Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN8NFV2Q0CWT2YRG8HQS78

The Raven’s Nest hummed with the low murmur of conversation, the clink of glasses, and the occasional burst of laughter that rose like smoke from the dim corners of the room. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the rain-streaked windows, painting the wooden tables in shifting shades of jade. Rory leaned against the bar, her black hair tucked behind one ear, her bright blue eyes scanning the room with the practiced detachment of someone who had spent too many nights in places like this—waiting, watching, never quite belonging. She had just finished her shift at the Golden Empress, the scent of ginger and garlic still clinging to her clothes, her fingers smelling faintly of lemongrass despite the soap she’d scrubbed them with. The delivery bag sat at her feet, its straps coiled like a sleeping serpent. She had come here out of habit, the way some people went to church—not for salvation, but for the quiet certainty of something familiar. The door swung open, letting in a draft that carried the sharp tang of London rain. Rory didn’t look up at first. She was too busy tracing the rim of her glass with her fingertip, the condensation cool against her skin. But then the air in the room shifted, the way it did when someone important walked in. The kind of person who didn’t just occupy space but commanded it. She lifted her gaze. Silas stood in the doorway, his auburn hair streaked with more grey than she remembered, his beard neatly trimmed but threaded with silver. He was thinner than she’d ever seen him, his frame leaner, his shoulders slightly stooped as if carrying an invisible weight. The limp in his left leg was more pronounced, his gait slower, deliberate. But his eyes—hazel, sharp, missing nothing—were the same. They found her instantly. For a moment, neither of them moved. The years between them stretched like a taut wire, humming with everything unsaid. Then Silas smiled. It was a small thing, barely there, but it cracked the tension like ice on a pond. “Rory Carter,” he said, his voice rough with disuse. “I’ll be damned.” She exhaled, a laugh escaping her before she could stop it. “Silas Blackwood. You look like hell.” He limped toward her, the signet ring on his right hand glinting in the low light. “And you,” he said, stopping just short of the bar, “look exactly the same. Like you haven’t aged a day.” “Liar.” “Only a little.” She slid off the stool, closing the distance between them. He smelled of rain and old books and something faintly medicinal, like liniment. When she hugged him, his body was stiff at first, unused to the contact. But then he relaxed, his arms wrapping around her with a familiarity that made her throat tighten. She pressed her face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. He was real. He was here. When they pulled apart, his hands lingered on her shoulders, his thumbs brushing the fabric of her jacket. “Christ, Rory. It’s been—what? Five years?” “Six,” she corrected. “Almost seven.” His expression flickered, something like regret passing over his face. “Has it been that long?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she gestured to the stool beside her. “Sit. Before you fall over.” He chuckled, but there was no humor in it. “I’m not that far gone yet.” “Could’ve fooled me.” Silas eased onto the stool, his knee giving a faint pop as he settled. Rory flagged down the bartender, a young man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a raven in flight on his forearm. “Whiskey,” Silas said. “Neat. And whatever she’s having.” “Just water,” Rory said. The bartender nodded and moved away, leaving them in a silence that wasn’t entirely comfortable. Silas turned his glass between his fingers, the amber liquid catching the light. “You still working for Yu-Fei?” “Part-time. When she needs me.” “And the rest of the time?” She shrugged. “This and that.” He studied her, his gaze too knowing. “You always were a terrible liar.” Rory picked at the label on her water bottle, peeling away a strip of paper. “I’m not lying. I just don’t like talking about it.” “Fair enough.” He took a sip of his whiskey, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You still living above the Nest?” “For now.” “Good. It’s safe there.” She arched a brow. “Since when do you care about my safety?” “Since always.” His voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the hum of the bar. “You know that.” She did. And that was the problem. The bartender returned with a fresh glass of water for her, and Rory took a long drink, the cold liquid doing little to ease the tightness in her chest. “What about you?” she asked. “Still playing spymaster in your little back room?” Silas’s mouth quirked. “Someone’s got to keep the world turning.” “And how’s that working out for you?” “About as well as you’d expect.” He swirled his whiskey, watching the light play across the surface. “I’m not as young as I used to be.” “No one is.” “True.” He set the glass down, his signet ring clinking against the wood. “But some of us are worse off than others.” Rory followed his gaze to his left leg, the way he shifted his weight, favoring it. “What happened?” “Prague,” he said simply. “Or rather, what happened after Prague.” She remembered the stories—whispers in the Nest, rumors of a botched operation, of Silas walking away from MI6 with a limp and a reputation. But no one had ever told her the details. Not even him. “You never talked about it.” “Some things are better left unsaid.” “Like why you disappeared?” The words came out sharper than she intended. Silas didn’t flinch, but his fingers tightened around his glass. “I didn’t disappear. I retired.” “You retired from MI6. Not from life.” She leaned forward, her voice dropping. “You stopped answering my calls. You stopped coming to the Nest. You just—vanished.” “I had my reasons.” “And none of them were good enough.” He exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “Rory—” “No.” She cut him off, her voice steady despite the heat rising in her chest. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to act like this is just some casual reunion. You left. And I get that you had your reasons, but you don’t get to waltz back in here like nothing happened.” Silas was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: “I know.” The admission hung between them, heavy and unyielding. Rory looked away, her gaze landing on the old photographs lining the walls—black-and-white images of London in another era, of faces she didn’t recognize. She wondered how many of them had secrets like Silas’s. How many of them had let time and distance carve out hollows in their lives. “Do you ever think about it?” she asked. “About how things could’ve been different?” Silas didn’t answer right away. He finished his whiskey, set the glass down with deliberate care. “Every damn day.” She wanted to ask more. Wanted to know if he regretted it, if he missed her, if he ever thought about the nights they’d spent in the back room of the Nest, trading stories and secrets like currency. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the weight of everything they weren’t saying. Instead, she reached across the bar and covered his hand with hers. His skin was warm, the signet ring cool against her fingers. “You’re still an asshole, Silas.” He turned his hand over, lacing his fingers through hers. “And you’re still a pain in mine.” She laughed, and this time, it wasn’t forced. It was real, the sound cutting through the tension like a blade. “Some things never change.” “No,” he agreed, his thumb brushing over the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. “But some things do.” She looked down at their joined hands, at the way his fingers dwarfed hers, at the silver ring that had seen too much. “Yeah,” she said softly. “They do.” Outside, the rain continued to fall, a steady rhythm against the windows. Inside, the Raven’s Nest carried on, oblivious to the years that had passed, to the lives that had changed. But for Rory and Silas, in that moment, time felt suspended—caught between what was and what could have been.