Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR0C631ANCHKT6E4DC7N5D

The dim light of the bar cast long shadows across the uneven wooden floor, flickering softly in the haze of cigarette smoke and whispered conversations. Behind the bar, Silas Blackwood moved with the quiet precision of a man who’d seen too much—and chosen to forget some of it deliberately. His grey-streaked hair was tucked beneath a battered fedora, but his hazel eyes remained sharp, observant. Tonight, the usual murmur of patrons was broken only occasionally by the clink of glasses or the low chuckle of a bartender who knew better than to ask too many questions. In one corner, tucked away behind a cluster of black-and-white photographs of London’s old streets and ships, a silver signet ring flashed beneath the neon sign that read “The Raven’s Nest.” Silas was wiping down a glass when a figure entered through the green glow, tall and measured, her shoulder-length black hair falling against her shoulders like a dark river. Aurora Carter. Rory. Laila. The first words that came to mind—quick, instinctual—were the familiar ones. She paused momentarily, eyes flicking across the room, searching for something else that didn’t quite fit the picture of who she’d once been. Her face was sharp, the brightness of her blue eyes momentarily catching the dim light as a flicker of recognition passed through her. She hadn’t expected to come here tonight—least of all to run into anyone from her past. She’d told herself repeatedly that she’d moved on, that London was a fresh start. But somehow, the pull had brought her here. Silas saw her at once. His gaze lingered, narrowing subtly as his instincts—the ones honed in a darker life—kicked in. He set the glass down fully and pushed off the bar, voice calm but with that undercurrent of authority he always carried. “Rory,” he said, voice low but steady, as if he’d conjured her from a memory that refused to fade. She hesitated, then stepped forward hesitantly. Her voice was rough, unexpectedly so after years of practice being guarded and guarded alone. “Silas.” He regarded her for a moment, head tilted just enough. The years had carved different stories into their faces. His beard was neatly trimmed, but the tired lines around his eyes betrayed the countless nights he’d spent soaking in shadows. The slight limp in his left leg was more pronounced tonight, perhaps from standing too long, or maybe from the memories he kept buried. “You’ve changed,” he said softly, almost admiringly. “I could say the same,” Rory answered with a hint of a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She shifted, hands trembling just a little as she tucked her fingers into the pockets of her coat. “I was surprised to see you here. I didn’t think you owned a bar in Soho.” “Thought I’d keep a low profile,” Silas replied, voice oily with subtle humor. “And this place has…its uses. For old friends, for hiding from the past.” His gaze flicked past her, to the photographs and maps on the walls. “You’ve been quiet lately. No calls, no messages. I thought maybe...you’d left London.” She nodded slowly, gaze distant. “Moved around a lot. Looking for something I lost.” Her voice softened, as if the words had been creeping inside her for a long time. “You know how it is.” He studied her face, noting the sudden heaviness in her voice, the shadows beneath her eyes. “Everyone’s lost something.” Their quiet moment was interrupted by a glass sliding across the bar towards Rory—a gesture from Silas, silent but unmistakably welcoming. She took it, grateful for the simplicity of the gesture, and took a sip of the drink—an old comfort she hadn’t realized she’d needed. The liquid burned a little, steadying her. “So,” Silas said, leaning slightly forward, the hazel in his eyes gleaming, “what brings you here tonight?” Rory hesitated before answering, the words caught somewhere between her throat and her mind. “I saw you at the bar, and… I couldn’t resist. It’s been years. And here I am.” He nodded slowly, eyes crinkling at the corners, but there was a shadow behind them—an unspoken weight. “Time changes a lot of things. People, too.” She looked down, then back up. Her voice was quiet but edged with steel. “Some things don’t change. The past, mostly. It finds ways of catching up when you think it’s gone.” Silas handed her a cigarette, which she accepted with a faint smile, lighting it with a flick of her lighter. The smoke curled lazily between them, a fragile barrier or perhaps a bridge—she couldn’t tell which. “What did you think when you saw me?” Rory asked suddenly, voice almost trembling with curiosity and caution. He exhaled slowly, ash dangling from the tip before he spoke. “I wondered if you’d become someone I wouldn’t recognize. Someone who’d forgotten where she came from.” “Maybe I did,” she admitted. “Or maybe I just hid it better.” They both looked away for a moment, the silence seasoned with memories neither dared to voice. Outside the large window behind the bar, Soho hummed with life—clubs, street performers, the chaos of a city that never truly stopped. But inside, in this small corner of the world, they had carved out a fragile peace. “You always were quick,” Silas said after a pause. “Out of the box, even then. That’s how I knew you’d land somewhere good. Even if you pretended otherwise.” Rory’s gaze flicked to the ring on his finger—an unspoken reminder of the life he’d built, the scars he carried, and perhaps the things he’d lost. She curled her fingers around her glass, then released it slowly. “I don’t know if I’ve figured it out yet. All I know is I’m still running from something.” Her voice hitched slightly. “And I don’t think I’ll ever outrun it.” Silas regarded her carefully, the corners of his mouth tightening into a faint, knowing smile. “Sometimes, the only way to stay ahead of it is to face it head-on.” She looked at him then, and in that quiet exchange, the years peeled back just a little more. They shared a knowing, neither forcing the words, both understanding the weight of what wasn’t said—things that lingered just beneath the surface of their words, like old ghosts waiting to resurface. The smoky silence stretched between them, as if the bar itself was listening, holding onto their secrets as the neon sign outside flickered faintly in the night. Rory raised her glass in a slow toast, the blue of her eyes shimmering like a promise or a warning. “To the past,” she said softly, “and whatever’s coming next.”