Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYB496K6GKQFF3XMS9P8AV8

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest bled light onto the slick pavement. Rain feathered the glass, distorting the figures within. Rory wiped condensation from the bar’s door, the familiar scent of stale beer and something akin to old paper pulling her inside. She clocked out an hour ago, the Golden Empress’s delivery bike secured out back, and needed a quiet corner to sort through bills. Silas, leaning against the burnished mahogany of the bar, barely glanced up as she entered. He knew her schedule. Just a nod, a small acknowledgement. She preferred it that way, generally. Tonight, though, the bar wasn't empty. A man occupied a booth near the back, nursing a drink—a booth Rory hadn't seen occupied during peak hours in months. He was broader now, shoulders straining the fabric of a bespoke coat. Used to be all angles and nervous energy. The hair, once a chaotic mop, was cropped short, revealing a hint of silver at the temples. But it was the eyes she remembered. Intense, the color of storm clouds. "Evan?" He lifted his head. Recognition sparked, followed by something unreadable. A ghost of a smile played on his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. “Rory. Fancy seeing you here.” She didn't move, her hand still resting on the doorframe. The air thickened, suddenly heavy, colder than the November rain outside. “You, uh, look good.” It felt weak, automatic. A stock phrase. “Do I?” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. "Some might suggest you're being polite." “Just… different.” A long pause. She walked towards the bar, snagging a stool two seats down from him. “Last I heard, you were heading to Bristol for a grad scheme.” “Bristol happened. Didn’t stick.” “What changed?” He laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “What *didn’t* change? That’s the better question.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “It’s been… eight years, hasn’t it?” “Seven, actually.” Rory’s voice was flat. She hadn’t actively kept track, of course. Hadn’t allowed herself to. “Right. Seven. Feels like a lifetime.” He finally met her gaze, and she saw the weight there, settled deep in the lines around his eyes. A weight she knew, though it manifested differently on him. “You haven’t aged a day.” “Liar.” “A practiced one, perhaps.” He gestured to Silas. “Si makes a mean Old Fashioned. You should ask him.” “I work downstairs.” Rory pointed a thumb over her shoulder toward the restaurant. “I deliver for Yu-Fei. Keeps me busy.” “The Golden Empress?” He arched an eyebrow. "Not exactly the path to barrister-dom your father envisioned, was it?” A flicker of annoyance. “I needed a job. And I left Cardiff, remember? That ambition died a long time ago.” She hadn't spoken about it freely in years. Not even to Silas. “Still running, then?” The question hung in the air, acidic. Rory clenched her jaw. “I’m not *running*.” “Aren’t you? From him? From…everything?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “From us?” “Don’t.” Her tone brooked no argument. She felt Silas’s eyes on them, assessing, but he remained impassive, polishing glasses with a slow, deliberate movement. “Don’t what, Rory? Don’t state the obvious? Don’t remind you of the things you've conveniently forgotten?” “I haven’t forgotten anything!” The words burst out. "I remember perfectly well." Too perfectly, maybe. She regretted the sharpness immediately. He chuckled again, no warmth in it this time. “Do you? Do you remember the promises we made? The plans we had?” “Plans change, Evan.” “Some things shouldn’t.” He set his glass down with a soft click. “I’ve been doing…security consulting. Mostly corporate. It pays well.” “Suits you.” Sarcasm dripped from the remark. She hadn't meant it to, but it came out anyway. “Does it?” He tilted his head, studying her. "I always thought you'd be saving the world, one legal battle at a time." “And you’d be building robots or designing bridges. We all had ideas.” “Some of us reinvent ourselves.” "Some of us become shadows of what they could have been." She bit back the rest. The words felt too raw, too close to the truth. He didn't respond. His gaze tracked to her wrist where the pale scar curved. “Still got the mark?” he asked, his voice quiet. Rory instinctively covered it with her hand. A childhood accident. A simple explanation. A lie she’d repeated so many times it felt like fact. “It fades.” “Doesn’t really, does it? Just gets less noticeable.” He mirrored her gesture, running a finger over the edge of his coat sleeve. She noticed, then, the subtle bulge beneath the fabric. “What do you do now, Evan? Actually.” “Let’s just say I solve problems.” He offered a knowing smirk. “For people with…complicated needs.” Silas cleared his throat, placing a fresh glass of something amber in front of Rory. "On the house. Thought you might need it." The Spymaster's calm demeanor was a sharp contrast to the simmering tension between them. “Thanks, Si.” She took a slow sip. It burned going down, but it was a welcome distraction. “You look…settled,” Evan said, after a beat. “Living above a bar. Delivering takeout.” “It’s a life.” She avoided his gaze, focusing on the condensation forming on the glass. “It’s honest.” “Is it?” He raised an eyebrow. “Or is it just safe?” Rory didn’t answer. She couldn't. The question lodged in her throat, a painful reminder of everything she’d sacrificed for that safety. “I heard about your father.” The unexpected words cut through the silence. Rory froze. “He’s…well.” “Ill? I read the obituaries online.” “He had a stroke. Last year.” “I’m sorry, Rory.” A flicker of something genuinely remorseful crossed his face. “He’s recovering. Slowly.” “He always wanted the best for you.” “I know.” “He never approved of me, did he?” “He had reservations.” A massive understatement. “He saw through me, I suppose.” “He saw you weren't…rooted.” “And you are?” “I’m here, aren’t I?” Rory’s voice cracked. She took another long drink, the liquor doing little to thaw the ice in her veins. “Being *here* and being grounded are different things.” He leaned back, studying her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “You always were the practical one, Rory. The sensible one. The one who held everything together.”