Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY5T0D2294QZ4K1W1SXQR5

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed a faint glow onto the rain-slicked pavement. A gust of wind pushed a sheet of rain against the window as Rory pushed through the door. The bar, a familiar refuge from the city's relentless drone, offered its usual comfort. The scent of old wood, stale beer, and something vaguely metallic – perhaps, the faint tang of secrets – hung in the air. Silas, behind the bar, wiped down the polished surface with a slow, rhythmic motion. His grey-streaked auburn beard caught the ambient light. He looked up, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Thought you were working tonight, Rory.” He spoke, his voice a low rumble. “Shift got cut short. Slow night for the Golden Empress.” Rory shrugged, her shoulder-length black hair swaying. She moved towards her usual stool at the far end of the bar, a silent ritual. Her small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a childhood souvenir, peeked out from under her sleeve as she pushed it up. He placed a glass in front of her. “Whiskey, neat?” She nodded, a faint smile touching her lips. “You know me too well, Si.” The doorbell chimed, a surprising jingle for a Tuesday night. Rory glanced over her shoulder. A tall figure stood silhouetted against the streetlights, water dripping from the brim of a wide-brimmed hat. The bar fell silent, a collective pause as the newcomer stepped further into the light. Their clothes, a smart trench coat with a high collar, were expensive, almost tailored. A gasp caught in Rory’s throat. Her bright blue eyes widened, focusing on the strong jawline, the familiar curve of the nose. It couldn't be. Not here, not now. The man pulled off his hat, revealing a shock of dark, wavy hair. His eyes swept over the room, settling on her. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. "Rory?" His voice, deeper than she remembered, yet undeniably his, sent a shiver down her spine. "Is that really you?" Her heart hammered against her ribs. She slid off the stool, her hands clenching at her sides. "Evan?" The name, a bitter taste on her tongue, hung in the air. Silas, ever observant, paused his wiping. His gaze flickered between them, a silent assessment of the unexpected intrusion. Evan walked towards her, his limp barely noticeable now, a far cry from the subtle drag he used to have after their shared accident years ago. He extended a hand, the gesture open, almost innocent. "It's been too long, Laila." Laila. The name he used to call her, a pet name she had long since shed, felt like a brand. She ignored his outstretched hand. "What are you doing here?" Her voice was flat, betraying none of the turmoil churning inside her. He lowered his hand, his smile faltering slightly. "Passing through London on business. Saw the sign, figured I'd pop in for a drink." His eyes, a shade of dark brown she used to lose herself in, held a familiar glint. “You look… different.” “Years change a person,” she replied, stepping back, creating a sliver of space between them. She felt the weight of his gaze, measuring, dissecting. He had changed too, not just in appearance, but in the subtle shift in his aura, a polished confidence that hadn't been there before. "They certainly do." He chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "Still got that wild streak in you?" "Depends on what you mean by 'wild streak'." She crossed her arms, a defensive posture. He leaned against the bar, his attention never wavering from her. “Back then, you were always chasing something, weren’t you? That thrill, that next big adventure.” "I was young," she countered, the memory of her younger self, impulsive and naive, a phantom presence in the room. "People grow up." "Some more than others, I suppose." He ran a hand through his hair, a gesture that used to soothe her. Now, it just felt like a performance. “Still jumping from one thing to the next? Or have you found your niche in… whatever this is?” He gestured vaguely around the dimly lit bar. “I’m happy,” she stated, a defiance she hoped he wouldn’t see through. “I’m content.” “Contentment. An interesting choice of words.” His eyes narrowed slightly, a hint of the old Evan, the one who saw through her carefully constructed facades. “Last I heard, you were leaving Cardiff. Something about an ex.” A flush crept up her neck. Her jaw tightened. “That’s ancient history.” “Is it?” He pushed off the bar, moving closer. Silas, behind the bar, paused his task again, his gaze sharp, assessing. “Because it always seemed to me that you ran, Rory. You always ran when things got tough.” “I left for a reason, Evan. A good reason.” The words were a low growl, barely audible above the quiet hum of the bar. “Was it?” His voice was a whisper, a venomous hiss. “Or were you just afraid of facing what you truly wanted?” She stared at him, her breath catching in her throat. The old wounds, long since scarred over, began to ache. His gaze, a challenge, held hers. The air between them crackled with unspoken accusations, with the ghosts of a past they both tried to bury. He wasn’t the Evan she remembered, not entirely. But the dangerous undercurrent, the manipulative streak that had drawn her in and then suffocated her, was unmistakably present.