Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR8DPJ3AK7D2XRPY6P5G5W

The neon green sign buzzed faintly as Rory pushed open the heavy wooden door of The Raven’s Nest. The bar was dimly lit, as always, the air thick with the scent of whiskey and wood polish. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, her usual spot, and nodded at Silas, who was polishing a glass with a worn rag. He gave her a curt nod in return, his hazel eyes scanning the room as though he were still on some covert op. Rory admired that about him—he never let his guard down, even in retirement. “The usual?” Silas asked, his gravelly voice low. “That’s the plan,” Rory replied, slipping her fingertips along the edge of the scar on her wrist, a nervous habit she’d picked up since her teens. “Anything interesting tonight?” Silas shrugged, pouring a measure of Glenfiddich into a tumbler. “Quiet so far. But it’s early.” Early for most people, maybe, but Rory’s shift at Golden Empress had ended hours ago. She’d spent the evening delivering steaming boxes of dumplings and noodles to tired Londoners, dodging rain showers and weaving through traffic on her bike. Now, she just wanted to sit and sip her drink in silence, letting the hum of the bar soothe her frayed nerves. But silence didn’t last long. The door creaked open again, and a gust of cold air swept in, carrying with it the sound of laughter. Rory glanced up, her bright blue eyes narrowing as she took in the figure stepping inside. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair slicked back with a precision that screamed effort. His suit was tailored, expensive, and his grin was all teeth, the kind that could charm or disarm depending on the situation. Rory’s stomach dropped. She knew that grin all too well. “Evan?” Her voice came out sharper than she intended, cutting through the low murmur of the bar. The man froze, mid-step, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second before it widened again. “Rory? Christ, is that you?” She didn’t move. Her fingers tightened around the glass Silas had placed in front of her, the amber liquid catching the light. “You’re a long way from Cardiff.” “And you’re a long way from law school,” Evan shot back, his tone light but his eyes sharp, scanning her like he was trying to piece together a puzzle. He slid onto the stool next to her, his suit jacket creasing as he leaned an elbow on the counter. “Silas,” he said, nodding at the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.” Silas gave him a curt nod, his expression unreadable, and poured the drink. Rory watched him carefully, noting the way he hesitated before sliding the glass across the counter. Silas always had a knack for reading people—and Rory wasn’t the only one who’d noticed the tension in the room. Evan took a slow sip of his whiskey, his eyes never leaving Rory. “You look good.” “You look expensive,” she replied, her tone flat. “What brings you to London?” He shrugged, the motion too casual, too practiced. “Business. You know how it is.” She didn’t know, not anymore. The Evan she’d known in Cardiff had been reckless, impulsive, a whirlwind of charm and chaos. This version of him was polished, calculated, every word and movement deliberate. It made her uneasy. “And you?” he asked, his gaze flickering over her face. “What are you doing here?” “Working,” she said shortly, not elaborating. She wasn’t about to tell him about her deliveries or the flat above the bar. Those were her secrets, her small victories in a life that had felt like one long fight for autonomy since she’d left Cardiff. Evan raised an eyebrow. “Working? You, Rory Carter, with the sharpest mind in Cardiff University, working in a bar?” “It’s not a bar,” Silas interjected, his voice calm but firm. “It’s a social club.” Evan chuckled, but there was a hardness in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “Right. My mistake.” Rory took a sip of her whiskey, the burn in her throat grounding her. “People change, Evan. You should know that better than anyone.” He leaned back, studying her with a calculating gaze. “Yeah, I guess they do. You don’t write anymore.” The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d almost forgotten how much she used to love writing—short stories, poems, anything to escape the pressure of her father’s expectations. But Evan had a way of making her feel small, inadequate, like her dreams were childish fantasies. So she’d stopped. Buried that part of herself along with everything else she’d left behind in Cardiff. “Life got in the way,” she said, her voice tight. “Life, or me?” he asked, his tone soft but edged with something darker. Rory’s fingers twitched, her grip on the glass tightening. “Don’t flatter yourself.” He laughed, but it was hollow, devoid of any real humor. “Fair enough. Still, it’s good to see you, Rory. Been a long time.” “Too long,” she muttered, though she wasn’t sure if she meant it. Seeing him now, so polished and poised, only reminded her of how much she’d lost—and how much she still carried with her. Evan drummed his fingers on the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet bar. “You ever think about coming back?” “To Cardiff?” she asked, incredulous. “Why the hell would I do that?” He shrugged again, but there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. “It’s home. Or it used to be.” “Home isn’t a place,” she said, her voice quieter now. “It’s people. And the people I cared about in Cardiff are gone.” Evan’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t argue. Instead, he downed the rest of his whiskey and stood, smoothing the creases from his jacket. “Well, it was good seeing you, Rory. Take care of yourself.” “You too,” she said, though the words tasted bitter on her tongue. He lingered for a moment, his gaze searching her face for something she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—give. Then he turned and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft creak. Rory exhaled, the tension in her chest easing slightly as she stared at the empty space where he’d been. Silas appeared beside her, refilling her glass without a word. “You all right?” he asked, his voice low. She nodded, tracing the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist with her thumb. “Yeah. Just didn’t expect to see him here.” Silas studied her for a moment, his hazel eyes sharp. “You’re stronger than you think, Rory. Don’t let him make you forget that.” She managed a small smile, though it didn’t reach her eyes. “Thanks, Silas.” He nodded and moved back to his post, leaving her to her thoughts. Rory stared at her reflection in the polished surface of the bar, the face staring back at her familiar yet foreign. She’d changed, just as Evan had—but where he’d become something harder, sharper, she felt like she was still picking up the pieces of who she used to be. The weight of time pressed down on her, heavy and unrelenting. She took a sip of her whiskey, the warmth spreading through her chest, and wondered if she’d ever stop carrying the ghosts of her past.