Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQBM0CHARQTJ14SXH4YR6T

The green neon raven flickered like a dying thought as Rory pushed through the door of *The Raven’s Nest*, the hinge groaning under the weight of years. Inside, the air clung thick with the scent of aged whiskey and the faint metallic tang of old secrets. She exhaled, shoulders dropping an inch as the hum of low conversation wrapped around her. A familiar ache pulsed in her left wrist—phantom pain from the scar Evan had given her, years ago now, but still there when the weather turned. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, where the light was dimmest. Silas was polishing a glass, his signet ring glinting under the muted bulb. He didn’t look up, but his voice cut through the murmur of the room. “Took you long enough.” Rory smirked. “Had to dodge a cyclist with a death wish near Piccadilly.” “Excuses.” He set the glass down, finally meeting her eyes. “You’re late.” “And you’re a tyrant.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips before he turned to grab a bottle of bourbon. The ice clinked as he poured, the amber liquid catching the light like molten gold. Rory watched his hands—steady, despite the limp he favoured when he thought no one was looking. The door swung open again, letting in a gust of damp autumn air. Rory didn’t turn. Neither did Silas. But the hair on the back of her neck prickled. A voice, warm and rough-edged, cut through the haze. “Well, I’ll be damned.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. Silas glanced up, his expression unreadable. “Evening.” The stool beside hers scraped against the floor. A shadow fell over her, tall and broad-shouldered, smelling of leather and something faintly chemical—antiseptic, maybe. Or gunpowder. “Rory Carter,” the voice said. “Or do you go by Laila these days?” She turned. Eva’s brother stood there, older, harder, his once-boyish face carved into sharp angles. His dark hair was cropped short now, a stark contrast to the unruly mop she remembered. A jagged scar ran from his temple to his jawline, pale against his olive skin. “Jesus,” she breathed. “Matteo.” He grinned, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “In the flesh.” Silas set a fresh glass on the counter, his gaze flicking between them. “You two know each other?” Rory swallowed. “Used to.” Matteo leaned in, close enough that she could see the faint lines around his eyes, the way his pupils dilated just slightly when he looked at her. “Used to be a lot of things.” She forced a laugh, brittle as old glass. “Yeah. Like kids.” “Kids don’t leave scars like these.” He tapped his temple, right where the scar disappeared into his hairline. Rory’s throat went dry. She took a sip of bourbon, the burn grounding her. “What happened to you?” Matteo’s fingers drummed against the bar. “Life. War. The usual.” Silas cleared his throat. “You want a drink, or are you just here to haunt the place?” Matteo didn’t look away from Rory. “Bourbon. Neat.” Silas poured, then slid the glass toward him before melting into the background, leaving them to the weight of the past. Matteo took a slow sip, watching her over the rim. “Eva told me you were in London.” Rory stiffened. “Did she now.” “Said you were doing alright.” “Did she also say I didn’t want to be found?” His jaw tightened. “She didn’t have to.” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Rory traced the crescent scar on her wrist, the old habit flaring up. Matteo’s gaze followed the movement. “Still got that?” he asked, voice low. She dropped her hand. “Some things don’t fade.” “No.” He took another drink. “They don’t.” The jukebox in the corner crackled to life, some old blues tune Rory didn’t recognise. It felt like a violation. “What are you doing here, Matteo?” He set his glass down. “Passing through.” “Bullshit.” A flicker of something—amusement?—crossed his face. “Fine. Looking for someone.” “Let me guess. Not me.” “No.” He hesitated. “But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t wonder.” Rory’s chest ached. She drained the rest of her drink. “Wonder what?” “If you ever think about it. About *us*.” The words hung there, raw and bleeding. She wanted to laugh. To scream. To slap the smug, broken look off his face. Instead, she said, “There is no *us*, Matteo. There hasn’t been in years.” He leaned in closer, his voice a rough whisper. “You sure about that?” Her pulse hammered in her throat. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to reminisce.” “No.” He sat back, rubbing his thumb over the scar on his temple. “I came because I need a favour.” Rory barked a laugh. “Of course you did.” Matteo didn’t smile. “It’s not what you think.” “Enlighten me.” He glanced around, then lowered his voice. “I need to get into a place. Tomorrow night.” “And you want me to what? Pick the lock?” “Something like that.” She shook her head. “I’m not that girl anymore.” “Aren’t you?” His gaze flicked to Silas, who was pretending not to listen. “You’re still running with spies, Rory. Some things don’t change.” Her nails bit into her palms. “I deliver takeout. That’s it.” Matteo’s expression darkened. “Then why’d you run?” The question hit like a punch to the gut. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. He exhaled sharply. “Forget it. I shouldn’t have—” “No,” she cut in, voice trembling. “You shouldn’t have.” The air between them crackled, charged with all the things they weren’t saying. The way he’d left without a word. The way she’d burned every bridge behind her. The way they’d both pretended the other didn’t exist. Matteo broke first, looking away. “I’ll find someone else.” Rory should’ve let him. Should’ve watched him walk out the door and never looked back. But the old habit died hard. “Where?” she asked. He met her eyes. “You sure?” No. “Just tell me where.” A slow, bitter smile curved his lips. “Some things *do* stay the same.” She ignored the twist in her chest. “The address, Matteo.” He pulled a folded slip of paper from his pocket and slid it across the bar. His fingers brushed hers—deliberate, lingering. Rory snatched her hand back. Silas appeared beside them, refilling her glass without a word. His presence was a reminder, a anchor. Matteo stood, tossing a few notes onto the counter. “Tomorrow. Midnight.” Rory didn’t look up. “I’ll be there.” The door swung shut behind him, leaving only the ghost of his cologne and the weight of a decision she already regretted. Silas cleared his throat. “You want to talk about it?” She downed the bourbon in one go. “No.” He didn’t push. Just took the glass and wiped the counter, his signet ring glinting under the dim light. Rory stared at the door, at the space where Matteo had been. Some things didn’t change. And that was the problem.