Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX2PXDTFVHR5607CMYWPGJ

The green neon of The Raven’s Nest buzzed faintly against the damp pavement, casting a sickly glow over the slick cobbles of the Soho alley. Rain had fallen in steady sheets all evening, and the air smelled of wet wool and old cigarettes. Aurora shoved the heavy oak door open, her black coat damp at the shoulders, her breath tight from climbing the three flights to her flat above the bar. She hadn’t meant to go in—but the lights were on, a rare sight this late, and something tugged at her, a low hum beneath her ribs. The bar was nearly empty. A single figure sat near the back, shoulders squared to the wall, one hand wrapped around a tumbler of amber liquid. Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with the same slow, deliberate motion he’d had for years—like he was sanding down time itself. She stepped inside, shook the moisture from her sleeves. “Still open?” Silas glanced up. His hazel eyes took her in—her sharp cheekbones slick with rain, the faint shadow under her eyes, the way she held her left wrist instinctively when tired. “You live here,” he said. “You don’t need permission.” “Force of habit.” She unbuttoned her coat, draping it over the back of a stool. “Didn’t expect anyone. Thought you’d turned in.” “Old habits die harder than people,” Silas said, setting the glass down. “You look like you’ve been running.” “Delivery run. Rain turned into a downpour near Bayswater. Had to shield the dumplings like they were state secrets.” She managed a smirk, but it didn’t reach her eyes. He poured her a ginger tea from the pot warming behind the till, no sugar. He remembered. She turned toward the back of the bar, and that’s when she saw him. The man at the corner table looked up. His hair was shorter, bleached at the ends like it had spent years in the sun. A jagged scar ran from his temple down to his jaw, half-hidden by stubble. But his eyes—pale green, wide-set, always a little too knowing—froze her mid-step. “Evan.” He smiled. Not warm. Not cruel. Just… familiar. The kind of smile that knew the exact shape of your silence. “Aurora Carter. Or do you go by Rory now?” Her breath hitched, but her voice stayed level. “I never went by anything else.” He gestured to the seat across from him. “Sit. I’ll buy you a drink. Or… tea, I suppose.” He nodded toward the steaming cup in her hands. She didn’t move. Silas placed a hand on the bar, light but firm. “You know him?” Aurora didn’t look at Silas. “Yeah. We go way back.” Her voice clipped, careful. Evan chuckled. “Way back. That’s one way to put it.” He took a sip of his drink. “You look different. Calmer. Less fire.” “You look like you fought a war and lost the map.” That made him laugh—short, sharp. “Fair.” She turned to Silas. “I need a minute.” He gave a single nod, then disappeared into the storeroom, the door clicking shut behind him. Aurora slid into the booth. The leather creaked beneath her. Rain streaked the window behind Evan, blurring the red glow of a passing taxi. “You’re in London,” she said. “Passing through.” He rolled the glass between his palms. “Work took me to Belgrade. Came up for a meeting. Thought I’d see if the city still tasted like regret.” “And it does.” “More than ever.” Silence pooled between them, thick and laced with things they both knew but would never name. She studied him—the new lines around his eyes, the way his left hand trembled slightly when he set the glass down. The Evan she’d known had never shaken. “You left without saying goodbye,” he said finally. “I left because I was still breathing.” Her voice stayed low, even. “I didn’t owe you a farewell speech.” “You could’ve told someone. Eva. Me.” “You *were* someone, Evan. That was the problem.” He flinched. Not much. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth. “I was never—“ “Stop.” She leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Don’t say you were never violent. Don’t say you didn’t mean it. I know what I lived through. I know what it felt like to lie awake listening to your footsteps on the stairs, wondering if tonight was the night you’d come back with a belt or a fist or a lie that hurt worse than both.” He stared at her. The scar on his face looked fresh in the dim light. “I wasn’t a good man,” he said. “I know that now.” “Now?” “Prague. Two years ago. I was working security for a contractor—private outfit, no oversight. Got caught in an op that went sideways. Woke up in a hospital with a cracked skull and a man’s blood on my boots I didn’t remember putting there.” He pressed his thumb to the scar. “They said I tried to stop it. That I turned on my own team. Maybe I did. Maybe I didn’t. Memory’s a hole now. But I remember enough to know I was never the hero I thought I was.” Aurora said nothing. Her fingers brushed the crescent scar on her wrist—old reflex. “You changed,” he said. “You used to bite your lip when you were angry. Now you don’t react at all.” “I learned not to.” “I used to scare you.” “You still do.” He looked away. Outside, the rain slowed. A bus hissed past on the wet street. “I’m not him anymore,” Evan said. “You don’t get to decide that,” she replied. “I do. And I’m not convinced.” He let that hang. Then: “Why’d you become a delivery rider?” “Because it keeps me moving,” she said. “Because I don’t have to talk to people. Because the route maps don’t lie.” “You were going to be a barrister.” “I was going to be what my father wanted. What you wanted. What everyone thought a quiet girl from Cardiff should be.” Her voice sharpened. “I wanted to breathe. I wanted to walk down the street without calculating escape routes. I wanted to not know what a chokehold feels like when it’s applied slowly, like a question.” Evan closed his eyes. When he opened them, his gaze was raw. “I’d give anything to take it back.” “You can’t.” “No. But I can stand in bars and watch the woman I destroyed order ginger tea like it’s a miracle she’s alive.” She exhaled. The anger had burnt clean, leaving only fatigue. “You didn’t destroy me.” “You left with nothing.” “I left with everything that mattered.” Footsteps. Silas reappeared, slower than before, the limp more pronounced. He placed a small file on the bar—dark blue cover, no label. Looked at Aurora. Then at Evan. “Didn’t expect to see you again,” Silas said. Evan tilted his head. “Still in the business, Si?” “Retired.” “Retired people don’t keep dossiers on former intelligence assets.” Silas didn’t deny it. Aurora looked between them. “You know each other?” Silas met her gaze. “We cross paths. Long time ago.” Evan smirked, but it was tired. “He tried to recruit me. I said no. Too honest for my taste.” “And now?” Silas asked. “Now I’m looking for a second chance. Or maybe just absolution. Doesn’t matter. No one’s handing it out.” Silence again. The clock behind the bar ticked. Aurora stood. “I’m done.” Evan didn’t move. “Rory.” She paused. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Not because it fixes anything. But because you should’ve heard it.” She looked at him—really looked. Not at the scar, not at the memories. At the man who was no longer a monster, but wasn’t yet anything else. “Keep your apology,” she said. “Spend it on being someone else.”