Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMRY67ZG9KJ34QC93Z4Z4M

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of late-night patrons, the kind of place where the air smelled of aged whiskey and the faint metallic tang of old coins left too long in pockets. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, painting the floor in shifting emerald pools. Rory sat at the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty glass of gin, the ice long melted into something watery and weak. She hadn’t meant to stay this long. Just a quick drink after her shift at the Golden Empress, a moment to shake off the chill of the London damp before heading upstairs to her flat. But the Nest had a way of holding onto people, like a spider’s silk—soft at first, then impossible to break. The door swung open, letting in a gust of wind that sent napkins skittering across the bar. Rory didn’t look up. She was too busy watching the way the gin caught the light, how it turned the liquid into something almost golden, almost warm. Then the door clicked shut, and the room settled back into its usual rhythm—except for the way the hairs on the back of her neck stood up, as if someone had run a finger down her spine. “Well,” a voice said, rough as gravel under boot heels. “If it isn’t little Laila Carter.” Rory’s breath hitched. That name. No one had called her that in years. Not since— She turned. Evan stood there, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the place. His dark hair was shorter now, cropped close to his skull, and there was a hardness to his jaw that hadn’t been there before. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been all sharp edges and pretty words, the kind of man who could charm a room with a single smile. Now, his smile was still there, but it didn’t reach his eyes. They were the same—flat, assessing—but something in them had gone dull, like a blade left too long in the rain. “Evan,” she said, and her voice was steadier than she felt. “What are you doing here?” He pushed off the doorframe and sauntered toward her, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. “Same as you, I reckon. Needed a drink.” His gaze flicked over her, lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist before moving up to her face. “You look different.” Rory resisted the urge to tug her sleeve down. “So do you.” A beat of silence. Then Evan laughed, sharp and humorless. “Yeah. Well. Life’s a bitch, innit?” He slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could smell the cigarette smoke clinging to his clothes, the faint sourness of old alcohol beneath it. The bartender—a broad-shouldered man with a salt-and-pepper beard—glanced their way, his hazel eyes narrowing just slightly before he turned back to polishing a glass. Rory took a sip of her gin, buying time. “How’ve you been?” Evan shrugged. “You know. Getting by.” He flagged down the bartender, ordered a whiskey neat. When it arrived, he downed half of it in one go. “Haven’t seen you around. Figured you’d left London.” “I did,” Rory said. “For a while.” “Where’d you go?” “Nowhere special.” Evan’s mouth twisted. “Right. Nowhere special.” He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid cling to the sides. “I looked for you, you know. After.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Did you?” “Yeah. Went by your flat. Your parents’ place. Even checked the Golden Empress, though I don’t know why you’d be slumming it there.” He shot her a look. “They said you’d quit. Disappeared.” “I didn’t disappear,” she said quietly. “I just… left.” “Without a word.” His voice was flat, but there was something beneath it—something raw, something that made Rory’s chest ache. “You just packed up and vanished. Like I didn’t even matter.” Rory exhaled through her nose. “You know why I left, Evan.” “Do I?” He leaned in, close enough that she could see the faint scar above his eyebrow, the one he’d gotten falling off his bike when they were kids. “Or did you just decide I wasn’t worth the fight?” The words hit her like a punch. She opened her mouth, closed it. Because the truth was, she *had* left without a fight. Without an explanation. She’d just… run. And now, sitting here beside him, she realized how much that must have hurt. How much it still did. “I’m sorry,” she said. Evan stared at her for a long moment. Then he knocked back the rest of his whiskey and signaled for another. “Yeah. Me too.” The bartender set the fresh drink in front of him, his signet ring glinting under the dim bar lights. Rory watched him move, the slight limp in his left leg as he stepped away. Silas. She’d known him for years, but she’d never asked about the limp. Some things were better left unspoken. Evan followed her gaze. “You still working for that old spook?” Rory blinked. “What?” “Silas.” Evan jerked his chin toward the bartender. “He’s ex-MI6, you know. Or so they say.” “I didn’t know that,” Rory lied. Evan smirked. “Sure you didn’t.” He took another sip of his drink. “You always were a terrible liar, Laila.” Rory bristled. “Don’t call me that.” “Why not? It’s your name, isn’t it?” “Not anymore.” Evan studied her, his dark eyes searching her face like he was trying to memorize it. “What happened to you, Rory?” She looked away. “Same thing that happened to you, I guess.” “Nah.” He shook his head. “I got older. You got… harder.” Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t know how. Evan sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Look, I didn’t come here to fight. I just…” He trailed off, his fingers tapping against the bar. “I saw you sitting here, and I thought—fuck, I don’t know what I thought.” Rory swallowed. “You thought you’d say hello.” “Yeah.” He laughed, but it was hollow. “Stupid, right?” She turned back to him, really looked at him. The lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders hunched just slightly, like he was carrying something heavy. He wasn’t the boy she’d known. Neither of them were those people anymore. “Not stupid,” she said softly. Evan met her gaze, and for a moment, it was like no time had passed at all. Like they were still two kids sneaking cigarettes behind the school, laughing because the world was big and bright and theirs for the taking. Then the moment passed. Evan drained his whiskey and stood, tossing a few notes onto the bar. “I should go.” Rory nodded. “Yeah. Me too.” He hesitated, like he wanted to say something else. But in the end, he just gave her a small, sad smile. “Take care of yourself, Rory.” She watched him walk away, his boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. The door swung shut behind him, and just like that, he was gone. Silas slid a fresh gin toward her. “You alright?” Rory stared at the door. “I don’t know.” Silas didn’t press. He just nodded, like he understood. Maybe he did. Rory picked up her glass, the gin sharp and cold against her lips. Outside, the rain kept falling, blurring the neon sign into something soft and indistinct. She thought about Evan, about the way he’d looked at her—like she was a ghost, like she was something he’d lost a long time ago. She thought about the girl she’d been, the one who’d run without looking back. And for the first time in years, she wondered if she’d made a mistake.