Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQF3ZHVZ0WEEV5MT7APJSJ

The green neon glow of The Raven’s Nest pulsed softly against the damp pavement, casting long, wavering reflections in the shallow puddles that had collected along the Soho sidewalk. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, cigar smoke clinging to the velvet drapes, and the low hum of jazz filtering through hidden speakers. The room was half-lit—shadows pooled in the corners, wrapping around patrons like secrets they no longer wanted to keep. Rory stood at the bar, her black coat still damp at the shoulders from the sudden rain, fingers wrapped around a glass of ginger ale with a twist of lime. She hadn’t ordered alcohol. She never did anymore. Her bright blue eyes scanned the room absently, taking in the familiar details: the black-and-white photo of a storm-lashed Cornwall coast, the worn leather booth in the corner where Silas always sat, the shelf of first-edition thrillers that didn’t quite hide the pressure plate behind them. She knew this place too well. It was refuge, yes, but also a kind of purgatory—close enough to the world she’d fled, but just far enough to pretend she wasn’t still running. Then the door opened. A gust of wind snuffed out one of the candles near the entrance. A man stepped in, shaking rain from a trench coat, his auburn hair streaked with silver catching the dim light. He paused, scanning the room—then his hazel eyes locked on hers. For a heartbeat, neither moved. “Rory?” Silas said, voice low, roughened by age and habit. She turned fully on the stool, her hand instinctively tucking a strand of black hair behind her ear. “Silas.” He limped forward, his left leg slightly stiff as it always was in the cold. His signet ring caught the light as he removed his gloves. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Not since—well. It’s been years.” “Seven,” she said. He nodded, then gestured to the stool beside her. “May I?” She gave the barest tilt of her chin. He sat, motioning to the bartender—a young man Rory didn’t recognize—with two fingers. Whiskey, neat. The order was automatic, a ritual. “You look different,” he said finally, studying her. “Harder around the edges.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “So do you. The grey suits you.” He chuckled, but it was thin. “Time gives what it wants, and takes the rest.” The bartender set the glass down. Silas knocked it back in one swallow and exhaled through his nose. “You still drink?” “Not tonight.” “Since when?” “Since forever.” There was a beat. He didn’t press. Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the bar, his voice softer. “You’re working for Yu-Fei again, I hear.” She blinked. “You hear a lot.” “People talk. Especially when a woman on a scooter starts delivering to addresses that don’t exist on paper.” Her gaze sharpened. “And what do they say?” “That you’re careful. Fast. That you don’t linger after dropping off a package. That you always wear gloves—even in August.” He tilted his head. “And that once, someone saw you trace a scar on your wrist while waiting at a red light. A crescent shape, like the moon.” Rory’s fingers twitched, almost brushing the scar beneath her sleeve. She caught herself, folded her hands. Silas watched. “You were always smart. But you’re smarter now. Colder.” She turned the glass in her hand. The ice clinked. “I had to be.” He didn’t answer right away. The music shifted—Billie Holiday’s voice curling through the room like smoke. “I tried to reach you,” he said. “After Cardiff. After what happened.” “You did,” she said. “Letter. Two. Left them on my doorstep.” “You never replied.” “No. I didn’t.” “Because?” She lifted her eyes to his, and for the first time, he saw it—beneath the composure, the cool detachment, there was something raw. Gaping. “You were part of that world, Silas. The one that told me to stay. The one that said he wasn’t that bad. The one that said I was overreacting because I was ‘emotional’.” Her voice stayed even. Too even. “You didn’t know. But you didn’t ask.” He flinched. “I didn’t know the extent. Christ, Rory, if I had—” “You wouldn’t have believed me,” she said, quieter now. “No one did. Not until I left. Not until I was gone.” The silence between them expanded, heavy with unsaid words. A couple at a nearby table laughed, too loud, too forced. The jazz rolled on. “You changed your name,” Silas said at last. “Aurora stuck. Rory’s easier. Laila was a lie I wore in Amsterdam. Malphora—” she almost smiled “—a joke in Prague. But none of them are quite real. Not anymore.” “And Carter?” “Still mine. By default.” He studied her—really studied her—like he was trying to reconcile the woman in front of him with the bright-eyed girl who used to argue constitutional law at midnight and laugh at her own bad puns. That girl had been sharp, yes, but open. She’d trusted like it was her birthright. Now, she carried silence like armor. “I heard about Eva,” he said gently. Her jaw tightened. “She’s fine. Married a botanist in Brighton. Two kids. Sends me photos of dahlias.” “And you?” “I get by.” “That’s not an answer.” “It’s the one I’ve got.” He drummed his fingers once on the bar, then reached into his coat. Pulled out a slim silver flask. Unscrewed the cap. Poured a few drops into her ginger ale. She didn’t stop him. “Remember the first time I did that?” he asked. She almost smiled. “You said it would ‘broaden my palate’.” “And you told me you’d report me for corrupting a minor. You were twenty.” “Technically.” He poured another drop. “You could’ve come to me, Rory. Any time. The Nest was open.” “Was it?” she asked. “Or was it just another front? Another game?” “It was real. To me.” She looked down at her drink, the liquid swirling. “I didn’t want to be part of any game. I just wanted to disappear.” “And did you?” She hesitated. Then, softly: “I’m still here, aren’t I?” He nodded, slowly. “You are.” Outside, rain began again—soft at first, then steady. The green neon flickered once, then steadied. Silas reached into his pocket and slid a key across the bar. Not the front door key. Smaller. Older. “Secret room,” he said. “Still unlocked. Still yours, if you want it.” She looked at the key. At him. At the ghost of the girl she’d been, still lingering in the dim corners of this place. “I don’t need hiding,” she said. “No,” he agreed. “But you might need remembering.” She didn’t touch the key. Not yet. But she didn’t leave either. The jazz played on. The shadows deepened. And for the first time in years, Rory let herself sit in the quiet between who she was, and who she had become.