Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTZ45B42YYM5JET0YE02C3W

The green neon sign flickered against the wet pavement of Soho, casting a sickly glow on the puddles. Inside The Raven’s Nest, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, cheap gin, and cigarette smoke that had long since soaked into the walls. Rory wiped down the bar’s mahogany surface with a damp cloth, her movements automatic. Silas was in the back, sorting inventory, leaving her to mind the few Tuesday night stragglers. The bell above the door jangled. A figure stepped in, shaking rain from a dark wool coat. Rory glanced up, her polite smile already forming. It faltered, then vanished completely. The man shrugged off his coat, revealing a tailored charcoal suit that fit him like a second skin. His hair, once a messy shock of blonde, was now trimmed close at the sides, a controlled sweep of silver-grey on top. He had the lean, sharp look of a blade. But the eyes were the same. A clear, unsettling green. Evan. He didn’t see her at first. He surveyed the room with a detached efficiency, his gaze skimming over the maps and photographs like they were exhibits in a poorly curated museum. Then his eyes landed on her, and the detachment shattered. Something flickered there—surprise, a quick calculation, then a smooth, practiced smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Well,” he said, his voice deeper than she remembered, polished with a London accent that had buried the Cardiff lilt. “Aurora Carter. In the flesh.” “Evan.” “Just Evan these days. Dropped the ‘s.’ Cleaner.” He approached the bar, placing his hands flat on the wood. His signet ring—a new one, heavy and gold—clicked against the surface. “I heard you’d come to London. Didn’t expect to find you here.” He looked around, his smile turning faintly dismissive. “Behind a bar.” “I’m not behind it. I’m just wiping it.” She tossed the cloth under the counter. “What can I get you?” “Scotch. Neat. Whatever’s top shelf. He’ll know.” Evan gestured vaguely towards the back room. Rory didn’t move. “He’s busy.” Evan’s eyebrows lifted. A silent challenge. He leaned forward slightly. “You look well, Rory.” She didn’t answer. She turned, selected a bottle of Oban from the shelf, and poured a generous measure into a crystal tumbler. She set it before him with a quiet thud. The liquid shimmered amber in the dim light. He picked it up, swirled it, took a sip. “Excellent. You’ve developed a taste for the good stuff.” “I’ve developed a job that requires knowing what it is.” He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “Still sharp. I always liked that.” He took another sip, his eyes never leaving her face. “So. London. Running deliveries by day, wiping bars by night. Quite the career pivot from pre-law.” “It’s a living.” “Is it?” He let the question hang. “Your father must be thrilled. Brendan Carter’s daughter, a part-time courier.” The old tactic. A needle, disguised as conversation. She felt the familiar cold tighten in her stomach, the urge to justify, to explain. She swallowed it. “What brings you to this part of town, Evan? Slumming it?” “Business. I have interests in the area. Property development.” He gestured with his glass towards the window. “This whole block has potential. Underutilized.” A chill that had nothing to do with the damp evening seeped into her bones. “This bar isn’t for sale.” “Everything is for sale, Rory. It’s just a matter of price and persuasion.” He finished his scotch, set the glass down with a definitive click. “I’m surprised at you, holed up in a place like this. It’s… quaint. But it’s a dead end. You were meant for more.” “Were you?” The question, so flat and direct, seemed to catch him off guard. His polished composure cracked for a second, revealing a hardness beneath. “I adapted. The world isn’t a seminar room. It’s a market. I learned to play the game.” “And what game are you playing now?” “The only one that matters.” He signaled for another drink. This time, she poured it slowly, watching him. He had changed. The boy who wrote bad poetry and talked about joining the Peace Corps was gone, sanded away and replaced with this sleek, calculating man. But the essence was there, magnified. The need for control. The charm that could ice over in a heartbeat. “You left without a word,” he said, his tone conversational, as if discussing the weather. “I left a note.” “A note.” He snorted. “‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ Very original.” “It was true.” “Was it?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping. “Or was it that you couldn’t handle the pressure? Couldn’t handle someone who actually expected something of you? Who saw your potential and wanted you to live up to it?” The words were like keys turning in old, rusted locks. She felt the ghost of his hand on her arm, not gripping, just resting, a warning. *You’re being irrational, Aurora. Think it through. I only want what’s best.* She looked down at her own hands, at the small crescent scar on her left wrist. A childhood fall from a tree. He used to trace it with his thumb. *A little mark,* he’d say. *Proof you survived.* Now, she saw it for what it was. Just a scar. “You mistook anxiety for ambition,” she said, her voice quiet but clear in the hushed bar. “Your ambition. I wasn’t living up to my potential. I was failing to live up to yours.” Evan stared at her. The polished veneer was back, but it was brittle. “And you think this is living up to it? Hiding in a pub?” “I’m not hiding. I’m working. I’m breathing. There’s a difference.” He shook his head, a gesture of profound disappointment. “Time has made you small, Rory. It’s a shame. We could have been spectacular.” The door to the back room opened. Silas emerged, his slight limp noticeable as he crossed the worn floorboards. He took in the scene with a single glance—Rory behind the bar, Evan facing her, the tension like a third person in the room. “Evening,” Silas said, his voice a low rumble. He didn’t look at Evan but moved to stand beside Rory, a silent, solid presence. He picked up the bottle of Oban and examined the label. “Help yourself to my best single malt, did you?” Evan turned, his smile returning, professional and cool. “Silas Blackwood. I’ve heard of you. I was just telling Aurora how much potential this location has.” “It realizes its potential every night it’s open,” Silas said, placing the bottle back on the shelf with deliberate care. “Which is by my say-so. Was there something else you wanted?” The dismissal was absolute. Evan’s jaw tightened. He looked from Silas to Rory, his gaze lingering on her face, searching for a crack, a hint of the old uncertainty. He found none. “No,” Evan said, straightening his cuffs. “I believe I have everything I came for.” He pulled a fifty-pound note from his wallet and laid it on the bar, covering the cost of the drinks with a sizable tip he knew would insult her. “For your trouble, Aurora.” He turned and walked to the door, shrugging his coat back on with a single, fluid motion. He paused with his hand on the latch, half-turning. The green neon light from outside caught the sharp planes of his face. For a fleeting moment, he looked like the ghost of the boy she’d known, superimposed on the stranger he’d become. Then he was gone, the bell jangling once more before falling silent. The note lay on the bar like a dead thing. Rory stared at it, then picked it up slowly. She walked to the till, opened it, and fed the note inside. The mechanism clanged shut with a final, heavy sound. Silas picked up Evan’s empty glass and held it to the light. “An old friend?” “Once.” He nodded, as if he’d expected that answer. He took the glass to the sink and began washing it with methodical care. “People change. Sometimes for the better. Sometimes they just calcify.” Rory looked at her reflection in the dark mirror behind the bottles. Her own face looked back, pale under the dim lights, her blue eyes watchful. She saw the girl she had been, nervous and eager to please. She saw the woman she was now, tired, working a job that wasn’t hers in a bar that wasn’t hers. But she was there. She was present. She had breathed through the encounter without breaking. “He wanted to buy the block,” she said quietly. Silas didn’t look up from the sink. “I gathered.” “He said I’d gotten small.” Silas rinsed the glass, dried it with a clean towel, and placed it back on the shelf. He turned, leaning against the sink, his hazel eyes steady on her. “Did you believe him?” Outside, a car sped through a puddle, sending a wave of water against the pavement. The neon sign buzzed. Rory looked away from her reflection, towards the door, where the ghost of Evan had finally dissipated into the London night. “No,” she said. “I didn’t.”