Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRG492EGDZ9JAMHZYDWTB4

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered weakly as Rory pushed open the door, the bell above it jingling like a warning. The air inside was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and something sharper—gun oil, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of old secrets. She’d come in early, before the usual rush, to avoid Silas’s sharp eyes. But the place wasn’t empty. A figure sat in the corner booth, hunched over a glass, the dim light catching the silver in his hair. His back was to her, but she knew that posture—broad shoulders, the way he held himself like he was waiting for something to break. Rory hesitated. She hadn’t seen him in years. Not since the night he’d walked away without a word, not since the last time she’d been stupid enough to trust the wrong man. But then he turned his head, just slightly, and the light caught his face. His jaw was sharper now, the lines around his eyes deeper. He looked older. Worse. “Christ,” she muttered, stepping back before he could see her. “Rory.” His voice was rough, like he hadn’t used it in a while. She turned, pressing herself against the wall outside the door, heart hammering. He stood, slow and deliberate, his left leg giving a slight hitch. The old knee, she remembered. The one that had ruined his career. “You’re not supposed to be here,” she said, voice tight. He laughed, low and without humour. “Neither are you.” She didn’t move. “I’m just delivering a package.” “For Silas.” She swallowed. “Yeah.” He studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes darkening. “You look like hell.” She bristled. “And you look like you’ve been drinking.” “Every night.” The words hung between them, heavy. She knew what that meant. She’d seen it before—men who drank to forget, who drowned themselves in bottles because the world had given them too many reasons to hate it. But this wasn’t about her. Not yet. “Why are you here?” she asked, voice steady despite the way her hands were shaking. He tilted his head, considering. “You first.” She exhaled through her nose. “I live above Silas’s place. I deliver for him. That’s it.” “Bullshit.” She flinched. “What do you want, *Evan*?” His name on her lips was like a punch to the gut. He flinched too, but not from pain. From something worse—recognition. “I didn’t know you remembered.” “How could I forget?” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You look good.” She rolled her eyes. “I’m not here to discuss my appearance.” “No.” He took a step closer, the scent of whiskey and something else—cigarette smoke, maybe—filling her nose. “I’m here because I heard you were back. In the city. Working for Silas.” Her stomach twisted. “How’d you know that?” “Sources.” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “Of course you do.” He didn’t answer. Just watched her, like he was trying to memorise every line of her face, every way her fingers curled at her sides. “What do you want?” she repeated. He reached into his coat, pulled out a folded piece of paper. “I found this in my old flat. Thought you might want it back.” She took it, unfolding it slowly. It was a letter, written in her own handwriting, dated years ago. She recognised the stationery—Evan’s. The words blurred as she read: *I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’ll fix this. I promise.* Her hands trembled. “Where did you get this?” “From your ex.” She looked up, eyes burning. “What?” “Evan. He left it for me when he moved out. Said he thought you’d want it back.” She crumpled the paper in her fist. “You’re lying.” “Am I?” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You really think I’d come all this way just to hand you a letter?” She didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. “You were always so clever, Rory. Always saw through the bullshit. But you left it all behind, didn’t you? Just like that.” She swallowed hard. “What do you want?” He smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The same thing I always wanted. You.” She laughed, hollow and broken. “You’re delusional.” “Am I?” He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His fingers were rough, calloused. “You still look at me like that. Like you remember.” She jerked away. “I don’t remember anything about you.” He laughed, low and bitter. “Liar.” She turned, pressing her back against the wall. “Get out.” “Not until you tell me why you’re really here.” She met his gaze, her voice steady despite the way her heart was pounding. “I’m not here for you.” “Then why?” She hesitated. “I need a job.” He raised an eyebrow. “You always were good at playing the long game.” She ignored the jab. “I need money. And I need to stay under the radar.” He studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Fine. But you work for me.” “What?” “You heard me. You work for me.” She shook her head. “No.” “Yes.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he held up a hand. “Think about it. You need the money. And I need someone I can trust.” She scoffed. “You don’t trust anyone.” “That’s not true.” She looked away, her stomach twisting. “What do you want me to do?” He smiled, slow and dangerous. “Just be here when I need you.” She exhaled sharply. “When?” “Tonight.” She nodded, her throat tight. “Tonight.” He reached into his coat again, this time pulling out a key. “Here. This is the back door. It’s not locked.” She took the key, her fingers brushing against his. “What’s the catch?” He smirked. “There’s always a catch.” She didn’t ask what it was. She didn’t need to. He turned, walking towards the door. “See you tonight, Rory.” She watched him go, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what she was walking into, but she knew one thing—she was in too deep already.