Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQS920V9B5ZPQ0F5GNJ0HZ

The damp London air clung to Rory’s coat like a shroud as she pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven’s Nest. The familiar scent of stale beer, mingled with something smoky and vaguely spiced, hit her with the force of a physical blow. It had been too long. Years, she supposed, since she’d last felt the worn velvet of a booth beneath her and heard the low murmur of hushed conversations bouncing off the dark wood paneling. Silas’s bar. Her upstairs haven. She scanned the room, her bright blue eyes, accustomed to the neon glare of delivery routes, taking a moment to adjust to the dim, amber glow. A few scattered patrons occupied the tables, lost in their own worlds. The bar itself was mostly empty, save for Silas, polishing a glass behind the counter, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the low light. He moved with that familiar, measured grace, the slight limp in his left leg barely perceptible. His silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he worked. Rory’s breath hitched in her throat. She hadn’t expected to see him. Not tonight. Tonight was supposed to be about escaping, about the anonymity of the city, about pretending for a few hours that her life wasn’t a chaotic mess of overdue rent and questionable choices. But there he was, a constant in her perpetually shifting world. She took a step forward, then paused, a lump forming in her throat. How did she even start? *Hey Silas, remember me? The girl who used to live upstairs and occasionally steal your biscuits?* It felt absurd. A lifetime ago. Before she could gather her courage, a voice, deeper and richer than she remembered, cut through the quiet. "Rory? Is that really you?" She looked up. Silas had stopped polishing. His hazel eyes, sharp and assessing as always, were fixed on her. A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips, crinkling the corners of his eyes. It was a smile that held the weight of countless secrets, of shared silences, and of the peculiar understanding that had always existed between them. "Silas," she managed, her voice a little rough. "It's… it's been a while." He pushed himself off the counter, his limp more evident as he walked towards her. "A while doesn't quite cover it, does it? You look… well, you look like you’ve seen a few things." He stopped a few feet away, his gaze a gentle, probing force. She felt the familiar urge to be evasive, to deflect with a jest, but his presence commanded a certain honesty. "London's a city that puts you through your paces," she said, a faint smile playing on her lips. "You know how it is." "I know enough," he replied, his tone softening. He gestured towards a secluded booth in the corner, the one with the faded velvet and the worn brass ashtray. "Sit. Let me get you a drink. On the house, of course. For old times' sake." She nodded, grateful for the reprieve, and slid into the booth. The velvet was still soft, still worn in the exact same places. She traced a pattern on the table with her finger, the wood smooth beneath her touch. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a relic of a clumsy childhood tumble, throbbed faintly. Silas returned with two glasses of amber liquid. Whiskey. He set one in front of her and sat down opposite. He didn’t ask what she wanted; he just knew. It was one of the things she’d always appreciated about him – his quiet perceptiveness. "So," he began, raising his glass. "What brings you back to the Nest? Last I heard, you were… adventuring." The word hung in the air, a euphemism for the chaos that had consumed her life since she’d fled Eva’s frantic calls and the suffocating grip of her ex, Evan. Adventuring. What a laugh. "Not so much adventuring," she corrected, taking a sip of the whiskey. It burned pleasantly going down, chasing away some of the London damp. "More like… surviving. Just passing through, really." "Passing through Soho? Sounds like you’re running from something." He said it without judgment, a simple observation. Rory looked out the window, at the rain streaking down the glass, blurring the neon lights of the street. "Aren't we all, Silas?" He swirled the whiskey in his glass, his hazel eyes reflecting the amber liquid. "Some of us more than others. You were always the one with the best escape routes, though. Remember that time you… no, never mind." He cut himself off. She knew what he was thinking of. The time she’d convinced Liam O’Connell that his favourite pub was haunted by the ghost of a disgruntled poet and had subsequently convinced him to “temporarily relocate” to his aunt’s seaside cottage for a month. Such a juvenile prank, but the memory was sharp, vivid. Innocence. A world away from the desperate hustle of her current existence. "I remember," she said softly. "I was good at creating diversions." "Still are, I suspect." He took a thoughtful sip. "You were planning on being a barrister, weren't you? Your father would be… well, he'd be surprised to see you delivering takeaway." The mention of her father, Brendan Carter, sent a pang through her. He’d wanted her to be a lawyer, to follow in his footsteps. She’d tried. God, she’d tried. But the pre-law texts had felt like lead weights in her hands, the dry arguments of tort law an unbearable burden. Then came Evan, and the illusion of a future shattered. London, Eva, and the Golden Empress had been the only escape. "Law school fell through," she said, keeping her tone deliberately light. "Turns out I'm more suited to navigating back alleys than courtroom dramas." Silas gave a low chuckle. "I always thought you had a certain… affinity for the shadows. Never quite fit the barrister mold, did you?" "And you never quite fit the retired spy mold," she retorted, a hint of her old teasing returning. His smile widened. "Touché. But I embraced it. Found my niche. You, on the other hand… what is your niche now, Rory?" The question hung there, heavy and unanswerable. Her niche. She was a ghost, drifting through the city on a battered scooter, fueled by cheap caffeine and the desperate hope of making rent. Her niche was the anonymity, the invisibility. "I deliver food," she said, her voice flat. "For a Chinese restaurant. I live above this bar." "I know," he said, his eyes meeting hers. "I own the bar, remember?" A flush spread across her cheeks. Of course he knew. He knew everything that happened within these walls, and likely, everything that happened beyond them. He was the Spymaster, even in retirement. "Right," she murmured, feeling foolish. "You've changed, Rory," Silas said, his voice tinged with a wistfulness that surprised her. "Not just the life. You. You seem… harder. Tauter, like a wire pulled too tight." She recoiled inwardly. He saw too much. He always had. "Life does that," she said defensively. "It does. But it doesn't have to break you. Or make you forget who you were." He leaned forward, his gaze intense. "Brendan’s daughter who used to sneak into the archives at university to read old maps? The one who could outwit anyone with a clever story and a flash of wit? Where did she go?" The question struck a raw nerve. She *had* forgotten. Or worse, she'd buried her so deep she wasn't sure she could find her anymore. Evan had tried to break her, to erase her. She'd let him. And in the aftermath, she'd let the fear and desperation reshape her, harden her. "She’s… busy," Rory said, her voice barely a whisper. "Trying to keep her head above water." Silas reached across the table and gently covered her hand with his. His touch was warm, firm. The silver signet ring felt cool against her skin. "You don't have to do it alone," he said, his voice low and steady. "You have people. You always have." She looked at his hand, then up at his face. The grey streaks in his hair seemed more prominent now. But his eyes, those keen hazel eyes, still held a spark of the man who had offered her sanctuary, who had seen something in her worth protecting. A weary regret settled over her, the weight of years of carrying her burdens alone. "I guess," she said, her voice thick with unshed tears, "I just forgot how to ask for help." Silas squeezed her hand. "It's never too late to remember." He released her hand and leaned back, a ghost of that knowing smile returning. "Now, how about another drink? And then, perhaps, you can tell me about the back alleys you’ve been navigating. I might have a few contacts who can help you find a more permanent route." Rory looked at him, at the quiet authority in his posture, the lingering kindness in his eyes. For the first time that night, beneath the dim lights of The Raven's Nest, she felt a flicker of something other than weary resignation. Hope. A dangerous, fragile thing, but a flicker nonetheless. She met his gaze, and a small, genuine smile touched her lips. "I think," she said, her voice stronger now, "I'd like that very much."