Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXTYEMNNK9M8V6HR1R2K6H

The distinctive green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered above, casting a sickly hue across the wet pavement. Rain, a steady British drizzle, slicked the Soho street. Rory pushed through the heavy oak door, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses a familiar embrace. She shucked off her rain-damp jacket, hanging it on a peg near the entrance. The usual crowd populated the dimly lit bar. Old maps and faded black-and-white photographs covered the walls, each one a silent witness to countless whispered secrets and shared laughter. Silas, his grey-streaked auburn hair glinting under the warm glow of the overhead lights, polished a glass behind the bar. A silver signet ring caught the light on his right hand as he worked. He looked up, a faint smile touching his lips. “Evening, Rory,” a warm rumble from Silas. “Thought you were done for the night.” “Just finished my last delivery,” Rory said, pushing a stray strand of black hair from her face. “Figured I’d grab a quick one before heading up.” She moved to her usual stool at the corner of the bar, the subtle ache in her left knee from a full day on her feet a familiar companion. She ordered a sparkling water with lime. The scent of aged wood, stale beer, and something faintly metallic, always present in the Nest, filled her nostrils. She watched Silas, his slight limp as he moved, a testament to old battles. He set her drink down, ice clinking. “Slow night,” he observed, leaning against the counter. Rory nodded, tracing the condensation on her glass. “Almost a relief after the day I’ve had. Ran into a rather… colourful character down on Drury Lane. Demanded I deliver his spring rolls in a top hat.” Silas let out a low chuckle. “Never a dull moment, is there?” A sudden chill snaked its way up Rory’s spine, a sense of being watched. She slowly turned her head. A man sat several stools down, his back to her, but something about the set of his shoulders, the dark curve of his hair, snagged at a forgotten memory. He wore a heavy, dark coat, its collar turned up. The bar’s dim lighting threw shadows across him, obscuring his features. He turned slowly, a deliberate motion, and met her gaze. Recognition, a jolt of ice water to the gut, slammed into Rory. Evan. His eyes, once a vibrant green she remembered, now seemed dulled, almost opaque. A scar, thin and white, slashed across his left eyebrow. His face, once smooth, was now etched with a weary maturity that went beyond his years. The boy she knew was gone, replaced by a ghost. A tremor ran through her. Her breath caught in her throat. She gripped her glass, her knuckles white. He offered a tight, almost grim, smile. “Rory?” His voice, a low rasp, sent another shiver through her. It was the same voice, yet harsher, like gravel on stone. “Evan,” she managed, the name a foreign taste on her tongue. The sound of it invoked a flood of fragmented images: laughter, promises, the cold grip of fear. He rose from his stool, his movements stiff, almost hesitant, as if the years had settled into his bones. He walked towards her, each step a further erosion of the distance between them, a closer inspection of her past. She felt a phantom pain on her left wrist, remembering the small crescent-shaped scar hidden beneath her sleeve. He stopped a polite distance away, his hands shoved into his pockets. “It’s been a while.” “Years,” Rory replied, her voice flat. She kept her gaze steady, unwilling to let him see the tumult churning inside her. “London suits you,” he said, his eyes scanning her face, lingering on her bright blue eyes, her straight black hair. A flicker, something she couldn't quite decipher, crossed his face. “I’m doing well,” she stated, a subtle defiance in her tone. He nodded slowly, a ghost of his former self. “I heard.” He paused, as if searching for the right words. “I… I’ve changed, Rory.” “I can see that,” she said, her gaze unwavering. The harsh lines etched around his eyes, the hollows in his cheeks, spoke volumes she didn’t want to hear. A sigh escaped him. “You always could see through me, couldn’t you?” He offered another one of his tight, sad smiles. “Always knew what I was thinking.” “Some things are hard to forget,” Rory said, a bitter edge to her voice. He flinched, a subtle tightening of his jaw. “I deserved that,” he conceded, his gaze drifting to the scarred surface of the bar. “And more.” The silence stretched between them, heavy and weighted with unspoken history. The clinking of glasses, the low murmur of conversation, seemed to fade into the background. It was just them, suspended in a moment that felt both endless and fleeting. “What are you doing here, Evan?” she finally asked, her voice laced with a mixture of curiosity and apprehension. He met her gaze, his eyes shadowed. “Passing through. Needed a drink.” He gestured around the bar. “Didn’t expect to find you in a place like this.” “I live above it,” Rory said, a small, almost imperceptible shrug of her shoulders. His eyebrows rose slightly. “You always had a knack for finding adventure.” A faint, almost imperceptible warmth entered his eyes. “Remember that time we snuck into the old abandoned theatre by the docks?” A prickle of irritation rose within Rory. He was trying to invoke nostalgia, to erase the years, to soften the edges of their shared past. “I remember a lot of things, Evan.” His smile faltered. “I know,” he whispered, the earlier confidence draining from his posture. He shifted his weight, his gaze falling to his hands. “I’ve done a lot of thinking, Rory. About… about everything.” “Has it made a difference?” she asked, her voice quiet, almost a challenge. He hesitated, then slowly raised his head. “I hope so. I’m trying. To be… better.” “Good for you,” she said, the words clipped, devoid of emotion. She wouldn’t offer him comfort, not after all this time. The memories, the fear, the pain, still resonated. He ran a hand through his dark hair, the gesture somehow alien on his changed face. “I know it’s not enough. Nothing I can say or do will ever make up for… for what I did.” Rory remained silent, watching him, her face a mask. She saw the regret in his eyes, felt the weight of it in the air between them, but it offered no balm to her old wounds. “Did you ever… hate me?” His voice was barely a whisper. Rory finally looked away, focusing on the condensation on her glass. “It’s complicated, Evan. It always was.” He nodded, a slow, solemn movement. “I understand.” He took a step back, widening the gap between them. “I won’t bother you. It was… good to see you.” His voice cracked slightly on the last few words. Before she could respond, he turned and walked back to his stool, his heavy coat a dark silhouette against the muted lights of the bar. He sat down, his back once again to her, becoming just another shadow in the corner of The Raven’s Nest. The space he left between them, once filled with tension, now felt empty, a void that had swallowed a piece of her past. Rory stared at the ripple of her reflection in the glass, the bright blue of her eyes a stark contrast to the dimness around her.