Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFX36NZTTY3G66TWAQQY55

The Raven's Nest smelled of aged whiskey and polished wood. Rory leaned against the bar, tracing the crescent scar on her wrist with her thumb as she waited for Silas to finish pouring a Guinness. The green neon glow from the sign outside cast long shadows across the bottles behind him. She'd come straight from her last delivery shift, the scent of sesame oil still clinging to her jacket. The bar was quiet for a Thursday—just a few regulars nursing their drinks and an old jazz record spinning softly in the corner. The door creaked open behind her. A draft curled through the room, carrying with it the damp London air and something else—a familiar citrus cologne that made Rory's shoulders tense before she even turned around. "Christ. Rory Carter?" That voice. Deeper than she remembered, rougher around the edges, but unmistakable. She turned slowly, her fingers tightening around her glass. Evan stood three feet away, his dark coat dripping rainwater onto the floorboards. He'd filled out since university—his shoulders broader, his jaw sharper. But it was his eyes that startled her most. The boy she'd known had worn his emotions like open wounds. The man before her now had a gaze as unreadable as the bar's tinted windows. "Didn't peg you for a pub crawler," she said, forcing her voice light. He laughed, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Didn't peg you for staying in London." He slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that his knee brushed her leg. She didn't move away. Silas appeared with her drink—a whiskey neat—and raised an eyebrow at Evan. "New friend?" "Old," Evan said before she could answer. He tapped the bar. "Glenfiddich, if you've got it. Eighteen year." Silas's gaze flickered to Rory, who gave the barest nod. He limped toward the premium shelf without another word. Evan turned his glass between his palms. "You look good." "You look different." He smirked. "That a compliment?" "A statement." She studied him—the new scar above his eyebrow, the way his left pinky twitched against his glass. Old tells overwritten by new ones. "What are you doing here, Evan?" "Meeting a client." He nodded toward the back booth where a man in a pinstripe suit was pretending not to watch them. "Got into private security after—" He stopped abruptly. "After you left Cardiff," she finished for him. The silence between them thickened. The jazz record skipped, the needle catching on a scratch. Evan exhaled through his nose. "I heard about your dad." Her throat tightened. "Three years too late." "I tried calling." "You changed your number." He had the decency to wince. "I needed a clean break." "From me." "From everything." His fingers twitched toward hers before pulling back. "I wasn't... good, back then." Rory swallowed a bitter laugh. That was one way to put it. The shouting matches. The broken dishes. The way he'd grab her wrist too tight when he'd been drinking. She rubbed her scar absently. Silas returned with Evan's drink, his signet ring glinting as he set it down. "Everything alright here?" "Peachy," Rory said. Evan knocked back half his scotch in one go. "We were just catching up." The pinstriped man coughed pointedly from his booth. Evan ignored him. "You still writing?" he asked suddenly. Rory blinked. Of all the things... "Poetry? No." "Shame. You were brilliant." She stared at him. The Evan she'd known had mocked her notebooks, called her verses "pretentious drivel." Now he was looking at her with something like regret. "What happened to you?" The question slipped out before she could stop it. He swirled his drink, watching the amber liquid cling to the sides. "Grew up, I guess." The needle skipped again. Someone laughed too loud by the dartboard. Evan's client stood abruptly, tossing bills onto his table. "Blackwood. We're leaving." Evan didn't move. "Give me five minutes." "Now." Rory watched the way Evan's jaw worked, the way his shoulders tensed—then relaxed into obedience. He drained his glass and stood, pulling a card from his coat. "If you ever need anything." He slid it toward her. "Legitimate offer." She didn't touch it. "I deliver dumplings, Evan. What would I need from a bodyguard?" His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You'd be surprised." He left without looking back, his coat swirling around his ankles. The door shut with a soft click. Silas materialized beside her, wiping a glass with a rag. "Trouble?" Rory finally picked up Evan's card. Blackwood Security, it read. Director of Operations. She flipped it over. On the back, in his cramped handwriting: *I'm sorry.* The needle settled back into the music. Rory tucked the card into her pocket and finished her whiskey in one burning swallow. "Just ghosts," she said.