Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8C8PSMDQ1BK8Z5F79WTJX

The green neon of The Raven’s Nest bled onto the slick pavement outside. Rain hadn’t fallen for hours, but the air still smelled of wet stone and exhaust. Rory wiped condensation from the glass as she walked in, the scent of stale beer and something vaguely floral – Silas’s attempt at air freshener, she suspected – instantly familiar. Tuesdays were slow. She’d promised Silas an extra shift, covering for Ben who’d called in sick with a cough that sounded suspiciously like a hangover. The bar was mostly empty. A couple huddled in a booth near the back, murmuring into pint glasses, and Old Man Hemlock was nursing a whiskey at the far end of the bar, a permanent fixture. Silas was behind the counter, polishing glasses with a methodical, almost meditative, rhythm. His silver signet ring gleamed under the low lights. “Rory,” he said without looking up, a hint of a smile in his voice. “Right on time. Slow night. Good for you, bad for business.” “Just how you like it,” she replied, taking a seat on the stool she’d claimed as hers over the past few months. “Don’t flatter me. Just means I get to stare at the maps and remember better days.” He finally looked up, his hazel eyes assessing. “Anything interesting happen on your route today? Besides avoiding rogue pigeons?” “Just the usual chaos. Mrs. Gable nearly gave me a heart attack yelling about the sesame seeds on her General Tso’s chicken being ‘too enthusiastic’. Yu-Fei’s going to run her out of the restaurant eventually.” Silas chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. “Yu-Fei’s a force of nature. You’re lucky she doesn’t make you deliver with a side of dragon breath.” He slid a pint glass across the polished wood. “Guinness?” “You remembered.” “I remember things.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the door. “Although, sometimes, I wish I didn’t.” The bell above the door chimed. Rory glanced over her shoulder, and her breath hitched. It was him. Evan. He hadn’t changed in the way people usually did – a little softer around the edges, a few more lines around the eyes. He’d changed fundamentally. He was broader, thicker, with a shaved head and a network of jagged scars tracing his knuckles. His eyes, once a warm brown, were flat, almost grey. He wore a dark, expensive-looking suit, sharply tailored. He didn’t look like the Evan she remembered, the Evan she’d loved, the Evan she’d run from. He looked…dangerous. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on Rory for a beat too long, before he moved towards the bar. Her hand tightened around the pint glass. She hadn’t seen him in five years. Five years of meticulously constructed distance. Five years of nightmares. Silas, seemingly oblivious to the storm brewing inside her, merely nodded at Evan as he approached. “Evening,” Evan said, his voice deeper, raspier than she remembered. “Silas. Still running this…establishment?” “Still running it,” Silas confirmed, pouring himself a small measure of scotch. He didn’t offer Evan a drink. “Haven’t seen you in these parts for a while, Mr. Hayes.” “Changed my name,” Evan corrected, the words clipped. “Call me Thorne. Business requires it.” “Business. Of course.” Silas’s tone was carefully neutral. Rory knew that tone. It was the tone he used when sizing people up, cataloging their weaknesses. “Rory,” Evan said, turning his grey eyes back to her. A flicker of something – recognition? amusement? – crossed his face. “Fancy seeing you here.” She forced a smile, her lips feeling stiff and unnatural. “Evan. Or…Thorne. Small world.” “Is it?” He leaned against the bar, close enough that she could smell his cologne – something sharp and metallic. "I heard you were delivering takeout. A long way from pre-law, isn’t it?” “People change,” she said, her voice tight. “Indeed.” He studied her for a moment, his gaze slowly taking in her black hair, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist – a detail he’d always known, always remembered. “You haven’t changed much. Still…resilient.” Resilient? Was that a compliment? Or a calculated observation? “And you?” she asked, unable to stop herself. “You’ve…changed.” He chuckled, a harsh, brittle sound. “Let's just say I've adapted. This city…it has a way of remaking people.” He let his gaze linger on her scarred wrist again. “Some more than others.” Silas cleared his throat. “Thorne, if you’ll excuse us, Rory and I were just catching up.” “Of course,” Evan said, without taking his eyes off Rory. “Wouldn’t want to interrupt.” He turned back to Silas. “I’m looking for someone. A contact of yours, perhaps? Goes by the name of…Bellweather.” Silas’s hand stilled, his eyes narrowing. “I don’t know anyone by that name.” “Don’t lie to me, Silas.” Evan’s voice dropped, losing all pretense of politeness. “We both know you maintain a network. Bellweather used to be…associated with you. I need to find him.” “And why would I tell you that?” Silas’s voice was low and dangerous. “Because I have information. Information that might be of…mutual interest. Regarding a certain operation in Prague.” Silas’s face tightened, and Rory realized with a jolt that Evan – Thorne – wasn’t just a changed man, he was connected to Silas’s past. The past Silas rarely spoke of. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Rory felt like she was trapped between them, a fragile thing caught in a power struggle. She wanted to disappear, to rewind time, to not have walked into The Raven’s Nest tonight. “I still don’t know anyone by that name,” Silas said finally, his voice carefully controlled. Evan pressed a card onto the bar. It was black, minimalist, with just a single embossed symbol – a coiled serpent. “You’ll find a number. Call me when you’re ready to talk.” He turned back to Rory, a cruel smile playing on his lips. “It was…nice to see you, Rory. Though I suspect our paths won’t cross again.” He turned and walked towards the door, his broad shoulders filling the space. The bell chimed again as he left, cutting through the silence. Rory stared at the black card, feeling sick. Silas snatched the card and crumpled it in his fist. The colour had drained from his face. “Where have you been, Rory? Why haven’t you told me about him?” “Told you what?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. “He’s been looking for you. For both of us. I sensed it for months, a shadow at the edge of my network. I just didn't realize…it was him.” He looked at her, his eyes filled with a mixture of concern and something else – regret. "You were in danger.” “It was five years ago, Silas. I thought…I thought I’d put it all behind me.” “You don’t just ‘put behind you’ someone like that, Rory. Some scars run deeper than skin.” He reached across the bar and took her hand, his grip surprisingly gentle. “He came looking for Bellweather, but he was really looking for you. He always was.” Rory squeezed his hand, tears welling up in her bright blue eyes. The scent of stale beer and something floral suddenly felt suffocating. She hadn't escaped. She hadn't moved on. He’d found her, and with him, the ghosts of a past she'd desperately tried to bury had risen with him. And she knew, with a sickening certainty, that this was just the beginning.