Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMN94ZR2TCPG92MNVE9BTQY

The Raven’s Nest smelled of aged whiskey and something older—dust and the faint metallic tang of coins left too long in a pocket. The green neon sign above the door pulsed like a slow, tired heartbeat, casting a sickly glow over the cobblestones. Aurora Carter—Rory, if anyone asked—stood just inside the threshold, her black hair catching the light as she scanned the room. She hadn’t been here in years. The last time she’d set foot in this place, she’d been twenty, drunk on the thrill of escape, her life still unspooling neatly ahead of her. Now, at twenty-five, she carried the weight of it like a second skin. She hadn’t expected to see him. The bar was quieter than she remembered, the usual hum of chatter replaced by the occasional clink of glass and the low murmur of hushed conversations. The walls, lined with yellowed maps and faded photographs, seemed to swallow the light. Rory’s fingers tightened around her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen before she tucked it back into her pocket. She wasn’t here to look for anyone. She was just passing through, delivering a takeout order for Golden Empress, her usual route taking her past this stretch of Soho. A habit, nothing more. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood sat in the corner, his back to the door, one leg propped up on a stool as he nursed a glass of something amber and strong. His auburn hair, now streaked with silver, was neatly trimmed, but his beard had grown out just enough to soften the sharp angles of his face. The limp was more pronounced than she remembered, a subtle shift in his posture that betrayed the old injury. He looked older, sure, but not in the way she’d expected. There was a quiet stillness to him, like a man who had seen too much and decided to stop fighting it. Rory hesitated. She could turn around. Walk away. But the air between them seemed to hum, a low vibration she couldn’t ignore. She stepped forward, her boots scuffing against the worn wood floor. Silas didn’t turn immediately. He took another sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on the television mounted above the bar, though the volume was low and she couldn’t make out the sound. When he finally looked up, his hazel eyes locked onto hers, and for a moment, neither of them moved. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, until Rory cleared her throat. “Silas,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “I didn’t know you still ran this place.” He set his glass down with deliberate care, the ice clinking against the sides. “Rory,” he replied, his voice rough with something she couldn’t place—surprise? Relief?—but his expression remained unreadable. “Took you long enough.” She laughed, but it came out sharp, unsteady. “I’ve been busy.” That was the understatement of the decade. She’d spent the last three years dodging Evan’s calls, avoiding her father’s disapproving letters, and burying herself in the rhythm of deliveries, the hum of the city, the way the world kept moving even when she wanted to stop it. She’d thought she’d left all of that behind when she’d walked out of Cardiff, but some things, she realized now, followed you no matter how far you ran. Silas gestured to the stool beside him. “Join me?” She should’ve said no. She should’ve walked away before the past could pull her under again. But the stool was there, and the weight of the night was pressing in on her, and for the first time in years, she wanted to talk to someone who knew the old her—the one who had believed in clean breaks and second chances. “Sure,” she said, sliding onto the seat. The leather was worn, the grain of the wood rough beneath her fingers. She ordered a gin and tonic, the ice clinking against the glass as she took her first sip. The burn of the alcohol was a familiar comfort, grounding her. Silas watched her, his gaze lingering on the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, the one she’d gotten when she was twelve, climbing a tree she wasn’t supposed to. “You look different,” he said finally. She exhaled through her nose. “So do you.” A beat of silence. The kind that didn’t need filling. “You left in a hurry,” he said. She stiffened. “I didn’t exactly have a choice.” “No,” he agreed, nodding slowly. “I remember.” The memory of that night pressed against her ribs, sharp and painful. The way Evan’s hands had gripped her wrist, the way his voice had dropped to a venomous whisper in her ear. *You’re mine, Rory. You always will be.* She’d packed a single duffel bag, stuffed with clothes and a few books, and walked out before dawn. Eva had been waiting for her at the train station, her dark eyes wide with something like terror. *He’s not worth it,* she’d whispered. *He’s never been worth it.* Silas must’ve seen the flash of something in her eyes because he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph. He slid it across the bar toward her, the glass between them. It was a picture of them, taken years ago, at a party in Prague. She was laughing, her teeth flashing white against her dark hair, her arm slung around his. He looked younger, his beard shorter, his eyes crinkling at the corners. They looked like they belonged to people who still believed in the future. Rory picked it up, her fingers brushing the edges. “Where’d you get this?” “Found it in an old file,” he said. “Thought you might like it.” She studied the photo, her thumb tracing the line of his jaw in the image. “You always were good at finding things.” He smirked. “And you were always terrible at keeping secrets.” She laughed again, but this time it was lighter, easier. “I’ve improved.” “Have you?” The question hung between them, heavy with implication. She set the photo down, her fingers curling into her palms. “I work at Golden Empress now. Delivery driver.” Silas raised an eyebrow. “Yu-Fei’s place?” “Yeah.” She hesitated. “It’s… good work. Steady. No questions asked.” “And Evan?” Her stomach twisted at the mention of his name. “He’s… gone.” Silas nodded, as if that was all the answer he needed. “Good.” She wanted to ask him about himself, about what had happened after she’d left, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she picked up her glass and took another sip, the liquid burning a path down her throat. “You ever think about what happened in Prague?” he asked suddenly. The question caught her off guard. She hadn’t thought about it in years. Not since the nightmares had faded, since she’d learned to breathe without flinching at the sound of gunfire. “No,” she lied. Silas studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “You should.” She looked away, her gaze falling to the bar counter. The wood was scarred, the surface worn smooth by years of use. She traced the grooves with her fingertip. “I don’t know if I can.” “Why not?” Because it meant admitting that some parts of her had never really left. That the nightmares still crept in, that the way Evan’s voice had sounded in her head hadn’t faded with time. That she still woke up sometimes, her heart pounding, her body coiled tight, as if she were still running. But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she met his gaze. “Because some things are better left buried.” Silas was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his silver signet ring. He held it out to her, the metal catching the dim light. “Take it.” She blinked. “What?” “Take it,” he repeated. “As a reminder. That you’re not the only one who’s changed.” She hesitated, then reached out and closed her fingers around the ring. The metal was cool, the engraving faint but familiar. A raven, wings spread wide. *The Raven’s Nest,* she thought. His bar. His life. “What does it mean?” she asked. “That you’re stronger than you think,” he said. “And that you don’t have to carry everything alone.” She looked down at the ring, then back at him. “You always were good at giving advice.” He smirked. “And you were always bad at taking it.” She laughed, the sound rich and warm, and for the first time in years, she felt like she might be able to breathe again. Silas signaled to the bartender, who nodded and poured them each another drink. The ice clinked against the glass, and the weight of the past seemed to lift, just a little. “So,” he said, raising his glass. “What’s new?” Rory took a sip of her gin and tonic, the liquid sliding down her throat smooth and strong. “I’m alive,” she said. “And that’s something.” Silas clinked his glass against hers, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “That’s something,” he agreed.