Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMSFNYYBY5NCFTYMTKSHADS

The green neon sign flickered like a half-remembered promise as Aurora pushed open the heavy wooden door of The Raven's Nest. Dust motes danced in the amber bar light, settling on old maps and faded photographs that lined the walls. She'd lived above this place for months, but tonight felt different. Something electric hummed beneath her skin. Silas was polishing glasses behind the bar, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the low light. He looked up, recognition softening the sharp edges of his face. Before she could speak, a voice cut through the low murmur of conversation. "Rory?" She froze. That voice. Daniel. He sat in a corner booth, looking both exactly the same and completely transformed. The Daniel she remembered had been all soft edges and hesitation. This version was harder, his shoulders squared, a thin scar tracking along his jawline that hadn't existed before. Aurora's hand instinctively touched the small crescent-shaped scar on her own wrist—a nervous habit from childhood. "Daniel," she said, more a statement than a greeting. He gestured to the empty seat across from him. Not a request. An expectation. Silas caught her eye, a silent question in his hazel gaze. She gave an almost imperceptible shake of her head. This was something she would handle. The booth's leather was cracked, sticky with decades of spilled drinks and unspoken stories. Aurora sat, her black hair falling across her bright blue eyes. Daniel watched her, sizing her up like a stranger. "You look different," he said. "People change," Aurora replied, her Cardiff accent sharper than she intended. A lifetime ago, they had been something—not quite lovers, not quite friends. University colleagues who understood each other in the way damaged people sometimes do. He had been studying theoretical physics; she had been reluctantly pursuing pre-law, always more interested in the gaps between rules than the rules themselves. Daniel's fingers traced the rim of his whiskey glass. "Not always for the better." The accusation hung between them, heavy with history. Aurora felt the weight of unresolved conversations, of paths not taken, of the person she had been before London, before Eva, before she learned to cut toxic people from her life like diseased branches. "What do you want, Daniel?" Her voice was cool, controlled. He laughed. Not the soft chuckle she remembered, but something harder. Brittle. "Want? I'm just catching up with an old friend." Silas moved closer, his slight limp barely perceptible. A silent guardian, reading the tension like another language. The bar's ambient noise—glasses clinking, low conversations, the distant hum of a vintage radio—created a backdrop to their silent battle. Two people who once knew each other intimately, now separated by years and unspoken betrayals. "Catching up," Aurora repeated. "Is that what we're calling this?" Daniel's hand trembled almost imperceptibly as he lifted his glass. Something lurked behind his eyes—fear, regret, something unresolved that time had not softened. And in that moment, Aurora understood. Some connections never truly dissolve. They simply wait, patient and dangerous, for the right moment to resurface.