Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXPJ55BV721AH8D7D3R9W4D

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation and the clink of glasses, the kind of noise that settled into the bones like a second heartbeat. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, painting the patrons in shades of jade and shadow. Rory leaned against the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty gin and tonic, the ice long melted. She hadn’t meant to stay this long. Just a quick drink after her shift at the Golden Empress, a moment to breathe before heading upstairs to her flat. But the Nest had a way of holding onto people, like a spider’s silk—soft, almost unnoticeable, until you tried to pull away. The door swung open, letting in a gust of damp London air and a man she hadn’t seen in years. Evan. Her breath hitched. He looked different. The boyish charm was gone, replaced by something harder, leaner. His dark hair was cropped short, his jaw shadowed with stubble, and his eyes—once warm, now cold—scanned the room with the precision of a man who expected trouble. He wore a leather jacket, worn at the elbows, and beneath it, the outline of a shoulder holster was just visible. Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. She should have left. She should have slipped out the back, up the stairs, anywhere but here. But she didn’t move. Some part of her, the part that still remembered the way he used to laugh, the way his hands had once been gentle, wanted to see what he’d say. Evan’s gaze landed on her. For a second, his expression flickered—surprise, maybe even something like regret—but it was gone before she could be sure. He crossed the room in long strides, his boots thudding against the worn floorboards. “Rory,” he said, his voice rougher than she remembered. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” She forced a smile, though it felt brittle. “London’s a big city, but not that big, I guess.” He slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could smell the rain on his jacket, the faint metallic tang of whatever he’d been doing before he walked in. “You look good,” he said, and there was something in his tone, something that made her skin prickle. “You don’t,” she said before she could stop herself. Evan laughed, but it was a sharp, humorless sound. “Yeah, well. Life’s a bitch.” Silas appeared behind the bar, his hazel eyes flicking between them with the quiet assessment of a man who’d spent a lifetime reading people. He set a glass in front of Evan without a word, poured two fingers of whiskey, neat. “You want another?” he asked Rory, his voice low. She shook her head. “I’m good.” Silas lingered for a moment, his signet ring glinting in the dim light, before he moved down the bar to polish glasses that didn’t need polishing. Rory knew he was listening. Silas always listened. Evan took a sip of his whiskey, his throat working. “Haven’t seen you around,” he said. “Thought you’d have left the city by now.” “I did,” she said. “For a while. Came back.” “Why?” She shrugged. “Needed to.” He studied her, his gaze lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, the one he’d given her. She saw the moment he recognized it, the way his jaw tightened. “I heard about what happened,” he said quietly. “With your ex.” Rory’s fingers twitched. “Which one?” Evan’s mouth twisted. “The one who put you in the hospital.” She exhaled through her nose. “That was a long time ago.” “Not long enough.” The air between them was thick with things unsaid, with the weight of the past pressing down like a physical force. Rory wanted to ask him what he’d been doing, where he’d gone, why he looked like a man who’d seen too much and come back wrong. But she didn’t. Some questions were better left unanswered. “You still delivering takeout?” Evan asked, changing the subject. “Part-time,” she said. “It pays the bills.” “And the rest of the time?” She hesitated. “I’m working on something.” “Legal?” She met his gaze. “Mostly.” Evan smirked, but there was no humor in it. “That’s new.” Rory didn’t rise to the bait. She knew what he was doing—poking, prodding, looking for a reaction. She wouldn’t give him one. “What about you?” she asked instead. “Still playing at being a tough guy?” His expression darkened. “I don’t play at anything anymore.” “No,” she said softly. “I can see that.” A beat of silence stretched between them, heavy and suffocating. Evan finished his whiskey in one swallow, set the glass down with a sharp *clink*. “I should go.” Rory nodded. “Yeah. You should.” He stood, hesitated. “It was good seeing you, Rory.” She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust herself to speak. Evan turned and walked away, his limp barely noticeable, the door swinging shut behind him with a finality that echoed in her chest. Rory stared at the spot where he’d been, her heart pounding. Silas reappeared, his presence solid and reassuring. “You alright?” he asked, his voice low. She picked up her glass, drained the last of her drink. “I will be.” He studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “You know where to find me if you need to talk.” Rory managed a small smile. “I know.” Silas moved away, leaving her alone with the hum of the bar and the ghost of Evan’s presence. She traced the scar on her wrist, the one that had faded but never quite disappeared. Some wounds didn’t heal. Some people didn’t either. She stood, her stool scraping against the floor, and made her way toward the back of the bar, toward the hidden door behind the bookshelf. She needed to think. She needed to breathe. And for the first time in a long time, she needed to remember who she was before the world had tried to break her.