Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFVFYS02APN5Q6XA60G7AM

The green neon sign buzzed faintly above the entrance to The Raven’s Nest, casting an eerie glow on the damp pavement. Rory pushed open the heavy oak door, the familiar scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapping around her like an old coat. The bar was quiet for a Thursday night—just a few regulars hunched over their drinks, the low murmur of conversation barely rising above the crackle of vinyl spinning on Silas’ ancient record player. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, rubbing her left wrist absently, the crescent scar there catching the dim light. Silas glanced up from polishing a glass, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. "Delivery run go smoothly?" he asked, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "More or less," Rory said, shrugging. "Had to outrun a dog in Camden, but the dumplings survived." Silas chuckled, pouring her a glass of ginger beer without asking. He knew she didn’t drink much these days. She wrapped her fingers around the cool glass, condensation already forming, when the door opened again. A draft curled through the bar, lifting the edges of the maps pinned to the walls. Rory didn’t look up until she heard the footsteps stop beside her. "Well," said a voice, low and rough with an edge she hadn’t heard before. "If it isn’t Aurora Carter." Her fingers tightened around the glass. She knew that voice—had known it since they were kids trading sweets behind the schoolyard. But it was different now, harder, like gravel underfoot. Slowly, she turned. Evan stood there, taller than she remembered, his once-boyish face sharpened by time and something darker. His hair was shorter, military-short, and there was a thin scar running through his left eyebrow that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. He wore a leather jacket that looked both expensive and well-worn, the kind that didn’t come cheap. "Evan," she said, her voice steady. Too steady. Silas had gone still behind the bar, his gaze flicking between them. Rory gave him the slightest shake of her head. Not now. Evan slid onto the stool next to her, close enough that she could smell the faint hint of bergamot and gun oil clinging to him. "Didn’t think I’d find you here," he said, signaling Silas for a whiskey. Neat. Rory took a sip of her ginger beer, the sweetness suddenly cloying. "Small world." He laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Yeah. Too small, sometimes." Silas set the whiskey in front of him, his expression carefully neutral. Evan didn’t seem to notice. His fingers—still long and elegant, she noted absently—traced the rim of the glass before lifting it to his lips. The amber liquid caught the light as he drank. "You look good," he said after a moment, his gaze raking over her. Assessing. Rory arched a brow. "You don’t." That got a real laugh out of him, sharp and surprised. "Still blunt as ever." "Still an asshole, I see." The corner of his mouth twitched. "Some things never change." But they had. That was the thing. The Evan she’d known had been all quick smiles and restless energy, the kind of boy who’d climb rooftops just to see the stars clearer. This man beside her carried himself like someone who’d learned the hard way that the world didn’t care about dreams. Silas drifted to the other end of the bar, giving them the illusion of privacy. Rory traced the scar on her wrist. "How long has it been?" she asked, though she knew the answer. Three years, two months, fourteen days. "Long enough," Evan said, swirling the whiskey. "You left Cardiff." It wasn’t a question. She nodded anyway. "London suits you." She snorted. "Since when do you care what suits me?" His fingers stilled on the glass. "I always cared, Rory." The sound of her nickname in his voice—the old one, the one from before—sent an unexpected pang through her chest. She looked away, focusing on the row of bottles behind the bar, their colors muted in the low light. "Why are you here, Evan?" He exhaled, long and slow. "Business." "Of course." "Not the kind you’re thinking." She turned back to him. "And what am I thinking?" His eyes met hers, and for the first time, she saw something flicker there—something that might have been regret. "That I’m still the same guy who—" He cut himself off, jaw tightening. "Who what?" she pressed, though she knew. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his jacket pocket and slid a small, folded piece of paper across the bar. Rory didn’t touch it. "What’s this?" "An address." She stared at him. "I’m not going anywhere with you." "It’s not for you," he said quietly. "It’s for Silas." That got her attention. Her gaze flicked to Silas, who was watching them with the sharp focus of a man who missed nothing. "What the hell are you mixed up in, Evan?" He leaned in, close enough that she could see the flecks of gold in his otherwise dark eyes. "The kind of trouble that follows you home," he murmured. "Tell him Prague isn’t as forgotten as he thinks." Then he was gone, tossing a handful of bills onto the bar and striding out the door before she could process the words. The neon sign buzzed again as the door swung shut behind him, casting green shadows over the empty stool. Rory unfolded the paper. The address was in Berlin. Silas appeared beside her, his limp more pronounced as he moved. "Trouble?" She handed him the note. "Seems like it." He read it, his expression hardening. "Damn." Rory studied his face—the lines deeper than she remembered, the silver in his auburn hair more pronounced. "You know what this is about?" Silas pocketed the paper. "Old ghosts." Outside, a car engine roared to life, tires screeching against wet pavement. Rory didn’t have to look to know it was Evan. Some part of her, the part that still remembered the boy he’d been, hoped he’d glance back. But the street was empty when she finally turned to look.