Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AVP65HJVHNW66YC3QX7YQZ

The rain hammered against the window, a relentless staccato that matched the unease coiling in Rory’s stomach. She wiped her hands on her jeans, the scent of curry and old paper thick in the air. Eva’s flat was a labyrinth of knowledge, every surface groaning under the weight of books and scrolls. Ptolemy, the tabby, slunk between stacks, tail flicking as if sensing the storm outside—or perhaps the one brewing inside her. A knock at the door. Rory froze. Eva was still at the library, wouldn’t be back for hours. The knock came again, sharper this time, insistent. She moved through the clutter, her boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. The peephole offered a distorted view: a figure in a charcoal suit, rain-slicked and immaculate, despite the downpour. Her breath hitched. No. Not him. But the knock came a third time, and she had no choice. She undid the first deadbolt, then the second, her fingers trembling only slightly. The third lock clicked open, and she pulled the door inward. Lucien Moreau stood there, cane in hand, his heterochromatic eyes—one amber, one black—fixed on her. Rain dripped from his platinum hair, but his expression was dry, unreadable. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Rory leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “Funny how that works when you don’t call ahead.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “Would you have answered?” She didn’t. The silence stretched, thick with the weight of months gone by. The last time they’d seen each other, words had been thrown like knives, and the wounds hadn’t quite scabbed over yet. Lucien stepped forward, forcing her to retreat or be bowled over. She stepped back. He entered, shaking the rain from his coat with the practised ease of a man who never let the elements ruffle him. “You look well.” “Liar.” She shut the door, the three deadbolts clicking back into place like punctuation on a sentence neither of them wanted to finish. He glanced around the flat, taking in the chaos with a raised eyebrow. “Eva’s still hoarding knowledge like a dragon on gold, I see.” “She’s not here.” “I know.” His gaze flicked back to her, lingering on the crescent scar on her wrist before meeting her eyes. “I came to see you.” Rory’s pulse spiked. She turned away, busying herself with the kettle, though her hands were steady. “Tea?” “You’re stalling.” The kettle hissed as she filled it, the sound sharp in the quiet. “And you’re being presumptuous.” Lucien moved closer, his cane tapping lightly against the floor. “Am I? Or am I just the only one willing to say what we’re both thinking?” She spun around, the kettle forgotten. “And what’s that, Luc?” His jaw tightened at the nickname, the one he’d told her not to use in public. “That you ran. That you left things unfinished.” The words hung between them, heavy as the rain-soaked air. Rory gripped the edge of the counter. “I left because it was the only way to finish it.” A laugh, low and humourless, escaped him. “Bullshit. You left because you were scared.” Her fingers curled into fists. “And you stayed because you’re a coward.” The air crackled. For a moment, she thought he might walk out, slam the door behind him, and leave her to the storm and her regrets. But he didn’t. Instead, he closed the distance between them, his free hand reaching out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch was warm, despite the cold rain outside. “You think this is easy for me?” His voice was rough, the polished veneer of the fixer cracked. “You think I don’t lie awake wondering what the hell I did wrong?” Rory’s breath caught. She wanted to pull away, to put space between them, to pretend this didn’t matter. But her body betrayed her, leaning into his touch just slightly. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Luc. That was the problem.” His hand dropped, and he stepped back, the mask sliding back into place. “So it’s my fault I didn’t give you a reason to stay?” “It’s no one’s fault.” She turned back to the kettle, flipping it on with more force than necessary. The water inside began to tremble. “Some things just… don’t work.” “Or some people just don’t try.” The words stung. She whirled around, the tea forgotten. “You think I didn’t try? You think I didn’t—” She cut herself off, pressing her lips together. The past was a minefield, and she was tired of dancing through it. Lucien’s gaze was unrelenting. “I think you gave up. And I think you’re still lying to yourself about why.” The kettle whistled, shrill and insistent. Rory grabbed it, pouring the steaming water into two chipped mugs with more force than necessary. The tea bags bobbed violently. “You want tea or not?” He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat, pulling out a folded piece of paper. “I have something for you.” She set the mugs down, wary. “What is it?” “A job.” He held it out. “High pay. Low risk. And it’s in Cardiff.” Her stomach twisted. Cardiff. Home. The place she’d fled from, the place she’d sworn she wouldn’t return to until she was sure Evan was out of her life for good. She didn’t take the paper. “Why would I want that?” “Because it’s a chance to go back on your terms.” His voice softened, just a fraction. “Because it’s a chance to stop running.” Rory stared at the paper, then at him. The rain had stopped, but the air still hummed with tension. “And what do you get out of it?” Lucien’s smile was slow, knowing. “The satisfaction of knowing you’re not hiding anymore.” She wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, that she wasn’t hiding. But the words stuck in her throat. Because he was right. She had been hiding—from Evan, from her past, from the way Luc made her feel like she was both the smartest and the most reckless person in the room. She reached out, her fingers brushing his as she took the paper. A spark, static or something else, jumped between them. “This doesn’t change anything.” “No?” His thumb traced the back of her hand, a fleeting touch. “Then why are you still holding my hand?” Rory looked down. She was. She pulled away, unfolding the paper with deliberate care. The job details were vague, but the location was clear: Cardiff University. Her old stomping grounds. Her escape route. She exhaled, long and slow. “You’re a bastard, Luc.” “And you’re welcome.” He leaned against the counter, watching her. “So. Are you in?” She wanted to say no. Wanted to crumple the paper, toss it into the bin, and tell him to leave. But the truth was, she was tired of running. Tired of looking over her shoulder, tired of letting fear dictate her steps. She met his gaze, the challenge in his eyes mirroring the one in her own. “On one condition.” “Name it.” “You come with me.” A beat of silence. Then, the ghost of a smile. “I was hoping you’d say that.” Rory folded the paper, tucking it into her back pocket. The tea had gone cold, but neither of them reached for it. The storm outside had passed, but the one inside was just beginning. Lucien’s cane tapped against the floor as he pushed off the counter. “When do we leave?” She almost laughed. Almost. “You’re that eager to get back into my bad books?” “Rory,” he said, his voice low, “I never left them.”