Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMMG8870041T4774P705S1E

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the neon haze of Soho. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey, damp wool, and the faintest trace of something sharper—gun oil, maybe, or the ghost of a cigarette left too long in an ashtray. Aurora Carter—Rory, to her friends—pushed through the door, her black coat damp at the collar, her breath curling in the cold. The bar was half-full, the usual mix of late-night office workers, drunks with too much to say, and the occasional stranger who didn’t belong but stayed anyway. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She wasn’t. But the moment her boots hit the worn oak floor, the hum of the room shifted. A man turned his head, just slightly, as if pulled by an invisible thread. His auburn hair was thicker than she remembered, streaked with silver now, and his beard—neat, deliberate—covered more of his jaw than it had when he was younger. He stood with one hand resting on the bar, the other holding a glass of something amber and slow. His hazel eyes, sharp and assessing, locked onto hers. Silas Blackwood. *Si.* She hadn’t seen him in years. Not since the night in Prague, when the mission had gone sideways, when his knee had given out under him and the world had tilted. She’d been there, of course—just a low-level analyst at the time, fresh-faced and eager, with a file full of names and a laptop full of lies. She’d watched him limp away from the embassy, his signet ring glinting in the dim light, his face set in a mask of something she couldn’t name. *Regret? Defeat?* She’d never asked. Now, as he watched her, his expression didn’t change. Not a flicker. But the air between them thickened, charged with the weight of all the things they hadn’t said. “Well,” he said, his voice rough but controlled. “If it isn’t the Cardiff prodigy.” Rory’s fingers twitched at her sides. She should walk away. She should order a drink, find a corner, pretend she hadn’t just been pulled back into the past like a marionette on a forgotten string. But the bar was too small for that. The world outside was too loud. And Silas Blackwood—*Si*—had always had a way of making her feel like she was the only person in the room. She slid onto the stool beside him, the leather creaking under her weight. The scent of him—leather, smoke, something earthy—was stronger up close. “You look like hell,” she said, because it was true, and because she couldn’t think of anything else to say. His lips quirked, just a little. “And you look like you’ve been running from something.” She ignored that. “You still own this place?” “Still own it.” He took a slow sip of his drink, watching her over the rim of the glass. “Still run it, too. Though these days, most of the running is done by the ghosts.” Rory exhaled through her nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “You’re still full of shit.” “And you’re still quick with the insults.” A silence settled between them, heavy and unspoken. Outside, a cab horn blared, the sound cutting through the low hum of the bar like a knife. Rory’s fingers drummed against the polished wood of the bar. “What are you drinking?” “Bourbon. Neat.” She nodded at the bartender, a young woman with a bored expression who slid a glass of whiskey toward her. It burned going down, smooth and sharp, just like she remembered. Silas watched her over the rim of his glass. “You ever think about what happened in Prague?” The question hit her like a physical blow. She stiffened, her grip tightening on the glass. “Not really.” “Liar.” She set the glass down harder than she intended. The ice clinked against the sides. “What do you want from me, Si?” His eyes darkened. “Nothing. Just wondering if you’d ever stopped to ask yourself.” “Asked myself what?” “*Why.*” His voice was low, dangerous. “Why you were there. Why you let me walk away.” Rory’s chest tightened. She hadn’t thought about that night in years. Hadn’t let herself. But now, the memory was there, sharp and ugly, like a toothache that wouldn’t go away. She’d been young then, naive. She’d believed in the mission. Believed in *him.* Believed that if she followed the rules, if she did exactly what she was told, it would all make sense. It hadn’t. “You know why,” she said finally, her voice steadier than she felt. “I was just a fucking analyst. I didn’t have a choice.” “Didn’t you?” The challenge in his voice made her blood run cold. She turned her glass in her hands, the amber liquid swirling. “I had a choice. I always had a choice. I just made the wrong ones.” Silas studied her for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, quietly, he said, “You still do.” Rory laughed, sharp and bitter. “Yeah. And look how well that’s working out for me.” He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. The silence between them was answer enough. The bartender slid another drink toward Rory—this one a gin and tonic, ice clinking against the glass. She took it without looking at him. “So,” she said, forcing her voice light. “What’s new with you?” Silas’s lips twitched. “I own a bar. I drink too much. I still have nightmares.” “And?” “And I miss the work.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “You miss the danger.” “No.” His voice was firm. “I miss the *purpose.*” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that purpose was an illusion, that the world didn’t care about purpose, only about survival. But the words stuck in her throat. Outside, rain began to fall in earnest, drumming against the windows like a metronome counting down to something. Inside, the bar hummed with its usual noise—laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional curse word—but the world outside seemed to press in, closer, heavier. Silas finished his drink in one swallow, then set the glass down with a quiet *thunk.* “You ever think about coming back?” Rory’s breath caught. “Back?” “To the work. To the *life.*” He gestured vaguely, as if the answer lay somewhere beyond the bar. “You were good at it.” She almost laughed. Almost. But the truth was, she had been good at it. She’d been *good* at everything she’d ever touched. And that was exactly why she’d walked away. “No,” she said finally. “I’m not that person anymore.” Silas’s gaze was steady. “You never were.” The words hung between them, heavy and final. Rory looked away, her throat tight. She could feel his eyes on her, could feel the weight of all the years they’d spent apart, all the things they’d never said. Outside, the rain fell harder. Inside, the bar carried on, oblivious. Rory took a long sip of her drink, the gin burning its way down her throat. She didn’t know what to say. Didn’t know if she ever would. Silas pushed himself away from the bar, his limp more pronounced now that he was standing. “I’ll see you around, Rory.” She didn’t look up. “Yeah. Sure.” He nodded, then turned toward the back of the bar, his coat swinging open to reveal the faintest hint of a gun holster at his hip. The bartender slid a check toward him, and he tucked it into his pocket without a word. Rory watched him go, her heart pounding in her chest. She hadn’t realized until that moment how much she’d been holding her breath. When he was gone, she took another sip of her drink, her fingers trembling just a little. The whiskey burned, but it wasn’t enough. She needed more.