Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQHCH1RH8G1H8ZB32B0VRS

Rain slipped down the windows of The Raven’s Nest like ink from a smudged letter, smearing the green neon glow into long, ghostly streaks across Soho’s wet pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged wood, bourbon, and the faint trace of cigar smoke trapped beneath the ceiling beams. A jazz trio played “Autumn Leaves” with slow, mournful precision from the back corner, their notes curling like tendrils around the hush of the nearly empty bar. Aurora sat at a corner booth near the back, her gloved fingers wrapped around a glass of single malt she hadn’t touched. Her black coat was still damp at the shoulders, her hair slicked back from the ride in on her scooter. Across the bar, the bookshelf stood unmoved—its hidden mechanism silent. She didn’t know if it would even open tonight. Silas hadn’t spoken to her in days, not since the package from Prague had arrived, stamped with a seal he wouldn’t name. But she wasn’t waiting for Silas. She was waiting for a ghost. When the door creaked open, the brass bell jingling softly, Rory didn’t look up. Not at first. But then—she felt it. That old awareness, like a thread tugged between ribs. She lifted her eyes. The woman in the doorway wore a long navy trench, her hair cropped short and silver-blond. Her posture was rigid, military, one hand clutching a leather satchel too heavy for a social call. Her eyes—Rory would have known them anywhere—were the color of moss after rain. She scanned the room with the precision of a trained observer, then locked onto the table in the far corner. Time slowed. “Rory?” The voice was lower than it used to be, stripped of warmth. She sat up straighter. “Laila?” The woman flinched—just slightly—at the name. “Nobody’s called me that in years.” Rory stood. Her fingers curled around the edge of the table, grounding herself. “Then what do I call you?” “Malphora.” A pause. “Or just ‘her,’ if you’d rather.” Silence. Laila—Malphora—stepped forward. Her boots clicked against the wooden floor, too loud. She took the seat across from Rory without asking, placing the satchel carefully beside her. Up close, Rory could see the network of fine lines around her eyes, the scar above her left eyebrow—a clean, straight line from a blade or shrapnel. She looked older, but not aged. Hardened. Like a blade left out in salt air. “I didn’t think you’d answer my message,” Malphora said. “I almost didn’t.” “You almost never do.” Rory exhaled, watching steam rise from her untouched whiskey. “You disappeared. No call. No trace. Just... gone.” “I was pulled. You know how it is.” “I *don’t* know how it is,” Rory snapped. “Not anymore. Not since you left without a word after Cardiff. You were supposed to start law school *with* me.” “I know.” Malphora looked down, her fingers tracing the seam of her satchel. “I didn’t have a choice.” “You always had a choice, Laila.” “Don’t.” The command, quiet but edged, cut through the music. “Don’t use that name here.” Rory leaned back, the booth creaking beneath her. “And what would you have me do? Pretend you’re someone else? Pretend we *are* someone else?” Malphora didn’t answer. Instead, she reached into her satchel and withdrew a thin dossier. She didn’t open it. Just slid it across the table. Rory didn’t touch it. “What’s that?” “Prague. March 2018. A compromised op. One MI6 agent extracted, two left behind. One of them was Silas.” Rory’s pulse jumped. “He never told me that.” “Because he didn’t know who was leaking,” Malphora said. “Until now.” “You’re saying someone inside—” “I’m saying the same person who tipped off the operation also erased your records—your address, your affiliations, even your university transcripts. All cleaned by someone with clearance and access. And motive.” Rory stared at her. “Why are you telling me this?” “Because it wasn’t MI6 who purged the files.” Malphora’s gaze held hers. “It was *you.*” A beat. “No,” Rory whispered. “Yes. You wiped yourself from the system the night you left Cardiff. Changed your name. Moved to London under a delivery permit with no paper trail. And then—someone helped you disappear better.” “You think Silas—?” “I don’t *think*,” Malphora said, her voice brittle. “I *know.* And I know you’ve been running since Evan.” The name landed like a weight. Rory’s fingers trembled. She pressed her palm down, feeling the scar on her wrist beneath the fabric of her glove—the crescent-shaped ghost of a knife Evan had pressed into her skin during one of his rages. She’d never told Laila about it. Not in detail. They’d both been too afraid of the truth. “That wasn’t—” Rory began. “I didn’t leave just because of him.” “No?” Malphora leaned forward. “Then why did you never call? Not once in three years? I looked for you, Rory. I used every contact, every backdoor. You were *gone.* And then, last week, I see a delivery rider with your tattoo on her neck—Celtic knotwork, behind the left ear—and I *knew.* I didn’t even need to see your face.” Rory touched the ink beneath her hair, instinctive. “You changed too.” “I had to.” “You joined *them.*” “It wasn’t joining. It was survival.” Malphora’s eyes glistened, just once. “You think I wanted this? To spend eight years in the dark, watching friends die for missions I didn’t believe in? You think I *asked* for the name Malphora? It was given to me when they stripped Laila from my file the same way you stripped yourself from yours.” Silence settled between them, heavier than the music. Rory reached for her glass and finally took a sip. The whiskey burned. Honest. “I didn’t know,” she said softly. “I thought you moved on. Built a new life. I thought you were *free.*” Malphora laughed—a dry, broken thing. “You and me both.” Outside, thunder groaned over the city. “You could come back,” Rory said, sudden and desperate. “Not to who we were. But to *us.* Before the lies. Before the fear.” Malphora looked at the dossier. Then slowly, deliberately, she tore it in half. Then again. Again. Confetti of secrets scattered onto the table. “I can’t,” she said. “Even if I wanted to.” “Why?” “Because they’re watching. Both of us. And if I step out of line—” She stopped, her jaw tightening. “You’re safer not knowing.” Rory reached across the table, her hand bare now, her scar visible. “Then let me be unsafe. Like I was when we were sixteen and stole your father’s car to drive to the sea. When we swore we’d never let the world turn us into ghosts.” Malphora stared at the scar. At the hand. At the woman who had once been her sister in everything but blood. For the first time in years, her voice cracked. “You were the only real thing I ever had,” she whispered. Rory didn’t pull away. “You still are.” The music ended. A single note hung in the air, trembling. Then the bookshelf behind the bar shifted—an inch, a breath—and Silas emerged, his signet ring catching the low light. He paused when he saw them, his hazel eyes narrowing in recognition and something deeper—grief, calculation, sorrow. Malphora stood. Adjusted her coat. “I have to go.” “Wait,” Rory said. But she was already walking away, her boots echoing against the floor, the door opening and closing behind her like the shutting of a vault. Rory remained seated, the torn dossier before her, her hand still stretched across the table. Silas approached slowly, his limp more pronounced tonight. “She came back,” he said. “She left again,” Rory said. “She always does.” Rory closed her eyes. “Was it you? Did you help her disappear?” Silas didn’t answer right away. He picked up a scrap of paper, studied it, then let it fall. “No,” he said. “That was you.” And Rory understood—some vanishings weren’t forced. Some were chosen. And the worst ones were the ones where you couldn’t even remember when you stopped being real.