Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY09AD4ASF2CZ9HCF4M15J

Rain lashed against the green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest, blurring the edges of Soho’s evening chaos. Inside, the muffled thump of a bassline vibrated through the floorboards. Rory, a black shoulder-length curtain of hair framing her face, wiped down the polished oak bar, the scent of stale ale and lemon polish a familiar comfort. The crescent scar on her left wrist, a pale sliver against her skin, caught the dim light. Silas, his auburn hair shot with grey, a slight limp favoring his left leg, emerged from the hidden back room. He gave Rory a nod, a silent acknowledgment of her efficiency. She finished up her task, running her gaze over the sparse crowd. A figure detached itself from the shadows near the entrance, pausing to shake water from a dark, tailored coat. Rory’s rag froze mid-swipe. The man moved with a fluid grace she recognized, a confident stride that seemed to ripple with an unspoken power. His eyes, though deeper now, held a familiar glint. Time had chiseled his jawline, etched a few lines around those intense eyes, but the core of him remained unmistakable. “Silas, a single malt, neat,” the man’s voice, a low rumble, sent a shiver down Rory’s spine. Not a command, but an expectation. Silas, polishing a glass with a meticulous hand, merely arched a brow. “Evan, I should have known the storm would bring you out.” Rory’s breath hitched. Evan. The name, a forgotten whisper from a buried past, echoed in the sudden quiet of her mind. He turned then, his gaze sweeping the room, stopping abruptly when it landed on her. The air crackled. His eyes, once a comforting hazel, now held a cool, calculating glint she did not recognize. A half-smile, a ghost of the one she remembered, played on his lips. “Rory,” he spoke her name, a caress of sound that felt like a violation. “Or is it Laila now?” Her grip tightened on the bar rag. “It’s Rory. Always has been.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. Laila was a name she had shed like old skin, a memory best left undisturbed in the dust. He chuckled, a low, rich sound. “Still as stubborn as I remember.” He moved towards the bar, his presence radiating an almost oppressive calm. Rory felt the familiar knot of dread tighten in her gut. She’d spent years constructing walls, brick by painful brick, to keep him out. Now, he stood before her, effortlessly dismantling them with a single glance. “What are you doing here, Evan?” Her voice surprised her with its steady tone. He leaned against the bar, an elbow resting near her hand. He didn’t touch her, but the proximity felt like a touch. “Just passing through. London’s a small town, isn’t it?” His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, held hers. An unsettling intensity shone in their depths. Silas placed a glass of amber liquid before Evan. “Some would say too small.” His tone held a hint of warning. Evan ignored him, his focus unwavering on Rory. “You look…well. Still working here?” His gaze swept over her, a slow, appraising movement that left her feeling exposed. “It pays the bills.” She averted her eyes, focusing instead on a smudge on the counter. The familiar sensation of being trapped, of being observed, crept over her. “A far cry from the barrister’s chambers, isn’t it?” His words, soft as they were, struck a nerve. The pre-law degree, the countless hours spent poring over statutes—all a distant memory, a road not taken. Rory met his gaze, defiance hardening her own. “Some paths are best left untraveled.” He picked up his glass, swirling the liquor. “Indeed.” He took a slow sip, his eyes never leaving hers. “I heard you left Cardiff. Rather abruptly, if I recall.” The unspoken accusation hung heavy in the air. He knew. He always knew everything. “Things change. People change.” “Some more than others.” He set the glass down with a soft click. “You used to dream of justice, Rory. Of righting wrongs. What happened to that fire?” “It…dimmed.” The truth caught in her throat. The fire hadn’t dimmed. It had been smothered, almost extinguished, by him. He offered another one of his ghost smiles, a fleeting expression that barely touched his eyes. “A shame. You had such potential.” The words, a cruel balm, ignited a spark of anger within her. “And what about you, Evan? Still charming the world into submission?” The bitterness in her voice was unmistakable. He laughed, a genuine, mirthless sound. “Always. It’s a useful skill.” He took another sip of his drink. “Last I heard, you were quite the delivery girl. Running around town, I presume?” Rory bristled. He knew about the Golden Empress, about her part-time job. How? “I keep busy.” “I’m sure you do.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “It’s a dangerous world, Rory. Especially for those who walk alone.” A cold dread coiled in her stomach. Was that a threat? Or merely an observation? With Evan, it was always impossible to tell. He had a way of weaving menace into the most innocuous statements. “I manage.” “I’m sure you do,” he repeated, his voice softer, almost tender. The shift in his tone was more unsettling than his previous veiled barbs. “But some dangers are best faced with…assistance.” She scoffed, a fragile attempt at bravado. “I don’t need your assistance, Evan.” “Perhaps not.” He drained his glass, the ice rattling against the bottom. “But the world has a way of catching up to us, doesn’t it? The past, it never truly stays buried.” He pushed the empty glass across the bar, the movement deliberate, unhurried. “Give my regards to Eva, if you see her.” Rory’s jaw clenched. Eva, her childhood friend, the only one who had truly seen her, who had pulled her from the wreckage of her past with him. “I will.” The words felt like ash in her mouth. He stood, pulling a wallet from his inner coat pocket. He laid a crisp fifty-pound note on the bar, far more than the drink cost. His eyes lingered on her once more, a final, unnerving sweep. “It was…instructive, Rory. To see you again.” He turned, the dark coat swirling around him, and walked towards the door. The bells above the entrance chimed, a final, ominous note, as he disappeared into the rainy London night. Rory stood frozen, the fifty-pound note a glaring white rectangle on the dark wood. The faint scent of his expensive cologne still lingered in the air, a phantom reminder of his presence. Silas, his gaze unwavering, finally stirred. “He hasn’t changed,” Silas said, his voice a low rumble. Rory picked up the note, crumpling it in her fist. “He’s changed more than you know, Silas.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “He always finds a way, doesn't he?”