Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTR937S1CNXVKJ4NAHR2W8G

The Raven’s Nest smelled of aged whiskey and lemon polish, the kind of scent that clung to the walls like a second skin. Rory wiped her hands on her jeans, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the dim light as she reached for the pint Silas had slid across the bar. The glass left a wet ring on the wood, and she traced it with her thumb, watching the condensation bead and run. "You’re late," Silas said, his voice rough as gravel under boots. He didn’t look up from wiping down the counter, but the signet ring on his right hand glinted as he moved. "Traffic on the Strand." She took a sip, the bitterness of the ale sharp on her tongue. "Or did you expect me to materialize out of thin air?" Silas smirked, finally lifting his gaze. His hazel eyes held the same quiet assessment they always had, but the lines around them had deepened, like cracks in old parchment. "Wouldn’t put it past you." The door creaked open behind her, letting in a gust of cold air and the distant wail of a siren. Rory didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. The way Silas’s fingers stilled on the rag, the way his jaw tightened—just for a second—told her everything. "Well," a voice drawled from the doorway, smooth as aged bourbon. "If it isn’t the infamous Rory Carter." She froze. The glass stopped halfway to her lips. The name curled around her like smoke, familiar and foreign all at once. No one had called her that in years. Not since— Rory turned slowly. Eva stood there, her dark curls shorter now, cropped close to her scalp in a way that made her sharp cheekbones look even sharper. She wore a leather jacket that hadn’t been cheap, and the heels of her boots clicked against the floor as she stepped inside. The green neon sign above the door painted her face in an eerie glow, turning her skin sallow, her eyes hollow. "Eva," Rory said, and her voice came out steadier than she felt. Eva’s lips curved, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. "Surprise." Silas cleared his throat. "I’ll leave you two to it." He limped toward the back, the slight drag of his left leg more pronounced than Rory remembered. The silence that followed was thick enough to choke on. Eva slid onto the stool beside Rory, close enough that Rory caught the scent of her perfume—something expensive, something that didn’t smell like the Eva she knew. The Eva who used to steal her mother’s vanilla body spray and douse herself in it. "You look different," Eva said, tilting her head. "Older." Rory laughed, but it came out wrong, too sharp. "We all do." Eva’s fingers drummed against the bar. "Not like this." She gestured vaguely at Rory’s face, her wrist. "You’ve got that whole *mysterious* thing going on now. The scar’s new. Or is it?" Rory’s fingers twitched toward her wrist, but she stopped herself. "It’s been there a while." "Huh." Eva’s gaze flicked away, toward the wall of black-and-white photographs. "I like the hair. When did you stop dyeing it?" "When I stopped caring what people thought." Eva’s smile faltered. "Right. That’s—yeah. That tracks." Rory took another sip of her ale, buying time. The last time she’d seen Eva, she’d been sobbing on the phone from a hostel in Edinburgh, her voice breaking as she begged Rory to come with her. *Just for a little while. Just until I figure things out.* And Rory had said no. Not because she didn’t want to, but because she’d just started at Cardiff, because her father had drilled into her that *responsibility* was the only thing that mattered, because she’d been too scared to admit she was drowning too. Eva had left without her. And now here she was, polished and poised, like she’d stepped out of a magazine spread. "You’re in London, then?" Rory asked, because the alternative was silence, and silence was worse. Eva nodded. "For work. I’m in finance now. Private equity." She said it like she was waiting for Rory to be impressed. Rory wasn’t. "That’s—great." Eva’s eyes narrowed. "You don’t sound like you mean that." "I do." Rory set her glass down. "I’m happy for you. Really." Eva scoffed. "Bullshit." The word hung between them, heavy and ugly. Rory exhaled through her nose. "What do you want me to say, Eva? That I’m surprised? That I missed you? I did. But you didn’t exactly keep in touch." "I texted you." "Once. A year ago. And you didn’t even ask how I was." Eva’s jaw tightened. "I didn’t think you’d want to hear from me." Rory laughed, but it was a hollow sound. "That’s rich, coming from you." Eva flinched like she’d been struck. "What’s that supposed to mean?" Rory leaned in, her voice dropping. "You left. You just—*left*. No warning, no nothing. And now you waltz in here like nothing happened?" Eva’s hands clenched into fists on the bar. "I had to go. You know that." "Do I?" Rory’s pulse pounded in her ears. "Because from where I was standing, it looked like you just decided I wasn’t worth the trouble." Eva’s breath hitched. "That’s not fair." "Neither is this." Rory gestured between them. "Neither is showing up after all this time and acting like we’re just old friends catching up." Eva’s eyes glistened, but she blinked hard, and the moment passed. "I didn’t come here to fight." "Then why did you come?" Eva opened her mouth, then closed it. She looked away, her throat working. "I don’t know." Rory’s chest ached. She wanted to reach out, to touch Eva’s arm, to tell her it was okay. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in years of silence and unspoken hurt. Eva stood abruptly, her stool scraping against the floor. "I should go." Rory didn’t stop her. The door swung shut behind Eva, the green neon sign flickering as it closed. Rory stared at her half-finished pint, the bubbles rising and popping like tiny, useless apologies. Silas reappeared from the back, his limp more pronounced in the quiet. He didn’t ask. He just slid a fresh glass toward her and poured two fingers of whiskey into it. Rory picked it up and drank.