Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6P4PX080D0RT2FS03VG

The dim glow of the neon sign flickered softly against the Soho night, casting a faint green hue over the cobbled streets. Inside The Raven’s Nest, a hushed quiet reigned, broken only by the muffled hum of whispered conversations and the clink of glasses. Aurora Carter slipped behind the bar with practiced ease, her bright blue eyes fleeting over the familiar chaos—waitresses weaving through clusters of patrons, the bartender polishing a glass, the faint scent of aged whiskey mingling with the air of smoke and secrets. She moved with a calm precision that seemed almost detached, as if her mind were just slightly removed from the scene she occupied. Part-time for days, observer for years. That scar on her wrist caught the dim light as she reached for a bottle, a silent reminder of childhood accidents and reckless innocence long past. Somewhere in the shadows, a chair scraped against the floor, slow and deliberate, drawing her attention. She glanced sideways—faintly surprised, not by the movement but by the familiarity it carried. An instinctive flicker of recognition sparked, then sharpened: Hazel eyes, upright posture, that slight limp she never quite dismissed. Her heart skipped, and her fingers paused on the glass in front of her. He rose—Silas Blackwood. Taller than she remembered, the greying auburn hair, brush strokes of silver, framing a face still carrying the quiet authority of someone who had once seen too much. He looked older, of course, more defined, but that same careful control was woven into his movements. His eyes, hazel and sharp, locked onto hers. “Rory,” he said, voice low, almost cautious. The sound of her childhood nickname, so familiar, yet somehow distant. His lips curled into that faint, crooked smile that had once been reassuring, now edged with something darker, weightier. Her stomach clenched, a familiar mixture of warmth and wariness flooding her in a single breath. She hadn’t expected to see him tonight—a coincidence she would’ve argued was impossible before. She kept her tone even. “Silas. I didn’t think I’d run into you here.” He stepped forward, one hand gesturing vaguely to the empty seat across from her. “Mind if I sit?” She hesitated only briefly, then nodded, turning slightly as he claimed the seat. For a moment, silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words. The bartender’s nod was almost imperceptible; she knew exactly who Silas was, and what he represented here. “So,” he began, voice softer now, “it’s been a while.” “Too long,” she replied, her fingers tapping lightly on the counter. Her eyes flicked to him, flickered with something unspoken—a mix of nostalgia and caution, as if she was gauging whether that gone quiet of years past could still be reached. He looked at her for a long moment, army of memories dancing behind his eyes. “You’ve changed,” he said simply, after a pause. She chuckled, a dry, quick sound. “Haven’t we all?” He leaned back, eyes narrowing at her face. “You’re different, Rory. I can see it. That fire—what was it I used to call it? That spark—” “Malphora,” she interrupted softly, voice tinged with steel. “That’s what you called me once. Doesn’t fit anymore.” He regarded her carefully, the slight limp in his gait as he settled into the chair revealing something he didn’t quite hide—an innate weariness. A soldier’s burden, perhaps. “No,” he said quietly. “It doesn’t.” She looked away, disdain flickering across her face. “You’re not wrong.” Silas studied her, patience etched into every line. “I heard about what you went through. After...” he hesitated, then finished, “Evan.” Her nostrils flared. The name tasted bitter—something she hadn’t spoken aloud in years. “It’s in the past,” she said, almost dismissively. He nodded, eyes sad, as if recalling ghosts. “Good. But some things... some truths don’t fade. They just settle, hardening into who we become.” Her fingers brushed the scar on her wrist—small, crescent-shaped, hide in plain sight. The childhood injury that had scarred her skin, but not her mind. Still, the memory lingered, bitter. They sat in silence for a moment, the ambient noise of the bar swirling around them, cloaking what had once been simple friendship, now tinged with layers of regret. “I never meant to disappear,” she finally whispered, voice barely audible over the murmur. “Not from your life... not from anyone’s.” He gave a small, crooked smile. “You had your reasons.” She looked down, eyes fixed on her hands—calloused from nights working the streets, from the years of fighting to keep herself afloat. “I had to get out,” she said. “Evan—he almost broke me.” Silas looked at her, the heaviness of that truth settling between them. “And now?” She took a breath, steadying herself. “Now I’m just trying to figure out who I am without all that noise. Without the past screaming in my ear.” He nodded slowly. “It’s a different world, Rory. And no matter how much we change, some shadows follow us.” Her gaze sharpened, that cool, calculated glint returning. “I don’t believe in shadows,” she said. “Not anymore. I believe in moving forward. I just... don’t know if I’m ready yet.” His expression softened, the lines around his eyes deepening. “You’ve been through a lot. But you’re still here. That counts for something.” She looked at him then, the silence between them heavy, thick with all the years lost and all the truths stubbornly refused to speak. She wondered if he saw the cracks beneath her calm façade, or if the years had hollowed her out in some way she couldn’t quite grasp. The bartender approached, setting two glasses of neat whiskey on the counter. She slid one toward him, and he took it, raising it in a silent toast. “To old friends,” he said softly. “Old ghosts,” she replied, clinking her glass against his. The night pressed on, shadows still lurking just beyond the flickering neon light, but in the quiet exchange of those few words, some things—pain, regret, hope—found a fragile space to breathe.