Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQZFKMHWKHSYXGF7QF8XG9

The ache in Silas Blackwood’s knee was a constant companion, a dull, rhythmic throb that matched the percussion of the rain against the soot-stained pavement outside. Inside The Raven’s Nest, the neon sign washed the room in a sickly, electric green, turning the amber of the whisky into something almost toxic. It was the witching hour—or close to it—and the place was empty save for the dust motes dancing in the single beam of light cutting through the gloom. He was polishing a glass, the rim of the crystal catching the light as he worked, when the bell above the door jangled. It was a cheap, tinny sound, abrasive against the silence he had settled into. Silas didn’t stop. He knew the rhythm of the bell; he knew the click of the lock sliding home. It was only when the shadow fell across the polished mahogany of the bar that he lowered the glass. She was younger than he remembered, a trait that seemed to plague him lately. The lines around her eyes hadn't set in yet, but her posture was wrong. Where he carried a quiet, practiced weight, she seemed to be vibrating on a frequency of tension he hadn't recognized in twenty years. "Aurora Carter," Silas said. His voice was rough, tested by decades of speaking in half-whispers during covert handovers. "Or is it Rory today?" She froze. The name hung in the air between them, heavy and dusty. A muscle in her jaw ticked—a tic he remembered, one she’d developed when she was sixteen and hiding a library book in her jacket. Slowly, she turned. Her hair was the same straight, shoulder-length black, framing a face that was still recognizably Carter’s, though hardened by something more aggressive than mere time. Her eyes were bright blue, piercing and clear, the same color as the Thames on a winter morning. They searched his face as if looking for a trap, a lie, or a ghost. After a long, agonizing beat, the tension in her shoulders dipped, just an inch. "Silas," she said. Her voice was flatter than he expected, stripped of the bubbly enthusiasm she used to wield like a weapon. "I didn't think you were still here." "I'm always here," he said, gesturing to the empty stools with his towel. "Though business is slow. Grab a drink?" She shook her head, a sharp, decisive motion. "No thanks. Just... a water if you have it." Silas reached for the tap. He watched her hands as she waited—long fingers, slender wrists. He was reaching for a glass when he noticed it, a detail so small it barely registered at first. A faint, white crescent mark on her left wrist, near the thumb. It looked fresh, or perhaps simply out of place against the paleness of her skin. He paused, the glass hovering inches from the tap. "You cut yourself shaving?" he asked, his voice careful. He didn't want to interrogate her; that was a habit left in Prague. A ghost of a smile touched her lips, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Busted open a bag of something on the walk over. Glass everywhere." "You should have called me. I could have grabbed it." "I don't call the spymaster for broken glass, Silas." The banter was there, threadbare and trembling, but the insult landed with the weight of a stone. He poured the water and slid the glass across the bar. She didn't touch it immediately. She looked around the room, taking in the maps tacked to the walls, the black-and-white photographs of men who were now dead or forgotten, the green neon sign humming with a low, electrical complaint. She looked like a girl who was trying to memorize a crime scene. "It’s the same," she said finally, turning back to him. "Green light, same dust. You really didn't change a thing." "And you," Silas said softly. He leaned back against the counter, the cool wood pressing against his spine. "You used to be bright. You were lightning waiting to strike." He gestured to her face. "Now you look like something that’s been living in a box under a sink for five years. Who did this to you, Aurora?" She laughed, a dry, rasping sound that didn't sound like hers. "Nobody. People change, Silas. People get tired." She picked up the water glass, turning it over in her fingers. The crescent scar caught the light again. "I took a wrong turn. I ended up on the wrong street. Now I'm just... cleaning up messes." "I don't believe you," Silas said, his hazel eyes locking onto hers. The bluster of her dismissal was transparent. He knew the language of trauma; he had spoken it fluently in the field for three decades. "You're working too hard. I saw a Golden Empress uniform in the hallway this morning. You're delivering food? To whom? Who eats at this hour?" She set the glass down harder than necessary, the water splashing over the rim. "None of your business," she snapped. The defense mechanisms were up. The walls were going up. Silas sighed, the sound rattling in his chest. He dropped the towel onto the bar and reached for his hip, fishing out his keys. He stood up, the limp in his left leg seizing for a second—a familiar, nagging reminder of the wet snow in Prague and the failure that had followed it. He moved around the bar, ignoring her glare, and pushed open the door behind the mahogany counter. She flinched, stepping back. Through the door revealed a cramped, shadowed space that wasn't a broom closet, but a small office lined with shelves of unmarked boxes. A bottle of his best single malt was sitting on the desk, along with two crystal tumbler glasses. "Sit," he commanded, pouring the amber liquid with a heavy hand. The amber liquid hissed as it hit the ice. They were alone in the hidden room, cut off from the world. This was the space he used to meet with handlers, to plan operations that had toppled governments. Now, he was using it for a girl who had once asked him to help her practice French verbs. She sank into the wooden chair, crossing her arms. "You shouldn't be spending your reserves on a drifter." "I'm not spending it on a drifter," Silas said, sliding a glass toward her. "I'm spending it on a friend who stopped talking to me because she got scared." She looked at the glass. Then she looked at him. The anger in her expression began to crack, revealing the exhaustion beneath. "I wasn't scared, Silas. I was running." "And where are you running to now?" "I don't know," she whispered. She reached out, her fingers trembling as they hovered over the glass. "I look in the mirror and I don't recognize her. The Rory from Cardiff... she’d have punched him in the face by now." "Who?" "Nobody," she snapped again, but the force of it was gone. "It doesn't matter. Evan." The name dropped into the silence like a lead weight. Silas knew the name. He had heard the whispers from the neighborhood, the stories of the new boyfriend who was too intense, too careful. He had assumed the worst, but hearing the word spoken aloud by her caused a sharp, visceral pain in his chest, a phantom strike to his own knee. "Six foot two," Silas said, his voice low. "Brown hair. Does he wear a gold chain?" "Yes." Silas nodded slowly, processing the details. "You're right. She wouldn't have punched him. She would have outsmarted him. But you..." He reached out, his hand hovering over her wrist, careful not to touch the scar. "You've been playing a longer game. You've been making yourself small so he wouldn't notice you." "I was trying to stay safe," she said, her voice cracking. The mask slipped completely. "I thought if I just disappeared, I could fix it. I thought if I left him, he would just... stop." "He doesn't stop," Silas said grimly. "People like him don't stop. They hunt." A tear spilled over, cutting a path through the dust on her cheek. She didn't wipe it away. Instead, she picked up the glass of whisky, downing it in one burning gulp. She coughed, her eyes watering. Silas watched her, his heart heavy with a grief that was sharper than any he had felt during the mission that cost him his leg. He had failed her once when she was a child needing protection; now she was a woman standing in his office, drowning, and he was offering her a drink. "This," Silas said, indicating the drink, "isn't going to fix it. But it’s a start." "I can't go back," she choked out. "I know." He sat in the chair opposite her, leaning forward, his grey-streaked beard twitching as he studied her face. "But you don't have to." "But I do," she insisted, looking at the silver signet ring on his right hand. "Everything I own is in that flat above your bar. My books, my clothes... I can't stay there." "You can stay here," Silas said. "Or better yet, stay with me. I have a spare room." "I'm not a charity case." "You're not a charity case, Aurora," Silas said, his voice hardening with a authority he hadn't used in years. "You're a Carter. We don't leave things unfinished. We don't let people break us and walk away." She stared at him, her blue eyes searching his hazel ones for a lie. When she found none, she let out a breath that sounded like a sob, and slumped forward, her head in her hands. The war wasn't over, Silas knew that. But in this dark, quiet room, with the sound of rain washing over London outside, the siege might finally be broken. "I have a delivery in an hour," she muttered into her hands. "Golden Empress again." "Give them your notice," Silas said. "What?" "I said, give them your notice." Silas stood up, the wood of the chair scraping loudly. He walked to the door, paused, and looked back at her. She was looking at the empty glass, the crescent scar on her wrist standing out starkly against the pallor of her skin. "You're not a stranger anymore, Rory," he said. "And I’m not the man who retired. I can still handle a delivery, you know." For the first time all night, she laughed. It was small, sad, but it was a real sound. "I was never a stranger to you, Silas." "No," he agreed, reaching for the light switch. The green sign outside blinded the room for a second, plunging them into darkness before the artificial light flickered back on, steady and warm. "You weren't." He walked out of the hidden room, the heavy door clicking shut behind him, sealing away the ghosts of the past and opening the door to whatever came next.