Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQJQATD70N70WYAC5N9GD9

The green neon sign above the entrance buzzed with a low, insectile hum, casting a sickly emerald glow over the wet pavement of Soho. Aurora Carter pushed open the door of The Raven's Nest and stepped out of the London drizzle. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of old wood, polished brass, and the faint, metallic tang of raincoat wool. She paused on the threshold, her bright blue eyes adjusting to the dim interior. The walls were cluttered with faded maps and black-and-white photographs of people who looked like they had secrets buried in their shoe heels. She was not here for a drink. She was here because the flat above felt too small tonight, the walls pressing in like the sides of a coffin. She moved toward the bar, her shoulder-length black hair damp at the ends. She wore a dark jacket that hid the shape of her, hiding everything she could. Behind the bar, Silas Blackwood was polishing a glass. He moved with a deliberate, quiet authority, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the low light. He wore his silver signet ring on his right hand, the metal clicking softly against the stem of the glass. He looked up, his hazel eyes meeting hers. There was a slight limp in his left leg as he shifted his weight, an old souvenir from Prague that never truly healed. He did not smile. He simply nodded, acknowledging her presence without demanding anything in return. Rory took a stool at the far end, away from the shadows where the secret room lay hidden behind the bookshelf. She rubbed her left wrist, fingers tracing the small crescent-shaped scar there. A childhood accident. That was the story she told. It was easier than the truth of some nights. She ordered a tonic water. Silas poured it without a word, his movements economical. He knew better than to ask why she was down here at this hour. He knew about Evan. He knew about Cardiff. He knew she was supposed to be studying Pre-Law, not delivering noodles for Yu-Fei Cheung and living above a spy's front. Then the door opened again. The bell chime cut through the low murmur of jazz playing from a corner speaker. A woman stepped in. She shook a umbrella, sending a spray of droplets onto the floorboards. She was wearing a coat that cost more than Rory made in three months. She turned, scanning the room, and her gaze locked onto the stool at the end of the bar. Rory froze. The glass in her hand felt suddenly slippery. Eva. It had been three years. Three years since Rory had fled Cardiff in the middle of the night, leaving her phone, her books, and her life on the kitchen counter. Three years since Eva had handed her the cash for the train ticket and told her to run. Eva walked over. She looked the same, yet entirely different. The softness around her eyes had hardened into something sharper, more weary. She wore the life Rory had left behind like a heavy coat. Rory, Eva said. Her voice was quiet, barely audible over the ice settling in Rory's glass. Rory turned on the stool. She kept her face cool, the mask she had perfected since arriving in London. Hello, Eva. I heard you were here. Eva did not sit. She stood close, invading the personal space Rory guarded fiercely. I heard you were alive. I am. You look different. Eva's eyes scanned Rory's face, lingering on the bright blue eyes that no longer held the same light they had in university. You look like someone else. People change. Do they? Eva glanced at Silas. He had stopped polishing the glass. He watched them with the neutral expression of a man who had seen too many reunions end in blood. He set the glass down and moved away, giving them the illusion of privacy while staying close enough to intervene. His limp was more pronounced when he was tired. Eva reached out, her hand hovering near Rory's arm. Rory flinched, just slightly. Eva pulled back. I went back to Cardiff, Eva said. I saw your father. He is still looking for you. He should stop. He thinks you are dead. Let him. The words hung in the air, heavy and cruel. Rory felt the weight of them settle in her stomach. She looked down at her left wrist, at the crescent scar. She remembered the day she got it. She was seven. She had fallen off a bike. Her father had carried her inside. Her mother had kissed the knee. That life felt like it belonged to a different species. You left everything, Eva said. You left me. I had to. Because of him. Evan. Rory did not answer. She took a sip of the tonic water. The bitterness coated her tongue. She had changed. The girl who wanted to be a barrister was gone. In her place was a woman who delivered food in the rain and lived above a bar owned by a retired spymaster. She had aliases now. Laila. Malphora. Names she used when the past came too close. I am not the same person who left Cardiff, Rory said. Her voice was steady. I am not the victim you remember. No. Eva looked around the bar, at the maps on the walls, at the shadows that seemed to stretch too long in the corners. You are something else now. I look at you and I do not know who you are. That is the point. Is it? Eva stepped closer again. Her voice dropped. I know what you are doing here, Rory. I know who owns this place. Silas Blackwood. He is not just a bartender. Rory set the glass down. The clink was sharp. Be careful, Eva. I am worried. You fled one monster only to walk into the den of another. Silas is not a monster. He is a spymaster. He uses people. He burns them out and moves on. Eva reached into her coat pocket. She pulled out a photograph. She slid it across the bar. It was a picture of Rory, taken from a distance, outside the Golden Empress restaurant. You are being watched. Not by him. By someone else. Rory looked at the photograph. She did not touch it. She felt the cold creep up her spine. She had thought she was safe. She had thought the aliases worked. Who? Rory asked. I do not know. But they are looking for Aurora Carter. Not Rory. Not the delivery girl. The daughter of Brendan Carter. Rory stood up. The stool scraped against the floor. She needed to leave. She needed to go upstairs and lock the door. She needed to check the windows. You should go, Rory said. I came to help. You helped me once. You got me out. Now you need to let me stay out. Eva looked at her for a long moment. The regret was visible in the set of her shoulders, in the way her hands clenched at her sides. She had stayed. She had faced the fallout. She had dealt with Evan. She had dealt with the parents. She carried the weight of the life Rory had abandoned. I miss my friend, Eva said softly. She is gone. That is a tragedy. It is survival. Eva nodded. She took the photograph back. She tucked it into her pocket. She looked at Silas, who was watching them from the other end of the bar. He gave a barely perceptible nod. He knew the cost of survival better than anyone. I will not tell them you are here, Eva said. But you cannot hide forever, Rory. The past has a long reach. I know. Eva turned and walked toward the door. The green neon sign flickered as she passed under it. She did not look back. The door closed, sealing the bar off from the street again. Rory stood alone at the bar. She looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. The woman staring back had straight black hair and eyes like ice. She looked strong. She looked tired. She lifted her left hand and traced the scar on her wrist again. Silas walked over. He placed a fresh towel on the counter. He did not offer comfort. He did not offer advice. He simply stood there, a silent sentinel in the dim light. She knows too much, Silas said. His voice was a low rumble. She is a friend. Friends talk. Friends break. Rory picked up her glass. She finished the tonic water in one swallow. The ice clattered against her teeth. Then I will have to be someone else again, she said. Silas watched her. His hazel eyes were unreadable. He tapped his signet ring against the wood. Rest tonight, he said. Tomorrow we work. Rory nodded. She turned and walked toward the back, toward the stairs that led to the flat above. She walked past the bookshelf that hid the secret room. She did not look at it. She climbed the stairs, leaving the maps and the photographs and the ghosts below. The weight of time settled on her shoulders, heavy as a coat she could not take off. She was alive. She was safe. She was alone.