Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQGT23P8T6T7AP3XPD39A0

The neon glow of *The Raven’s Nest* sign flickered against the rain-slicked pavement, casting jagged reflections in the puddles like broken glass. Rory Carter hesitated under the awning, shaking water from her black hair, the damp clinging to her jacket like a second skin. She hadn’t meant to come here—not tonight, not ever, really. But the cold had seeped into her bones after her shift at the Golden Empress, and the thought of climbing the stairs to her flat above the bar had felt like too much. So she’d ducked inside, the familiar scent of whiskey and old wood wrapping around her before the door even swung shut. The bar was quieter than she remembered. The usual hum of conversation had thinned to a murmur, the low thrum of jazz from the speakers barely cutting through the silence. A few regulars hunched over their drinks, their faces half-lit by the dim amber lamps. Rory slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, her fingers tapping an absent rhythm against the polished wood. She didn’t look up when the bartender approached, but she knew the moment he recognized her. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter,” Silas Blackwood said, his voice rough but warm, like gravel smoothed by time. “Thought you’d forgotten the way.” Rory finally lifted her gaze. Silas stood behind the bar, his auburn hair streaked with grey, his hazel eyes sharp as ever. The years had etched themselves into the lines of his face, but he still carried himself with that same quiet authority, like a man who knew too many secrets to ever be truly at ease. His right hand rested on the counter, the silver signet ring catching the light. “Never forgot,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “Just didn’t have a reason to come back.” Silas studied her for a long moment, then reached beneath the counter and pulled out a glass. He poured two fingers of whiskey—neat, no ice—and slid it toward her. “You look like hell.” Rory exhaled a laugh, picking up the glass. The whiskey burned going down, but it was a good burn, the kind that reminded her she was still alive. “Thanks. You look… older.” Silas chuckled, the sound low and dry. “Aren’t we all?” He leaned against the counter, his left leg bearing the faintest hint of a limp. “Heard you were working for Yu-Fei now. Delivery, right?” Rory nodded, swirling the amber liquid in her glass. “Part-time. Pays the bills.” “And the rest of the time?” She hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t have a rest of the time. Not really. There were the odd jobs, the favors she did for people who knew how to keep their mouths shut, the way she slipped in and out of shadows like she’d been trained to do. But Silas didn’t need to know that. Not yet. “Surviving,” she said instead. Silas’s gaze flickered over her—her black hair, her bright blue eyes, the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. She wondered if he saw the girl she’d been, the one who’d sat in this very bar years ago, wide-eyed and full of fire, or if he saw the woman she’d become, the one who carried her past like a weight in her chest. “You ever think about going back?” he asked quietly. Rory stiffened. “To Cardiff?” “To anything.” She set the glass down with a click. “No.” Silas didn’t push. He never did. That was the thing about him—he knew when to let a silence stretch, when to let a wound breathe. He turned away, wiping down the counter with slow, deliberate strokes, and for a moment, Rory thought the conversation was over. But then he spoke again, his voice so low she almost missed it. “You know, I used to think you’d end up like me. Running a bar, keeping my head down, letting the world pass me by.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the glass. “And now?” Silas glanced at her, his hazel eyes unreadable. “Now I think you’re still running.” The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong, that she’d stopped running a long time ago. But the lie stuck in her throat. Because the truth was, she *had* been running. From Cardiff, from Evan, from the life she’d left behind. From the girl she’d been. She took another sip of whiskey, the burn less sharp this time. “What about you?” she asked, changing the subject. “You ever think about going back?” Silas’s expression darkened, just for a second, before smoothing out again. “Back to what? Prague? The life?” He shook his head. “That part of me died a long time ago.” Rory studied him—the way his fingers tapped against the counter, the way his gaze kept flickering toward the hidden bookshelf at the back of the bar. She knew that look. It was the same one she’d seen in the mirror a hundred times. The look of a person who was always waiting for something. “You miss it,” she said softly. Silas didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quiet. “I miss the man I was. The one who thought he could make a difference.” He exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “But that man’s gone. And the one who took his place? He’s just a bartender with a limp and too many regrets.” Rory swallowed hard. She knew that feeling—the weight of the past, the way it pressed down on you until you could barely breathe. She’d spent years trying to outrun it, but it was always there, lurking in the shadows, waiting for her to slow down. “You ever wonder what would’ve happened if you’d stayed?” Silas asked suddenly. Rory’s breath caught. She knew what he was asking. Not about Cardiff, not about the law, but about *him*. About the life she could’ve had if she’d stayed in London, if she’d let herself lean on him the way she’d wanted to. “Every damn day,” she admitted. Silas’s gaze locked onto hers, and for a moment, the years between them melted away. She saw the man he’d been—the one who’d taught her how to pick a lock, how to read a room, how to disappear when she needed to. The one who’d been the closest thing she’d ever had to a father. “You could’ve stayed,” he said, his voice rough. “You could’ve let me help you.” Rory’s throat tightened. “I know.” “Then why didn’t you?” She looked down at her hands, at the scar on her wrist, the one she’d gotten the night she’d left Evan for good. The night she’d realized she couldn’t rely on anyone but herself. “Because I was scared,” she said quietly. “Scared of what I’d become if I stayed. Scared of what I’d lose if I left.” Silas was silent for a long moment. Then he reached across the counter and covered her hand with his. His skin was warm, rough with calluses. “You didn’t lose me, Rory.” She looked up at him, her eyes burning. “Didn’t I?” Silas’s grip tightened, just for a second, before he pulled away. “No. You just… took a different path.” Rory exhaled, the weight in her chest easing just a little. She picked up her glass again, the whiskey now little more than a memory at the bottom. “I should go.” Silas nodded, but he didn’t move. “You’re always welcome here, you know. No matter what.” Rory slid off the stool, her boots hitting the floor with a soft thud. She hesitated, then reached into her pocket and pulled out a crumpled ten-pound note. Silas waved it away. “On the house.” She shook her head. “I pay my way.” Silas studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “Fine. But next time, you’re buying.” Rory almost smiled. Almost. She turned toward the door, her hand on the handle, when Silas’s voice stopped her. “Rory.” She glanced back. “Be careful out there.” She held his gaze for a second longer, then pushed open the door. The cold air hit her like a slap, but she barely felt it. She stepped out into the rain, the neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickering behind her, casting her shadow long and thin against the pavement. She didn’t look back.