Run: 2026-10-07-01M4AVSYGN4FXCB279RE7R9WDB

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered once, twice, before settling into its steady glow as Rory pushed through the door. The familiar scent of aged wood and whiskey wrapped around her, thick as the London fog outside. She exhaled, shaking rain from her black hair, and scanned the dimly lit bar. The walls were still plastered with the same yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs—Silas’ collection of half-remembered histories. A few regulars hunched over their drinks, their murmurs blending with the low hum of jazz from the corner speakers. She slid onto a stool near the end of the bar, where the light was weakest, and tapped her fingers against the polished mahogany. Silas would be in the back, probably counting stock or pretending to. The man had a sixth sense for when she needed a drink before she even asked. The door swung open again, letting in a gust of cold air. Rory didn’t look up—until the scent of bergamot and sandalwood cut through the usual stale beer and citrus. Her fingers stilled. *No. It couldn’t be.* But the voice that followed was unmistakable, smooth as aged bourbon, with that same dry edge. “Silas, you old bastard, I’d ask if you’ve missed me, but we both know you haven’t.” Rory’s pulse spiked. She kept her back to the door, her breath shallow. *Evan.* The name slithered through her mind before she could stop it. Not *Evan*, not anymore. *Evan was the past.* But the voice was his, and the way it carried—confident, amused—was the same. “Missed you like a migraine,” Silas replied, his voice warm but laced with something sharper. “What brings you slumming, Daniel?” *Daniel.* Of course. Daniel Mercer. Evan’s older brother. The one who’d always been there, lurking in the background of her memories like a shadow she couldn’t shake. She exhaled, her shoulders loosening. Not Evan. Just Daniel. She turned slowly, as if moving too fast might shatter the moment. He was leaning against the bar, his dark overcoat dusted with rain, one hand in his pocket. The years had carved lines into his face—deep grooves around his mouth, a silver thread through his temples that hadn’t been there before. His jaw was sharper, his frame leaner, as if life had whittled him down to the essentials. But his eyes were the same: sharp, assessing, the color of storm clouds over the Bristol Channel. Their gazes locked. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Daniel’s expression shifted—something flickered behind his eyes, a spark of recognition. “Rory?” Her name on his lips was a question, a challenge. She hadn’t heard him say it in… God, how long? Five years? Six? The last time had been at Evan’s funeral, where she’d stood stiff and silent, her hand bandaged from the broken glass she’d punched through the night she’d learned Evan was dead. Daniel had tried to talk to her then. She’d walked away. Now, she lifted her chin. “Daniel.” He pushed off the bar, his movements deliberate, like a man stepping through a minefield. “Christ. I didn’t know you were in London.” “Neither did I, until a few years ago.” She kept her voice light, but her fingers curled into her palms. The scar on her left wrist itched. Silas appeared from the back, his limp more pronounced in the damp weather, his signet ring glinting as he wiped his hands on a towel. He took one look at the two of them and sighed. “Well. This is a right mess.” Daniel’s mouth quirked. “Still the charmer, Silas.” “And you’re still an arse.” Silas set a glass down in front of Rory without a word, her usual—whiskey, neat. Then he turned to Daniel. “What’ll it be?” “Same as always.” Silas nodded and reached for the Macallan. Rory watched the amber liquid splash into the glass, the way the light caught the edges. She took a sip, letting the burn ground her. Daniel picked up his drink but didn’t raise it. He was staring at her, really looking now. At the dark circles under her eyes, the way her hair had grown out from the pixie cut she’d had at twenty. At the scar on her wrist, pale against her skin. “You look… different,” he said. She laughed, a short, brittle sound. “You mean I don’t look like a girl who just ran away from her own life?” His jaw tightened. “That’s not what I meant.” “Then what did you mean?” He hesitated. “You look older.” “So do you.” A beat of silence. The jazz track shifted to something slower, a saxophone mourning into the quiet. Daniel took a drink, his throat working. “I heard about your dad. I’m sorry.” Rory’s chest tightened. Brendan Carter had died two years ago, a heart attack in his study, surrounded by case files. She’d been in London by then, and she hadn’t gone back for the funeral. Another thing she couldn’t face. “Thanks,” she said, because what else was there to say? Daniel set his glass down. “And your mum?” “Retired. Moved to Tenby.” Rory traced a finger along the rim of her glass. “She writes me letters. I don’t always answer them.” He nodded, as if that made sense. Maybe it did. Maybe to him, it was just another piece of the puzzle that was her life now—scattered, half-finished. “What about you?” she asked. “Still playing the hero?” His smile was thin. “Someone’s got to.” She remembered him like that—always the one to step in, to fix things. Even when the things that needed fixing were Evan’s messes. Even when the mess was her. Silas slid a bowl of peanuts between them, as if food could bridge the gap. Rory picked one out, rolled it between her fingers. “How long are you in town?” “Couple of days. Business.” “MI6 still sending you to the interesting places?” His eyes flicked to Silas, then back to her. “Something like that.” She wondered if he was lying. Daniel had always been good at it. Not like Evan, who’d lied with his fists and his silence. Daniel lied with words, with half-truths, with the things he didn’t say. “You ever think about Cardiff?” he asked suddenly. The question hit her like a punch to the sternum. She took a long sip of whiskey, let it sit on her tongue. “No.” “Liar.” She met his gaze. “What do you want me to say, Daniel? That I miss it? That I miss *him*?” His expression darkened. “I wasn’t going to ask that.” “Good. Because the answer’s no.” He looked away, his fingers tightening around his glass. “He wouldn’t have wanted this. For you to just… disappear.” “He didn’t get a say.” “No,” he said quietly. “I suppose he didn’t.” The air between them was thick, charged with all the things they weren’t saying. *I’m sorry. I should’ve done more. I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve stopped you.* But those were words for ghosts, and Evan was long gone. Silas broke the silence, his voice gruff. “You two going to sit here glaring at each other all night, or are you going to talk like civilized people?” Rory shot him a look. He shrugged, unfazed. Daniel exhaled, long and slow. “I’m not here to fight, Rory.” “Then why *are* you here?” He hesitated, then reached into his coat. For a second, her body tensed—old instincts, old fears. But all he pulled out was a worn leather wallet. He slid a photograph across the bar. It was a picture of Evan, younger than she remembered. Maybe eighteen, nineteen. He was grinning, his arm slung around Daniel’s shoulders, both of them sunburnt and squinting into the camera. Behind them, the sea stretched out, endless and bright. Rory’s throat closed. She hadn’t seen a photo of Evan in years. Hadn’t *wanted* to. “Found it in Mum’s things,” Daniel said. “Thought you might… I don’t know. Want it.” She didn’t touch it. “Why?” “Because he loved you.” The words hung there, raw and ugly. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to scream. Evan hadn’t loved her. He’d loved the idea of her, maybe. Or he’d loved the way she made him feel—needed, wanted, in control. But love? Love didn’t leave bruises. Love didn’t lock doors. “He had a funny way of showing it,” she said. Daniel’s voice was low. “He was sick, Rory.” “So was I. For a long time after.” Silas made a noise in his throat, a warning. But Daniel didn’t back down. “I’m not making excuses for him. But he wasn’t… himself, at the end.” “No,” she agreed. “He wasn’t.” She finally picked up the photograph, her fingers trembling slightly. Evan’s face was so *alive* in it. So unbroken. She remembered that day, vaguely. A trip to Barry Island, the three of them—her, Evan, Daniel. Evan had been different then. Softer. Kinder. Or maybe she’d just been too young to see the cracks. “You kept this,” she said, not looking up. “All these years.” “Some things are worth keeping.” She set the photo down, slid it back toward him. “I can’t.” He didn’t take it. “You don’t have to decide now.” Silas cleared his throat. “I’ve got a room upstairs. You’re both welcome to it. Or you can keep sitting here, making my customers uncomfortable with your tragic reunions.” Rory almost smiled. Almost. Daniel drained his whiskey, set the glass down. “I should go.” She nodded, because what else was there? He stood, buttoned his coat. Then he paused, as if there was something else he wanted to say. But the moment passed. “It was good to see you, Rory,” he said finally. She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. He turned toward the door, then stopped again. “For what it’s worth… I’m glad you’re okay.” She watched him walk out, the door swinging shut behind him. The neon sign flickered once more, as if the bar itself was breathing. Silas sighed, picked up the photograph, and tucked it behind the bar. “You want another?” Rory stared at her empty glass. The whiskey had done its job—her edges were softer, the weight in her chest a little lighter. But the ghost of Evan, of Daniel, of the girl she’d been, still lingered. “Yeah,” she said. “I do.”