Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEH7T76Y50NCYQ1K34E0B

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly against the damp London evening, its glow bleeding into the slick pavement where Rory Carter stood, her breath curling in the cold. She adjusted the strap of her delivery bag, the weight of the last order—spicy Sichuan beef, extra chili oil—digging into her shoulder. The Golden Empress had been busy tonight, and her legs ached from the miles she’d put in, but the familiar hum of the city, the way the streetlights blurred into halos in the mist, made the exhaustion worth it. This was her rhythm now: the bike, the deliveries, the quiet flat above the bar where she could pretend, for a little while, that she was just another face in the crowd. She pushed open the door to *The Raven’s Nest*, the scent of aged whiskey and polished wood wrapping around her like an old coat. The bar was half-full, the usual mix of regulars and strays—artists with paint under their nails, off-duty nurses nursing gin and tonics, a pair of men in suits who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. Rory slid onto a stool at the far end, where the light was dimmest, and set her bag on the floor beside her. Silas would be here somewhere. He always was. She didn’t see him at first. Her gaze skimmed over the bartender—a new face, young, with a nose ring and a tattoo of a raven on her forearm—and the cluster of patrons near the dartboard. Then, a shift in the air, a pause in the low murmur of conversation, and there he was. Silas Blackwood stood by the bookshelf at the back, his broad frame half-turned as he spoke to a man in a long coat. His auburn hair, streaked with gray now, caught the light like burnished copper, and his beard was neatly trimmed, as always. He still moved with that same quiet authority, though there was a slight hitch in his step, a limp she hadn’t noticed before. His right hand rested on the shelf, fingers tapping absently against the spine of a book. The silver signet ring glinted. Rory’s chest tightened. She hadn’t seen him in five years. Not since the night she’d left Cardiff, not since the last time she’d stood in this very bar, her knuckles white around a glass of whiskey she hadn’t touched, her voice steady as she lied and said she was fine. *I’m fine, Silas. Really.* He’d known, of course. He always did. But he’d let her go. Now, as if sensing her, he turned. Their eyes met. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Then Silas excused himself from the man in the coat with a murmured word, his gaze never leaving Rory’s. He crossed the room with that same measured stride, the limp barely noticeable, and stopped just short of her stool. The air between them hummed, thick with all the things they hadn’t said. “Rory,” he said, and his voice was deeper than she remembered, rougher, like gravel underfoot. “Silas.” She swallowed. “You look… different.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “So do you.” She knew what he saw: the black hair, longer now, the sharp angles of her face that had once been softer. The scar on her left wrist, a small crescent moon, peeking out from under the cuff of her jacket. She’d been twenty when she’d last stood in this bar, fresh out of university, her future stretched out in front of her like a road she hadn’t yet chosen. Now she was twenty-five, and the road had forked, and she’d taken the path no one expected. Silas slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could smell the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy, like cedar and smoke. The bartender appeared without being called, setting a glass of whiskey in front of him. Rory ordered a gin and tonic, her fingers tapping restlessly against the bar. “You’re still here,” she said, because it was the easiest thing to say. “Where else would I be?” He took a sip of his drink, his hazel eyes studying her over the rim of the glass. “You, on the other hand…” She exhaled, a short, humorless laugh. “Yeah. Well. Life happens.” “It does.” He set his glass down, his signet ring clicking against the wood. “I heard you were in London. Eva mentioned it.” Eva. Of course. Rory’s childhood friend, the one who’d pulled her out of Cardiff, who’d given her a place to stay when she had nowhere else to go. Eva, who still sent her texts every few weeks, checking in, even though Rory never replied. *You should call him, you know. He asks about you.* “She talks too much,” Rory muttered. Silas chuckled, low and warm. “She cares about you.” Rory looked down at her hands, at the way her fingers twisted together. “I know.” A silence settled between them, comfortable in its way, but heavy with the weight of all the years that had passed. Rory took a sip of her drink, the gin sharp and cold on her tongue. She could feel Silas watching her, waiting. “You’re working for Yu-Fei now,” he said. It wasn’t a question. She nodded. “Deliveries. It’s… fine.” “Fine.” He repeated the word like it was something foreign. “That’s not what you wanted.” No. It wasn’t. She’d wanted law school, a career, a life that made sense. But Evan had seen to that, hadn’t he? The way his voice had curled around her name like a noose, the way his hands had left bruises she’d had to hide. She’d run, and she’d kept running, until she’d ended up here, in this bar, with this man who had once been the closest thing she’d had to a father. “Things change,” she said. Silas’s jaw tightened, just for a second. “They do.” Another silence. Rory traced the rim of her glass with her fingertip, the condensation cool against her skin. She could feel the weight of his gaze, the way it searched her face, looking for the girl she’d been. She wondered if he found her. “You ever think about going back?” he asked quietly. She stiffened. “To Cardiff?” “To law. To anything.” She shook her head. “No.” “Why not?” Because she was afraid. Because the thought of stepping back into that life, of facing the ghosts of who she’d been, made her stomach twist. Because she didn’t know how to be that person anymore. “It’s not that simple,” she said. Silas leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. “It never is.” Rory looked away, her gaze landing on the bookshelf at the back of the bar. The hidden room was back there, the one with the false panel, the one where Silas had taken her once, years ago, when she’d been curious and he’d been indulgent. *This is where the secrets live, Rory. And secrets are dangerous things.* She’d laughed then, thinking he was joking. But she knew better now. “Do you ever miss it?” she asked suddenly. “The old life. The… whatever it was you did.” Silas was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached for his glass, his fingers brushing against the signet ring. “Every damn day.” The words hung between them, raw and honest. Rory turned to look at him, really look at him, and for the first time, she saw the lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carried the weight of years she hadn’t been there to witness. He wasn’t just Silas, the retired spy, the bar owner. He was a man who had lost something, too. “Why did you stay?” she asked. “After Prague. After everything. Why did you stay here?” His gaze darkened, just for a second, before he schooled his expression. “Because this is home.” Home. The word settled between them, heavy and true. Rory thought of her flat above the bar, the way the floorboards creaked underfoot, the way the light slanted through the windows in the afternoon. She thought of the bike she rode every day, the rhythm of the city, the way it had become hers in a way Cardiff never had. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I get that.” Silas studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes searching hers. Then, slowly, he reached out and tapped the scar on her wrist, just once, with the pad of his thumb. “You’re not her anymore, Rory. The girl who ran. The girl who was afraid.” She swallowed hard. “I don’t know who I am.” “Yes, you do.” His voice was firm, certain. “You’re the girl who survived. The girl who’s still standing.” Rory looked down at her hands, at the way they trembled just slightly. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that the person she’d become was enough. “What if I don’t know how to be her?” she whispered. Silas’s hand found hers, his fingers warm and steady. “Then you’ll figure it out. Like you always do.” She wanted to pull away. She wanted to lean into him. She wanted to be the girl she’d been, and the woman she’d become, all at once. But she didn’t move. She just sat there, her hand in his, the weight of the past pressing down on her like a storm she couldn’t outrun. “Stay for a drink,” Silas said, his voice rough. “Just one. For old times’ sake.” Rory looked at him, at the man who had been her mentor, her friend, the closest thing she’d had to family. She thought of all the years that had passed, all the things they hadn’t said. She thought of the girl she’d been, and the woman she was now, and the space between them, vast and uncrossable. “Okay,” she said. And for the first time in a long time, she let herself stay.