Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AT0QAG3GJDK2H93XV7YP98

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered as Rory pushed through the door, the hinge groaning like an old man clearing his throat. The bar smelled of aged wood and something sharper—gin, maybe, or the ghost of a thousand spilled secrets. She shook rain from her jacket, fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist. The place was near empty, just a couple of regulars hunched over their drinks and Silas behind the counter, polishing a glass with the slow deliberation of a man who had all the time in the world. She slid onto a stool, the wood smooth under her palms. “Evening, Si.” Silas glanced up, his hazel eyes catching the low light. “Rory. You’re late.” “Traffic.” She tapped the bar. “Usual.” He set down the glass, reached for a bottle of bourbon. “You look like you’ve been dragged through a hedge.” “Flattering.” She rubbed her temple. The day’s deliveries had been relentless, the streets slick with rain, her bike tyres hissing against the pavement. “Just need a drink and a minute to forget my own name.” Silas poured, the amber liquid sloshing into the glass. “Forgetting’s overrated.” She took the drink, let the burn settle in her chest. The bar’s walls were lined with yellowed maps and black-and-white photos—faces she didn’t know, places she’d never been. Silas’ past, frozen in time. She wondered if he ever looked at them and felt the weight of it all. The door creaked open again. A gust of wind sent a flurry of raindrops skittering across the floorboards. Rory didn’t turn. Silas’ gaze flicked past her, his expression shifting—just for a second—into something unreadable. “Well, I’ll be damned.” The voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. Rory turned. A man stood in the doorway, shaking water from his coat. Tall, broad-shouldered, his dark hair streaked with silver at the temples. He wore a long wool overcoat, the kind that spoke of money or at least the illusion of it. His face was older, lined in ways she didn’t remember, but the eyes—sharp, assessing—were the same. Her breath hitched. “Evan.” He stepped forward, the years falling away with each stride. Not the Evan she’d known, though. This one carried himself differently, like a man who’d learned the hard way that the world didn’t bend to his will. His jaw was tighter, his shoulders squared as if bracing against an unseen wind. “Rory.” His voice was softer now, almost hesitant. “Didn’t think I’d find you here.” She gripped her glass. “Didn’t think you’d be looking.” Silas watched them both, his fingers still wrapped around the polishing cloth. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just observed, the way he always did. Evan pulled out the stool beside her, the legs scraping against the floor. “I was in town for business. Heard about this place from a colleague.” He glanced at Silas, then back at her. “Small world.” “Not that small.” She took another sip, the bourbon doing little to steady her pulse. “You always had a knack for turning up where you weren’t wanted.” He flinched. Just a little. “Fair.” Silence settled between them, thick as the smoke from the unlit cigarettes behind the bar. The rain outside tapped against the window, a steady rhythm. “You look good,” he said finally. She laughed, sharp and humourless. “Liar.” “Not lying.” His gaze flicked over her—her black hair, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her fingers drummed against the glass. “Different, maybe. But good.” Different. That was one word for it. The last time he’d seen her, she’d been a student, wide-eyed and naive, still believing in things like justice and second chances. Now? Now she delivered food for a living and slept above a bar, her dreams haunted by the ghost of a girl she barely recognised. “What brings you back to London?” she asked. “Work.” He rubbed his thumb along the rim of his empty glass. “Consulting. Security stuff.” “Of course.” She swirled her drink. “Always were the type to play with danger.” “And you weren’t?” She didn’t answer. The past hung between them, a living thing. Silas finally moved, sliding a fresh glass toward Evan. “You want a drink or just here to make my regulars uncomfortable?” Evan’s lips twitched. “Bourbon. Neat.” Silas poured, his movements precise. “You two know each other?” Rory and Evan exchanged a look. “You could say that,” Evan muttered. Silas’ eyes flicked between them, but he didn’t press. He knew better than most that some stories weren’t his to hear. Evan took his drink, held it up in a silent toast. “To old times.” Rory didn’t clink her glass. “To moving on.” He exhaled, a sound like a man deflating. “Still holding a grudge, huh?” “Not a grudge.” She set her glass down. “Just facts.” “Facts.” He repeated the word like it tasted bitter. “Like the fact that I was an arse?” “Among other things.” He leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “I was young. Stupid. Thought I knew everything.” “And now?” “Now I know I don’t.” He rubbed his face. “Look, Rory, I’m not here to rehash the past. I just… I saw you, and I had to say something. Had to see how you were.” “And now you’ve seen.” “Yeah.” He studied her, his gaze lingering on the scar on her wrist. “I’ve seen.” She pulled her sleeve down, covering it. “What do you want, Evan?” “I don’t know.” He took a long sip of his drink. “Maybe just to say I’m sorry.” The words hung there, heavy and raw. She wanted to laugh, to tell him sorry didn’t cut it. But the anger that had once burned so hot inside her had long since cooled to something quieter, something sadder. “You should’ve said that years ago.” “I know.” He stared into his glass. “I was proud. Thought apologising was a sign of weakness.” “And now?” “Now I know it’s the opposite.” Silas wiped down the counter, his movements slow, deliberate. He didn’t look at them, but Rory knew he was listening. The bar had a way of making people talk, of pulling secrets out into the open like a magician’s trick. “What happened to you?” she asked quietly. Evan’s fingers tightened around his glass. “Life. It happened to me.” “That’s it? That’s all I get?” “What do you want me to say, Rory? That I changed? That I’m not the same man who—” He stopped, swallowed. “That I’m not the same man who hurt you?” She didn’t answer. The truth was, she didn’t know what she wanted. Closure? Forgiveness? Or just to sit here and pretend, for a little while, that the past didn’t matter? Evan drained his drink, set the glass down. “I should go.” Rory didn’t stop him. She watched as he stood, as he buttoned his coat, as he hesitated at the door like a man who’d forgotten something. “Rory.” She looked up. “Take care of yourself.” And then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him, the rain swallowing his footsteps. Silas finally spoke. “Friend of yours?” She stared at the empty stool beside her. “Not anymore.” He nodded, as if that explained everything. “Some people aren’t meant to stay in your life.” “No,” she agreed. “But they do anyway.” Silas polished another glass, the cloth moving in slow, steady circles. “You want another drink?” She shook her head. “I think I’ve had enough.” Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, the bar was quiet, the kind of quiet that settled into your bones. Rory traced the rim of her glass, the bourbon long gone, the weight of the past still there, pressing down like a hand on her chest. She wondered if Evan felt it too.