Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQFZEBPGFKQ7PE8YQVXBEF

The neon sign above the door flickered like a dying firefly, casting a sickly green glow over the pavement. Rory Carter hesitated on the threshold of *The Raven’s Nest*, the weight of the takeaway bags in her hands a poor excuse for the way her pulse had quickened. She hadn’t been back since the night she’d left London—since the night she’d left *him*. The scent of stale beer and old wood polish hit her first, thick and familiar, and for a second, she was twenty again, slipping through the door with a stolen bottle of whiskey and a laugh that didn’t belong to her anymore. The bar was quieter than she remembered. The hum of conversation was muted, the clink of glasses subdued. A few regulars nursed their drinks in the booths, their faces half-lit by the dim amber lamps. Rory’s fingers tightened around the handles of the bags. *Just drop them off. In and out.* She didn’t have time for ghosts. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood stood behind the bar, his back to her as he polished a glass with slow, deliberate strokes. The years had etched themselves into the lines of his shoulders, the silver threading through his auburn hair. His left leg bore the faintest hitch as he shifted his weight, a reminder of the injury that had ended his career. Rory’s breath caught. She should have turned around. She should have walked out before he noticed her. But it was too late. The glass stilled in his hands. His fingers, long and steady, curled around the rim as if bracing himself. Then, slowly, he turned. Hazel eyes locked onto hers, sharp as ever, but something flickered in their depths—something that hadn’t been there before. Recognition, yes. But also wariness. A hesitation that made her stomach twist. “Rory,” he said, her name rough on his tongue, like he’d been holding it back for years. She swallowed. “Silas.” A beat of silence. The air between them thickened, heavy with all the things they weren’t saying. Then, with a deliberate motion, he set the glass down and wiped his hands on the towel draped over his shoulder. “You’re back.” “Not really.” She lifted the bags slightly. “Just delivering.” His gaze flicked to the Golden Empress logo, then back to her face. “Still riding for Yu-Fei, then.” “When she needs me.” Another pause. The weight of it pressed down on her ribs. She should have left. She should have handed over the food and walked out before the past could sink its teeth into her. But her feet stayed rooted to the floor, her body betraying her. Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been a laugh if it hadn’t been so tired. “You look different.” She almost flinched. “So do you.” He didn’t deny it. Instead, he reached beneath the bar and pulled out a bottle of whiskey—*her* whiskey, the one they used to drink when the nights got too long and the world too loud. He poured two fingers into a glass and slid it across the counter toward her. “Sit down, Rory.” She should have refused. She should have turned on her heel and walked out into the London night, where the air was cold and the streets were familiar in a way this place no longer was. But the scent of the whiskey—smoky, rich, *home*—pulled at her. She set the bags down on the bar and slid onto a stool, her fingers brushing the glass before she could stop herself. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. “How long has it been?” “Five years.” The words tasted bitter. “Six, maybe.” “Six.” He poured himself a drink, his movements precise, controlled. “You left without a word.” She took a sip, the whiskey burning a path down her throat. “I had to.” “Because of *him*?” Her fingers tightened around the glass. Evan. The name hung between them, unspoken but heavy. She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Silas’s jaw tightened. “You could have come to me.” “And what would you have done, Si?” Her voice was sharper than she intended. “Fought my battles for me? You were already half-retired by then. You had your own demons to deal with.” His eyes darkened. “I would have helped.” “You *did* help.” She set the glass down with a click. “You gave me a place to stay. You taught me how to disappear. You think I don’t remember that?” “Then why didn’t you come back?” The question hung between them, raw and aching. Rory looked down at her hands, at the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist—a childhood accident, a reminder of a time when the world had been simpler. “Because I couldn’t.” Silas didn’t press. He never had. That was the thing about him—he knew when to push and when to let things lie. But the silence that followed was worse than any accusation. It was thick with all the things they’d never said, all the ways they’d failed each other. She traced the rim of the glass with her fingertip. “I heard you retired.” “Officially, yes.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “Unofficially… let’s just say old habits die hard.” She should have known. Silas Blackwood wasn’t the kind of man who walked away from the game. Not really. “Still playing spymaster, then?” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Something like that.” Rory exhaled, the tension in her shoulders easing just a fraction. This—this was familiar. The back-and-forth, the unspoken understanding. The way they could circle each other like old fighters, testing the waters before the real blows landed. She took another sip, the whiskey warming her from the inside out. “You ever think about leaving? Starting over somewhere new?” His gaze flicked to the neon sign outside, its green glow bleeding through the window. “Every damn day.” “But you stay.” “This place is mine.” He gestured to the bar, the maps on the walls, the hidden door behind the bookshelf that led to the back room where secrets were traded like currency. “It’s all I’ve got left.” Rory studied him—the lines around his eyes, the silver in his beard, the way his fingers tapped restlessly against the counter. He looked older. Tired. But there was still a sharpness to him, a keenness that hadn’t dulled with time. “You could have more.” “Could I?” His voice was quiet, almost lost beneath the murmur of the bar. “Or is this all there is?” She didn’t have an answer for that. She’d spent the last six years running, and what did she have to show for it? A flat above a pub in Cardiff, a job that barely paid the bills, a life that felt like it belonged to someone else. She’d thought leaving would set her free. But freedom, she was learning, was just another kind of cage. Silas reached across the bar and tapped the scar on her wrist, his touch light, almost hesitant. “You still have it.” She pulled her hand back, tucking it into her lap. “Some things don’t fade.” “No.” His voice was rough. “They don’t.” The air between them shifted, thick with something unspoken. Regret, maybe. Or the ghost of what might have been. Rory finished her drink in one swift motion, the burn grounding her. “I should go.” Silas didn’t stop her. He never had. That was the thing about him—he let people leave. Even when he didn’t want them to. She slid off the stool, her boots hitting the floor with a quiet thud. The takeaway bags were still warm in her hands, a reminder of the life she’d built outside this place. Outside *him*. “Rory.” She paused, her back to him, her fingers curled around the straps of the bags. “If you ever need a place to stay…” His voice was low, steady. “The door’s still open.” She didn’t turn around. She couldn’t. Because if she did, she might stay. And staying would mean facing all the things she’d run from. All the things she still wasn’t ready to name. “Goodbye, Silas.” The bell above the door chimed as she pushed it open, the cold London air rushing in to meet her. She didn’t look back. She never did. But as she stepped out into the night, the weight of his gaze followed her, heavy as the past itself.