Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFFEAH87Q1QRKQKW55STRP

The Raven's Nest was its usual self - the low murmur of conversation blending with the clink of glasses and the faint strains of Sinatra drifting from the jukebox. Aurora Carter sat in her usual corner booth, nursing a whiskey sour and pretending to study the notes from her latest freelance investigation. The green neon glow from the window cast an eerie light on the pile of documents before her. She traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist absently, her mind elsewhere. The bar was quieter than usual for a Friday night, which suited Rory just fine. She'd been hoping for some solitude after a particularly grueling week tracing dead-end leads about a missing tech CEO. The case was starting to feel more like a wild goose chase than anything else. The door chimed, and she glanced up more out of habit than curiosity. The glass nearly slipped from her fingers. "Evan?" The man at the door froze, his hand still on the brass handle. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by something darker. Rory felt her stomach lurch. It had been years since she'd seen him, but the years hadn't been kind - his once athletic frame had softened, and his hairline had started to recede. But it was his eyes that shocked her most - they were harder, colder than she remembered. "Well, isn't this a coincidence," he said, sliding into the seat opposite her without invitation. His voice had lost its musical cadence, replaced by a rougher edge. "Aurora Carter, still haunting London's dive bars, I see." She forced her features into a mask of indifference. "And Evan Taylor, still presuming he's welcome wherever he goes." He barked a laugh that held no humor. "You haven't changed a bit, have you? Still that razor-sharp wit." He leaned forward, his eyes narrowing. "Still playing detective?" "Freelance investigator," she corrected, fingers tightening around her glass. "And you? Still writing... what was it? 'Groundbreaking statistical analysis for tech startups'?" His smirk faltered momentarily. "That was the plan," he admitted. "But plans change. People change." The silence that followed was heavy with unspoken words. Rory noted the faint tremor in his hands as he signaled the bartender for a drink. Old habits kicked in - she mentally catalogued the details. The slightly worn suit, the cheap watch, the nervous tic in his jaw. "You look..." she hesitated, "...different." He snorted. "Polite as ever. Could've said 'good'." "Could have," she agreed. "Would've been lying." Their old banter, once playful, now felt like a duel. The bartender delivered Evan's drink, and he took a long pull before speaking again. "So. How's life treating the great Aurora Carter?" She shrugged. "Can't complain. The work's steady. The pay's... intermittent." "And the men?" "Not your concern," she shot back, sharper than intended. He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just making conversation." She studied him over the rim of her glass. "You're not here by accident, are you?" He froze for a split second before recovering, but Rory caught it. She always caught those tiny tells - that's what made her good at her job. "Maybe," he hedged. "Maybe I heard you frequent this place." "From whom?" "A man about town hears things." "Cut the crap, Evan." She leaned forward, her bright blue eyes boring into his. "What do you want?" He sighed, swirling the whiskey in his glass. "I'm in trouble, Rory." She raised an eyebrow. "Trouble has a funny way of finding you." "This isn't a joke," he snapped, then immediately looked apologetic. "Look, I know I... we didn't end well. But I need your help." She resisted the urge to laugh. "You come waltzing in here after... how many years? And expect me to jump to your aid?" He hesitated. "Six years. Seven months. And twelve days." The specificity caught her off guard. She masked it with a sip of her drink. "Your point?" "I haven't forgotten, Rory. Not any of it." The admission hung between them, heavy with regret and things best left unsaid. She studied his face, searching for the boy she'd once loved, but he was gone, replaced by this stranger with haunted eyes. "What kind of trouble?" she asked finally, against her better judgment. He glanced around nervously before leaning in closer. "The kind that gets people killed." Before she could respond, the door to the back room swung open, and Silas Blackwood emerged, his silver signet ring catching the light as he limped towards them. His sharp hazel eyes took in the scene with practiced efficiency. "Ms. Carter," he greeted with his usual calm authority. "Everything alright here?" She managed a tight smile. "Just catching up with an old friend." Silas's gaze flicked to Evan, assessing. "Friend, you say?" Evan shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "We... we go way back." "So I gather," Silas replied dryly. "Well, if you'll excuse me, Ms. Carter, don't forget you have that... appointment tomorrow morning." She caught the emphasis and nodded. "Wouldn't miss it." As Silas retreated to the bar, Evan frowned. "What appointment?" "None of your business," Rory replied automatically. Then, relenting slightly, "Work thing." He studied her for a moment. "You trust him? Silas?" Her eyes narrowed. "More than I trust you." He flinched as if struck. "Fair enough." The silence stretched uncomfortably. Finally, Rory sighed. "Start talking, Evan. What kind of trouble are you in exactly?" He opened his mouth to respond when the bar door slammed open, making both of them jump. Three men in dark suits entered, their eyes scanning the room with predatory intensity. Evan froze, his face paling. "Don't look," he hissed. "Don't react." Too late. One of the men's gaze locked onto theirs. He said something to his companions, and they began making their way toward the booth. "Evan, what did you do?" Rory whispered urgently. "I told you," he replied, voice tight with fear. "The kind of trouble that gets people killed." As the men approached, Rory felt the familiar adrenaline surge that came with danger. Her mind raced, assessing escape routes, potential weapons, identifying threats. Old instincts kicked in. "Follow my lead," she murmured, then raised her voice. "Darling, you can't keep doing this. It's getting ridiculous." For a moment, Evan looked confused, then comprehension dawned. "I know, I know," he played along. "I'll pay you back, I swear." She stood abruptly, her drink in hand. "Not this time. We're through." As the men reached the table, she threw her drink in Evan's face. He sputtered in shock, but she was already moving, pushing past the startled men toward the door. "What the hell?" one of them growled. "Domestic dispute," Rory called back over her shoulder. "Have fun cleaning up this mess." Outside, she hurried down the alley, heart pounding. She didn't look back. Not until she reached the safety of the crowded street did she allow herself a moment to breathe. Her phone buzzed. An unknown number. The text read: "We need to talk. Alone. Tomorrow. Same place. No Silas." She stared at the screen, a mix of anger and unease churning in her gut. Part of her wanted to delete it, block the number, and pretend this never happened. The other part - the detective part - knew she was already in too deep. Whatever trouble Evan was in, she had a sinking feeling it was about to become hers too. Sighing, she glanced back at the neon sign of The Raven's Nest glowing green in the night. The weight of the past six years felt heavier than ever. Somehow, she knew nothing would ever be the same again.