Run: 2026-02-20-01KHXQKGT3HZ411WPPDPJ5S0P1

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter that rose like smoke from the tables. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, painting the room in shifting shades of jade. Rory leaned against the bar, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty gin and tonic, the ice long melted. She had come straight from a double shift at the Golden Empress, her black hair still damp from the London drizzle, her delivery bag slumped at her feet like a discarded shadow. The door swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and the distant wail of a siren. Rory didn’t look up—until she heard the voice. “Well. If it isn’t Malphora herself.” The nickname hit her like a slap. She turned slowly, her bright blue eyes narrowing as she took in the man standing in the doorway. He was taller than she remembered, or maybe it was the way he carried himself now—shoulders squared, chin lifted, as if he’d spent the last few years learning how to take up space. His auburn hair was streaked with silver, his beard neatly trimmed, and there was a new weight to his gaze, something sharp and assessing beneath the easy smile. Evan. Her stomach twisted. She hadn’t seen him in five years. Not since the night she’d packed a single suitcase and fled Cardiff in the back of Eva’s beat-up Fiat, her wrist still throbbing from where he’d gripped it too tight. “Evan,” she said, and her voice was steadier than she felt. “I go by Rory now.” He stepped closer, his boots scuffing against the worn floorboards. “Rory,” he repeated, as if testing the sound of it. “Right. Of course.” His eyes flicked over her—her scuffed trainers, her faded jeans, the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist that she’d never bothered to hide. “You look… different.” She arched a brow. “So do you.” He laughed, but it was a hollow sound. “Yeah, well. Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Rory didn’t answer. She turned back to her drink, swirling the watered-down gin. The silence between them stretched, thick with everything they weren’t saying. Evan slid onto the stool beside her. “What are you doing in London?” “Living,” she said simply. “Right. Of course.” He flagged down the bartender—a wiry man with a scar through his eyebrow—and ordered a whiskey, neat. “Still working at that Chinese place?” “Golden Empress. And no, I deliver for them now.” He made a noise in the back of his throat, something between a scoff and a sigh. “You always did have a knack for making things harder than they needed to be.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “And you always had a knack for pretending you knew what was best for me.” Evan’s jaw clenched. The bartender set his whiskey in front of him, and he took a long sip, his hazel eyes never leaving hers. “I was an idiot back then,” he said finally. “I know that.” She wanted to laugh. Wanted to tell him it wasn’t that simple, that some things couldn’t be undone with an apology. But the words stuck in her throat. “Why are you here, Evan?” He exhaled through his nose, his fingers tapping against the bar. “Passing through. Got a job in Manchester. Security work.” A beat. “You ever think about coming back to Cardiff?” “No.” “Right.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his signet ring glinting in the dim light. “I heard about your dad. I’m sorry.” Rory’s chest tightened. Brendan Carter had died two years ago, a heart attack in the middle of a case. She’d gone home for the funeral, stood stiffly beside her mother in the church, and left the next morning before the wake was over. “Thanks,” she said, because what else was there to say? Evan studied her for a long moment. “You ever wonder what would’ve happened if you’d stayed?” “No,” she lied. He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Liar.” Rory drained the last of her drink and set the glass down with a sharp *clink*. “I should go.” “Already?” Evan’s voice was light, but there was an edge to it. “We’ve barely caught up.” “Some things don’t need catching up on.” He reached out, his fingers brushing the back of her hand. She flinched, and he pulled away like he’d been burned. “Rory—” “Don’t.” She stood, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “It was good seeing you, Evan. Take care of yourself.” She walked away before he could respond, her pulse hammering in her ears. The door to the Raven’s Nest swung shut behind her, and she stepped out into the damp London night, the cold air biting at her skin. She didn’t look back. Inside the bar, Silas Blackwood watched from the shadows of the back room, his hazel eyes sharp behind the smoke of his cigar. He’d seen the whole thing—the way Rory’s shoulders had gone rigid, the way Evan’s smile had faltered. He exhaled slowly, tapping ash into a crystal tray. Some ghosts, he knew, never really left you. He reached for the phone on his desk and dialed a number from memory. “It’s me,” he said when the line picked up. “We’ve got a problem.”