Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB22VM5XDF5F89PECEDB1A

The chipped Formica of the bar felt cool beneath Rory’s elbow. She traced the seam with a fingertip, watching the slow swirl of amber liquid in her glass. A quiet Tuesday night at The Raven’s Nest. Silas, leaning against the far end of the bar, polished glasses with a meticulousness that bordered on obsessive. The air smelled of stale beer, something vaguely floral from the cleaning solution, and the ghost of old cigarette smoke. It was a comforting smell, familiar as her own skin. A figure paused in the doorway, silhouetted against the neon green of the sign. Tall, broad shoulders, but something was…off. The way he hesitated, as if unsure whether to come in at all. Rory glanced up, and her breath hitched. Evan. He hadn’t changed in the broad strokes – still that same imposing build, the dark hair she used to run her fingers through, the curve of his jaw. But the softness had gone. The easy smile, the light in his eyes… replaced by something hard. His face was gaunt, shadowed, and a network of fine lines etched themselves around his mouth. He wore a tailored suit, expensive and dark, that seemed to swallow him whole. He looked like a man who hadn’t slept in weeks. He scanned the room, his gaze sweeping past her without recognition, then finally landing on Silas. A flicker of something – respect, perhaps? – crossed his features. He moved towards the bar, his stride purposeful. Rory lowered her eyes to her drink. She hadn't realized how much her hands were shaking. It had been four years. Four years since she’d severed every thread connecting her to him, moved to London, reinvented herself as Aurora, shed the careless, bright-eyed Laila he'd known. Four years of carefully constructed distance. “Silas,” Evan said, his voice a low rumble, rougher than she remembered. “Evan,” Silas replied, his tone neutral. He didn’t offer a hand. “Unexpected. Thought you were enjoying the Parisian nightlife.” Evan’s lips twisted in a humorless smile. “Paris lost its charm. A man needs solid ground now and then.” He didn’t sit at the bar, just leaned against it, facing Silas. Rory felt a prickle of awareness. Silas was a good sentinel, reading the man in front of him with a practiced eye. She knew he wouldn’t acknowledge her if Evan didn’t. “Business or pleasure?” Silas asked, his hand still moving in small, efficient circles as he polished a glass. “A bit of both. Some old debts needing settling. Thought you might be… informed.” Silas finally met Evan's gaze. “I hear things. It’s the nature of the trade. But information comes at a price.” “Naturally.” Evan’s eyes drifted, finally settling on Rory. Recognition flared, slow and unwelcome. “Laila?” Her name tasted alien on his tongue. She forced herself to look up, to meet his gaze. The shock in his eyes was… satisfying. Not enough to erase the years of fear, but enough. “Aurora,” she corrected, her voice steady despite the frantic beat of her heart. “It’s Aurora now.” His jaw tightened. “Aurora. Right.” He turned back to Silas. "Didn't realize you were harboring old flames, Si.” "She works for Yu-Fei. Delivers for the Golden Empress. Keeps herself busy," Silas said mildly. He slid a glass of something amber across the bar towards Evan. “On the house. Might loosen the tongue.” Evan didn’t touch the drink. He just kept looking at Rory, his gaze dissecting, measuring. “So. London. A far cry from the Cotswolds.” “I prefer it,” she said, taking a deliberate sip of her drink. It tasted like ash. “Do you?” He leaned closer, invading her space. "Running seems to be a hobby of yours." “I wouldn’t call it running. More… relocation.” “Relocation fueled by fear?” She clenched her fist around her glass. The crescent-shaped scar on her wrist throbbed, a phantom ache. “I made a choice.” “A choice I encouraged,” he said softly. “To protect you.” “Protect me?” A harsh laugh escaped her lips. “You almost destroyed me, Evan. Don’t rewrite history.” The air in the bar seemed to thicken. Silas hadn’t moved, hadn’t interfered, but Rory felt his presence like a weight. He was letting them have this, letting them untangle whatever mess they'd made. “I was trying to shield you from things you didn’t understand. From a world that would have swallowed you whole.” “And controlling me was the solution? Isolating me? Telling me who I could see, what I could think?” She could feel the old anger rising, hot and familiar. “I thought I knew what was best.” “You always did, didn’t you? That was the problem.” She remembered the suffocating feeling of being molded to fit his expectations, of losing herself in the shadow of his ambition. He reached out, his hand hovering near her arm, then dropped it before making contact. “I… I didn’t handle things well. I admit that.” “Didn’t handle things well?” Her voice rose, trembling with suppressed emotion. “You were obsessive, Evan. Possessive. And when I tried to leave, you… you made my life hell.” He flinched, just slightly, but she saw it. A crack in his carefully constructed facade. "That wasn't me. That was...the pressure." "Pressure? What kind of pressure justifies manipulation and control?" "The kind that comes with responsibility. The kind you wouldn't understand." “Don’t patronize me.” Rory turned fully towards him, her bright blue eyes locked on his. “I understand perfectly. I understand that you were using me, that my feelings didn’t matter. That I was just a pawn in your little game.” “That’s not true!” He took a step closer, his voice low and urgent. “I cared about you, Laila. I still…” "Don’t," Silas cut in, his voice a quiet command. He set down the glass he was polishing with a soft thud. The sound echoed in the sudden silence. "Let’s not mistake regret for genuine affection, shall we?" Evan’s gaze shifted to Silas, and for a moment, Rory thought he might explode. But he visibly forced himself to calm down, taking a deep, shuddering breath. “What do you want, Evan?” Rory asked, her voice stripped bare. “Why are you here?” He finally picked up the glass Silas had offered, swirled the liquid, and took a long swallow. “I need a favor. A discreet contact. Someone who can move things. Unseen.” He met her gaze again, his eyes calculating. “I remember you were always good at getting things done.” Rory felt a wave of nausea. He hadn’t come for an apology. He hadn’t come to see if she was okay. He’d come to exploit her again. “I don’t do favors for people who ruin lives,” she said, her voice cold. He smiled, a tight, humorless expression. “Everyone ruins someone’s life at some point, Aurora. It’s a matter of perspective.” He finished his drink and set the glass down with a sharp click. “Pity. I thought perhaps… perhaps we could put the past behind us.” “The past doesn’t just disappear, Evan. It follows you.” She gestured towards his haunted eyes, the lines etched on his face. “It’s right there, staring back at you.” He nodded slowly, his eyes losing some of their hardness. He looked…tired. Defeated. "You're right." He turned to Silas. "No information then?" Silas simply raised an eyebrow. Evan sighed. “Very well.” He turned to leave, pausing at the doorway. He glanced back at Rory one last time, his expression unreadable. “Aurora,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “Be careful.” Then he was gone, swallowed by the London night. Rory didn’t move. She sat there, staring at the empty doorway, her hand still clenched around her glass. The amber liquid seemed to mock her, a bitter reminder of everything she’d left behind. Silas cleared his throat. “He’s a dangerous man, Rory. Always has been.” She nodded, unable to speak. “You did well to hold your ground.” Silas leaned closer, his hazel eyes knowing. “It takes courage to face a ghost.” Rory took another sip of her drink, the ash now a familiar taste. She wasn't sure it was courage, she thought. Perhaps it was just exhaustion. Exhaustion from always looking over her shoulder, always bracing for the past to come calling. And the chilling realization that some ghosts, no matter how hard you run, never truly let you go.