Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR5VQ9VKRBH4TR0YX17F6K

The dragon lantern outside Golden Empress swayed in the draft, casting long, hesitant shadows across the wet pavement of Soho. Rory pulled her coat tighter, the wool chafing against the collarbone where the cold had bitten through. Her bike, a battered Honda with a delivery box attached to the back, hummed quietly in the stand, a low rumble vibrating through her palms. She checked the thermal bag. The Peking duck was wrapped tight, the steam fighting a losing battle against the chill. She checked the watch on her left wrist—a tactical thing, borrowed from a drawer at Silas’s—then the one on her right: 11:42 PM. Late, but not disaster-late. She vaulted the curb, the gravel crunching underfoot. The air in the city at this hour tasted of coal smoke and exhaust, a heavy, industrial sweetness that always made her stomach churn. She lived above Silas’s place now. Six months of silence, six months of keeping her head down and her mouth shut, and the reality of it still hit her with the force of a physical blow. Rory dismounted, balancing the bag with one hand while fumbling for her keys. The door to The Raven’s Nest was unassuming, just another brick wall in a street lined with shuttered boutiques and empty takeaways. But when she turned the key in the lock, the distinct *click* and the smell of stale beer and floor wax washed over her. The bar was quiet. Just a few solitary souls in the corner, heads bowed over amber liquid. Rory slipped past them, heading toward the kitchen entrance behind the bar, but the station was dark, the radio silent. "Rory." The voice was a gravelly rumble, familiar in a way that stripped the air from her lungs. She stopped, her hand hovering over the light switch. When she turned, Silas Blackwood was leaning against the mahogany counter, a glass in his hand. He hadn’t turned on the lights behind him, so she saw him first as a silhouette against the dim glow of the bottles, then as a man. The grey-streaked auburn hair was the same, though the curl had straightened into iron wire. The beard was trimmed, neat, mirroring the hair. But the left leg was stiff, resting awkwardly against the floor, the evidence of Prague lingering in the subtle, involuntary tremor in his stance. "Silas," she said. The name tasted like dust. "Tell me you didn't just spend three quid on Uber to come here." He took a slow sip of his drink, his hazel eyes analyzing her, dissecting her. He always had the gaze of a man who knew how to look without being seen. "I thought you were living off takeout for a month." "I deliver for Yu-Fei," she said, stepping farther into the room, pulling her gloves off. "I'm just dropping this off." She held up the thermal bag. Silas moved with surprising speed for a man of his years, crossing the distance in two strides. He took the bag, his fingers brushing her wrist. He paused, his eyes dropping to the small crescent-shaped scar on her left hand, barely visible against the pale skin. Rory curled her fingers, hiding it instinctively. "You’re on a shift?" He asked. "Just a late one." "Why are you working, Rory? You got money. I know you do." He looked at her, really looked at her. The blue eyes that had sparkled with intelligence and mischief when they were kids were now averted, staring past her shoulder. "Look at you. You look tired. You look… hollowed out." Rory turned away, walking toward the corner booth where a man in a trench coat sat staring into his drink. "I like it, Si. The driving. It keeps the thoughts off the street." "It’s a front, Rory." He set the bag down on the counter. "I know what you used to do. I watched you." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "I watched you solve that code. I watched you pick that lock. You aren't a delivery girl. That girl is gone." The accusation hung heavy in the stagnant air. The Rory of five years ago—the one who had laughed at his spy movies and dissected the news for "clues"—would have snapped back. She would have offered a witless quip, a defensive wall. But this Rory was tired. She was the one who had fled to London to escape Evan, not Silas. She had been the one who needed saving. "I don't know who that is anymore," she said quietly. "Then why are you back here?" Silas gestured around the bar. "You haven't spoken to me in a year, and I haven't seen you since you moved in above me." "I needed to be somewhere… safe." "Is it?" Silas’s expression hardened. The soft paternalism of the spy vanished, replaced by the cold pragmatism of the operative. "Let me take you to the Nest. Not the kitchen." He turned and walked toward the back of the room, his limp slightly more pronounced. Rory watched him go, the swell of regret in her chest heavy enough to be physical. She had come for the cheap rent, for the steady hum of electricity, for the silence that Silas represented. But she had known, the moment she stepped through the door, that silence wasn't what he offered. She caught up to him. He stopped before a wall covered in peeling yellow wallpaper and ancient maps of London. In the corner, amidst a tangle of books—mostly text books and biographies on fallen dictators—sat a heavy oak bookshelf. "The room?" Rory asked. "The room." Silas reached out, his silver signet ring flashing under the low light as he turned a specific volume, a battered copy of *The Count of Monte Cristo*. He pressed the book inwards. There was a faint click, and the shelf groaned, swinging outward to reveal a dimly lit hallway. "Go in," he said. "I'm working." "I can call Eva," Silas said, his voice flat. "Tell her I have you. Tell her you're safe." Rory looked at him. The thought of Eva’s face, relieved and teary, was a powerful anchor, but not enough to keep her anchored here. "No," she said. "I'll go." She slipped into the secret room. It was small, cluttered, smelling of old paper and leather. A desk was pushed against one wall, buried under stacks of envelopes and photographs. A map of Prague, filled with red strings and coffee stains, was pinned to the opposite wall. Rory stood in the center of the room for a moment, trying to regulate her breathing. When she turned, Silas was standing in the doorway, watching her. "Sit," he said, jerking his head toward a velvet armchair. She sat. The chair smelled of him—sandalwood and tobacco. "Why did you come back?" he asked, leaning against the doorframe. "I left Evan," Rory said. The words were hard to say. "I ran. I thought I was safe." She looked down at her hands, the knuckles white as she gripped the arms of the chair. "I was wrong. I wasn't safe. I was just… hiding." Silas crossed his arms, his hand resting on the signet ring. "You left Cardiff. You left your life. And the first place you ran was to me. Even if you didn't call me. Even if you didn't talk to me." "I didn't know if I could face you," she admitted. "You always saw the good in me. You never saw the mess I could make." "You make mistakes," Silas said. "We all do. The difference is, most people spend their whole lives trying to hide them. You… you tried to run away from them." "It didn't work." Rory looked up, her blue eyes meeting his hazel gaze. The intensity in them nearly knocked her over. "It didn't fix anything." "Nothing ever fixes completely, Rory." Silas shifted, favoring his right leg. "You know how I ended up with this leg? Prague. A compromise. I failed to save a contact, and in the process, I walked right into a trap that cost me three men and a knee." He paused, letting the silence stretch. "I carry the weight of that every day. You can't run from who you were. You have to carry it." Rory thought about the delivery bike outside. About the way the rain slicked the roads. About the way Evan used to look at her, a mixture of pity and ownership. "I just wanted to feel normal," she whispered. "Normal is boring," Silas said gruffly. "Boring people don't get into trouble. Troubled people—well, they survive." He pushed off the doorframe and walked to the desk, pulling out a crumpled envelope. He slid it across the scarred wood toward her. "What's this?" "I have contacts," he said. "People who watch the streets. I’ve had eyes on Evan. He’s not good for you, Rory. Not even a little bit." Rory stared at the envelope. It was proof. Proof that he hadn't just been watching from the shadows, that he had been working, operating, living in this world she had fled to escape. He had never really left it. "I can't involve you," she said, shaking her head. "That's not how it works. You're retired." "Am I?" Silas looked at his signet ring, then at her. "I own this bar, don't I? That's hardly retirement. I am in maintenance mode. I am preserving what I can, fixing what is broken." He walked over and placed a hand on her shoulder. His grip was firm, insistent. "Don't make me come get you, Rory. Not like this. If things go south again, I want you to know the way out. That's all." Rory looked at the envelope, then up at him. The apology he hadn't spoken, the protectiveness he hadn't voiced, was finally unspooling in the dim light of the hidden room. She felt the tightness in her chest loosen, just a fraction. "I'll keep it," she said. "Good." He pulled his hand back, the mask sliding back into place. "You need to get back out there. You have a delivery to finish, and I imagine that man in the trench coat is wondering why his duck hasn't arrived." Rory nodded. She stood up, the motion smooth, practiced. The cool-headed version of herself had returned, the one who knew how to hide the cracks. "Thank you, Silas." "Don't thank me yet." He turned toward the bar, flicking the switch that sealed the bookshelf. The light in the room died, plunging them back into darkness. "Just don't make me regret it." As Rory walked out of the secret room, through the bar, and into the cool night air, she could still feel the phantom weight of his hand on her shoulder. The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest buzzed above her head, steady and electric, casting a glow over the street that looked for a moment less like a warning and more like a beacon. She got on her bike, the engine roaring to life, and turned toward the dark, uncertain road ahead.