Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQRWGWGHA8WP2NFJGWEWB8

The neon sign buzzed outside The Raven’s Nest, its green glow flickering against the damp pavement. Rory pushed open the heavy oak door, the warmth of the bar wrapping around her like an old coat. The scent of whiskey and wood polish filled the air, mingling with the low hum of conversation. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, rubbing her left wrist absently, the crescent scar catching the dim light. Silas glanced up from polishing a glass, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. "You’re early." "Slow day." She shrugged. "Eva bailed on drinks again." "Third time this month." He set the glass down with a quiet thud. "You should tell her to piss off." Rory smirked. "And lose the only friend I’ve got left?" Silas opened his mouth to respond, but the door creaked open behind her. A draft curled through the bar, carrying the sharp bite of autumn air. Rory didn’t turn—habit—but Silas’s gaze flicked past her shoulder, his expression shifting imperceptibly. "Whiskey. Neat." The voice was deeper than she remembered, rougher at the edges, but unmistakable. Rory’s fingers stilled against the counter. She turned. Evan stood three feet away, his coat damp from the rain, his hair shorter than it had been in Cardiff. The sharp angles of his face were harder now, the boyish softness gone. He hadn’t noticed her yet, his attention fixed on the row of bottles behind Silas. Rory exhaled slowly. "Small world." His head snapped toward her. For a heartbeat, his expression was unguarded—surprise, then something darker, sharper. Then it smoothed over, the mask slipping back into place. "Rory." Silas set a glass in front of Evan without a word, but his knuckles whitened around the rag in his hand. Evan took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. "Didn’t think I’d find you here." "Funny. I was just thinking the same thing." She kept her voice light, but her pulse hammered in her throat. He leaned against the bar, close enough that she caught the faint scent of his cologne—something expensive, unfamiliar. "You look good." "You don’t." The lie slipped out before she could stop it. He looked better. Stronger. The kind of man who didn’t leave bruises, just ghosts. Evan laughed, low and humorless. "Still sharp as ever." He swirled the whiskey in his glass. "Heard you left Cardiff." "Years ago." "Running?" "Living." She met his gaze. "You?" He shrugged. "Business." Silas cleared his throat, the sound deliberate. "You two need a minute?" Evan’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "We’re good." The silence stretched between them, taut as a wire. Rory traced the rim of her glass, the weight of all the unspoken things pressing against her ribs. The last time they’d been this close, he’d held her wrist so tight the skin split. Now, he sipped his drink like a stranger. "You working?" he asked finally. "Delivery. For a Chinese place." His brow furrowed. "Pre-Law Rory Carter delivering takeout?" "People change." "Yeah." His gaze flicked to her wrist, to the scar he’d never asked about. "They do." The door opened again—a group of tourists, laughing too loud, shaking rain from their coats. The moment shattered. Evan pushed off the bar, tossing a bill onto the counter. "Leaving so soon?" Rory asked. "Business." He hesitated, then reached into his coat pocket and slid a card toward her. Black, embossed with gold lettering. "If you ever want real work." She didn’t touch it. "What kind of work?" He smiled, the old charm bleeding through just for a second. "The kind that pays." Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him. Rory stared at the card. Evan Cross. Director of Operations. A phone number. No company name. Silas plucked it off the counter, holding it up to the light. "You’re not taking that." "I know." "Good." He tore it in half, the sound crisp in the quiet bar. "Because that boy’s trouble." Rory watched the pieces flutter into the bin. "He always was." Outside, the rain picked up, drumming against the windows. The neon sign buzzed, flickering once, then twice, before steadying again.