Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQG2QG23A349TFPJHPNNYP

The neon sign above the door flickered like a dying firefly, casting a sickly green glow over the rain-slicked pavement. Rory Carter hesitated on the threshold of *The Raven’s Nest*, the weight of her delivery bag digging into her shoulder. She shouldn’t have come. Not tonight. Not after the shift from hell—double-booked orders, a screaming customer, and the ever-present hum of London traffic grinding her nerves to dust. But the thought of her empty flat above the bar, the silence that pressed in like a physical thing, had driven her down the stairs before she could talk herself out of it. The door swung open with a groan, releasing a wave of warm, whiskey-scented air. The bar was half-full, the usual mix of regulars hunched over their drinks and a few lost souls who’d wandered in off the street. Rory slipped inside, her boots sticking slightly to the worn floorboards. She didn’t look up as she made her way to the counter, her fingers already reaching for the familiar weight of her wallet. “Usual, love?” Silas’ voice cut through the murmur of conversation before she’d even settled onto a stool. Rory’s head snapped up. He stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with the same slow, deliberate motions she remembered from a hundred nights years ago. His auburn hair was streaked with grey now, his beard neatly trimmed, but his hazel eyes were sharp as ever, locked onto hers with an intensity that made her stomach clench. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the dim light as he set the glass down. “Silas,” she said, and her voice came out thinner than she intended. A beat of silence. Then, the ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Rory.” The name hung between them, heavy with all the years that had passed since she’d last heard it from his mouth. She swallowed. “You own this place now?” “Bought it three years back.” He slid a glass toward her, already half-filled with amber liquid. “You look like you could use this.” She didn’t argue. The whiskey burned going down, but it steadied her. “I live upstairs,” she said, nodding toward the ceiling. “Delivery job. Yu-Fei’s.” Silas’ eyebrows lifted slightly. “Golden Empress?” “Yeah.” He leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “You’re a long way from Cardiff.” “So are you.” A shadow passed over his face, so quick she might have imagined it. “Touché.” The silence stretched, thick with things unsaid. Rory traced the rim of her glass, the condensation damp against her fingertips. She should have known he’d still be in London. Should have known he’d never leave the game entirely, not really. But seeing him here, in the flesh, was like stepping into a dream she’d long since stopped having. “You cut your hair,” he said suddenly. Her hand flew to the straight black strands brushing her shoulders. “Yeah. A while ago.” “Suit you.” She exhaled, a laugh that wasn’t quite a laugh. “You always were a terrible liar, Si.” His mouth quirked. “And you were always terrible at taking compliments.” The old rhythm of their banter settled between them, familiar and foreign all at once. Rory took another sip of whiskey, letting the heat of it ground her. “How’s the knee?” Silas’ fingers twitched toward his left leg, the slight limp more pronounced now than she remembered. “Holds me together. Mostly.” She wanted to ask about Prague. About the operation that had gone wrong, the one that had ended his career. But the words stuck in her throat. Some wounds weren’t meant to be poked. Instead, she said, “You ever miss it?” He didn’t pretend not to understand. “Every damn day.” The admission hung in the air, raw and honest. Rory studied him—the lines around his eyes, the way his shoulders carried the weight of years she hadn’t been there to see. He wasn’t the same man who’d taught her how to pick a lock at seventeen, who’d slipped her notes in the dead of night when her father’s disapproval had felt like a cage. Neither of them were. “You?” he asked. She shook her head. “I don’t know what I miss. The person I was then, maybe.” Silas’ gaze darkened. “You were never just that person, Rory.” The use of her old nickname sent a jolt through her. *Laila.* That’s what Evan had called her, in the beginning, before the pet names had turned into something uglier. Before she’d had to run. She pushed the thought away, focusing on the present—the hum of the bar, the scent of leather and old wood, the man in front of her who knew too much and not enough. “People change,” she said. “Some things don’t.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him that everything had changed, that she had changed, that the girl who’d idolized him, who’d followed him into half-baked schemes and late-night confessions, was gone. But the words died on her tongue. Instead, she asked, “Why’d you really buy this place?” Silas’ fingers tapped against the counter, a rhythm only he could hear. “Needed a front. You know how it is.” “Still playing spy?” “Retired.” A pause. “Mostly.” She should have known. Silas Blackwood didn’t retire. He just found new ways to play the game. Rory finished her whiskey, the burn of it settling in her chest. “I should go.” He didn’t try to stop her. Didn’t reach out, didn’t offer empty words. Just watched her with those knowing eyes as she slid off the stool. “Rory.” She turned back. “You ever need anything,” he said, low and quiet, “you know where to find me.” She did. That was the problem. The rain had picked up by the time she stepped back out onto the pavement, the neon sign above the door flickering like a dying star. Rory pulled her jacket tighter around her, the cold seeping into her bones. She should have gone upstairs. Should have locked the door and pretended she’d never seen him. But as she climbed the stairs to her flat, the weight of the past pressed down on her like a physical thing. She paused on the landing, her hand hovering over the doorknob. For the first time in years, she let herself wonder what might have been.