed. "You’re joking." "Do I look like I’m joking?" No. He didn’t. She rubbed her temples. "I have a shift at the restaurant." "Yu-Fei will understand." "Will he?" Lucien’s smile was razor-thin. "I’ll make sure of it." She wanted to refuse. Wanted to slam the door in his face and pretend this conversation never happened. But the debt was real. And so was the way her pulse jumped when he was near. "Fine," she said, snatching the key from his palm. It was warm. "But if I get caught, I’m taking you down with me." His laugh was low, rich. "I’d expect nothing less." She should’ve hated him. Should’ve resented the way he waltzed back into her life like no time had passed. But as he turned to leave, his cane tapping against the floor, all she could think was that the flat felt smaller now that he was in it. And colder when he was gone.