Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMZJJCWE81C7B7G5MRQ9JA

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 bled a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, casting long, wavering shadows across the scuffed wooden floor. Rory leaned against 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 breathe 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 unshakable. The door creaked open, letting in a gust of damp London air and the distant wail of a police siren. Rory didn’t look up. She was too busy watching the way the gin caught the light, turning her glass into a prism of pale gold. Then the door swung shut, and the bar’s ambient noise dipped, just for a second, like the room itself had taken a breath. “Well. Fuck me sideways.” The voice was deeper than she remembered, rougher, like gravel underfoot. Rory’s fingers stilled. She knew that voice. Knew it the way she knew the scar on her wrist—the one from the night she’d smashed a glass in her palm after Evan had called her stupid for the third time that week. The one she’d pressed into her skin just to feel something sharper than his words. She turned her head. Eva stood just inside the door, shaking rain from her dark curls, her coat dripping onto the floorboards. But it wasn’t the rain that made Rory’s chest tighten. It was the way Eva held herself—shoulders squared, chin lifted, like she was bracing for a fight. The last time Rory had seen her, Eva had been all soft edges and nervous laughter, the kind of girl who still believed in grand gestures and happy endings. Now, her eyes were sharp, her mouth set in a line that didn’t quite manage to be a smile. “Rory Carter,” Eva said, stepping forward. “Or should I say *Malphora*?” The name hit like a punch to the sternum. Rory’s breath came short. No one had called her that in years. Not since the last time she and Eva had been drunk on cheap wine in Eva’s cramped student flat, scribbling fake identities on napkins and laughing like it was all a game. *Malphora*. The name they’d given her when they’d played at being spies, back when the world had still felt full of possibilities. Eva slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that Rory could smell the rain on her skin, the faint citrus of her perfume. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” Rory forced a laugh, but it came out brittle. “Just surprised. It’s been a while.” “Five years.” Eva’s fingers drummed against the bar. “Give or take.” The bartender—a wiry man with a tattoo of a raven in flight across his forearm—glanced their way. Rory shook her head. She didn’t need another drink. She needed to not feel like the floor was tilting beneath her. Eva ordered a whiskey, neat. When it arrived, she downed half of it in one swallow. “So. London, huh? I heard you bailed on Cardiff. On *him*.” Rory’s grip tightened around her glass. She didn’t have to ask who *him* was. “Yeah. Well. Some things aren’t worth sticking around for.” Eva’s laugh was a dry, humorless thing. “Funny. That’s exactly what I said when I left Bristol.” Silence settled between them, thick as the smoke that curled from the ashtray on the bar. Rory studied Eva’s profile—the new hardness in her jaw, the way her lashes cast shadows under her eyes. She looked older. Not just in years, but in the way people did when they’d learned how to armor themselves against the world. “What happened to you?” Rory asked, before she could stop herself. Eva’s fingers stilled around her glass. For a second, Rory thought she wouldn’t answer. Then Eva exhaled, long and slow. “Life, I guess. Turns out being a starry-eyed journalism grad doesn’t pay the bills. So I got a job. A real one.” “Doing what?” Eva’s smile was razor-thin. “You know. The usual. Tracking down people who don’t want to be found. Digging up secrets.” She swirled the whiskey in her glass. “I work for a private firm now. High-end stuff. Corporate espionage, mostly.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “You’re a spy.” “No.” Eva’s voice was sharp. “I’m a *researcher*. There’s a difference.” “Is there?” Eva didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her coat and pulled out a folded piece of paper. She slid it across the bar toward Rory. “I was going to look you up. Send this. But then I walked in here and—” She gestured vaguely between them. “Well. Here we are.” Rory unfolded the paper. It was a job listing. *Freelance investigator needed. Discreet, resourceful, with a background in research or intelligence. High pay, high risk.* At the bottom, a phone number and an email address. She looked up. “What is this?” “An opportunity,” Eva said. “You always were good at thinking on your feet. Better than I ever was.” Rory’s throat went dry. She thought of the last five years—the deliveries she made for Yu-Fei, the nights spent in her flat above the bar, the way she’d told herself she was happy with quiet, with safe. But safe had a way of feeling like stagnation, and Rory had never been good at standing still. “Why me?” she asked. Eva’s gaze flickered toward the back of the bar, where a bookshelf stood against the wall. Rory knew what was behind it—the hidden room, the one Silas used for meetings that weren’t meant to be seen. Eva’s voice dropped. “Because I know you, Rory. And I know you’re still the same girl who used to stay up all night planning heists we’d never pull off. The one who always had a backup plan. A *third* backup plan.” She leaned in. “The world’s gotten messier since then. People like us? We’re the ones who clean it up.” Rory’s pulse hammered in her ears. She thought of Silas, of the way he’d taken her in when she’d shown up on his doorstep with nothing but a duffel bag and a bruise blooming on her cheek. He’d given her a job, a place to stay, a way to disappear. But disappearing had never been the same as living. Eva reached out, her fingers brushing Rory’s wrist—the one with the scar. “I’m not the only one who’s changed, am I?” Rory pulled her arm back. “People grow up.” “No,” Eva said softly. “Some of us just learn how to hide better.” The bar’s door opened again, and this time, Silas stepped through. He moved with the quiet precision of a man who’d spent a lifetime being watched, his limp barely noticeable unless you knew to look for it. His hazel eyes flicked between them, sharp and assessing. “Ladies,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Everything alright?” Rory forced a smile. “Just catching up with an old friend.” Silas’ gaze lingered on Eva for a beat too long. Then he nodded, once, and moved behind the bar. “Don’t let me interrupt.” Eva drained the last of her whiskey. “I should go. Early meeting tomorrow.” She stood, then hesitated. “Think about the job, Rory. You’re not the only one who’s been looking for a way out.” Rory didn’t answer. She watched Eva walk to the door, her coat swirling around her like a cape. The bell above the door jingled as she stepped out into the rain. Silas slid a fresh gin across the bar. “You want to tell me what that was about?” Rory picked up the glass. The ice clinked against the sides. “Not particularly.” Silas studied her for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound of a man who’d learned long ago not to push when he wouldn’t like the answers. “Fair enough.” He turned away, but not before Rory caught the flicker of something in his eyes—concern, maybe, or the ghost of an old warning. The paper Eva had left sat on the bar between them, its edges curling slightly from the damp. Rory reached out and tucked it into her pocket. She wasn’t the same girl she’d been five years ago. But maybe that was the problem. Maybe she was exactly the same—just better at pretending she wasn’t.