Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPBCEYXJEPKPN89DFEVR8G

The green neon raven flickered like a dying thought as Rory pushed through the door of *The Raven’s Nest*, the evening’s chill clinging to her coat. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something sharper—polish, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of old secrets. She shook the rain from her hair and scanned the room. Most of the usuals were there: a pair of students hunched over textbooks in the corner, a man in a rumpled suit nursing a gin, and Silas behind the bar, wiping a glass with the methodical patience of someone who’d done it a thousand times before. She slid onto a stool, the wood creaking under her weight. “You’re running low on the good stuff again.” Silas didn’t look up. “Depends on what you call *good*.” “Anything that doesn’t taste like turpentine.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He reached beneath the counter and set a bottle of Japanese whisky between them, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “Busy night?” “Same as always.” She rolled her shoulders, the ache of another twelve-hour shift on the bike settling into her bones. “Cheung’s got me running all over the city like his personal courier service.” Silas poured two fingers into a glass and slid it toward her. “He pays well, at least.” “Barely enough to cover the rent you charge me.” “Consider it a friend’s discount.” She took a sip, let the burn settle. “Friends don’t extort friends.” Before he could retort, the door swung open again, letting in a gust of wind and the sharp laugh of a woman. Rory didn’t turn—until the voice cut through the hum of the bar like a blade. *“Oh, for God’s sake, this place hasn’t changed at all.”* The glass slipped in Rory’s grip. She caught it before it hit the counter, but not before a splash of whisky darkened the wood. Silas’ eyebrows lifted. “You know her?” Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. The woman had already spotted her, her stride faltering for half a second before she recovered, smoothing her coat with the easy confidence of someone who’d spent years perfecting the art of appearing unfazed. Eva. Not the Eva from Rory’s memories—the one with scraped knees and a gap-toothed grin, the one who’d climbed trees and sworn like a sailor and promised they’d never be stuck in this bloody city. This Eva wore a tailored blazer, her dark hair pulled into a sleek chignon, her nails painted a shade of red that probably cost more than Rory’s weekly wages. A gold watch glinted at her wrist. “Rory,” Eva said, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like five years hadn’t passed. Like Rory hadn’t stopped answering her calls after the third voicemail begging her to *just come home*. Rory wiped her palm on her jeans. “Long time.” Eva slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that Rory caught the scent of her perfume—something floral, expensive. “You look…” A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in her dark eyes. “Different.” “So do you.” A laugh, bright and hollow. “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Silas cleared his throat. “Drink?” Eva didn’t spare him a glance. “Vodka martini. Dirty. Three olives.” He nodded and moved down the bar, giving them the illusion of privacy. Eva leaned in, her voice dropping. “I heard you were in London, but I didn’t believe it. Thought you’d have gone further by now.” Rory swirled her whisky. “Didn’t have the funds for a one-way ticket to Mars.” “You always had a flair for the dramatic.” Eva’s fingers tapped against the counter, restless. “How’s your dad?” “Same. Still thinks the law is the only thing worth a damn.” “And your mum?” “Retired. Gardening, I think.” Rory took another sip, the liquor doing little to dull the edge of the past rising between them. “You’re still with the firm, then?” Eva’s lips curved. “Partner, actually.” Of course she was. Eva had always been the one with the plan, the one who knew exactly where she was going. Rory had just been along for the ride—until she wasn’t. “Congratulations,” Rory said. “Thanks.” Eva’s gaze flicked to Rory’s hands—the chipped nail polish, the scar on her wrist, the way her fingers tightened around the glass. “What about you? Still…” She gestured vaguely. “Doing whatever it is you do?” “Delivering takeout. Living above a bar. The dream, really.” Eva’s smile faltered. “You used to talk about travelling. Writing. Not… this.” Rory set her glass down a little harder than necessary. “People change.” “Do they?” Eva’s voice was quiet now, the playful edge gone. “Or do they just run out of excuses?” The words hit like a slap. Rory turned to face her fully, the old anger flaring. “You want to talk about excuses? You’re the one who—” *“Here you go.”* Silas set Eva’s martini in front of her, the olives bobbing in the cloudy liquid. He didn’t linger, but Rory caught the way his gaze flicked between them, assessing. Eva took a slow sip, her composure slipping back into place like armour. “I was worried about you, you know. After you left.” “Funny way of showing it.” “I called. I *tried*.” “Once. After three months.” Eva’s jaw tightened. “You think I didn’t have my own things to deal with?” Rory laughed, sharp and humourless. “Right. Because Eva Morgan’s world is *so* much harder than everyone else’s.” For a second, something raw flashed in Eva’s eyes—something that looked suspiciously like hurt. But then it was gone, replaced by that familiar, infuriating calm. “You’re still mad.” “No shit.” Eva exhaled, long and slow. “I didn’t come here to fight.” “Then why *did* you come?” Eva hesitated. Her fingers traced the rim of her glass, the gold of her watch catching the light. “I saw your name. On a delivery slip, of all things. *Golden Empress*. I thought…” She trailed off, shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.” Rory’s chest ached. “You thought what?” Eva met her gaze, and for the first time, Rory saw the cracks—the exhaustion in the lines around her eyes, the way her shoulders weren’t quite as straight as they used to be. “I thought maybe you’d want to know I’m getting married.” The words hung there, heavy and final. Rory should’ve been happy for her. Should’ve smiled, toasted, played the part of the old friend. But all she could think about was the last time they’d seen each other—Eva standing in the doorway of Rory’s flat in Cardiff, her face pale, her voice trembling as she said, *You can’t just leave like this. Not again.* Rory had left anyway. She reached for her whisky. “Congratulations.” Eva studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly: “You could’ve come back, you know. At any point.” Rory didn’t answer. The weight of everything unsaid pressed down on her, thick and suffocating. Eva finished her martini in one smooth motion and stood, adjusting her blazer. “I should go.” Rory didn’t stop her. The door swung shut behind Eva, the neon raven flickering again, as if mocking them both. Rory stared at the empty stool, the half-melted ice in Eva’s abandoned glass. Silas reappeared, wiping his hands on a towel. “Friend of yours?” Rory swallowed. “Used to be.” He nodded, like that explained everything. Then he reached for the whisky bottle and topped up her glass. Outside, the rain started again.