Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRD231CY6FZ9AY59504RXJ

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the puddles like spilled ink. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something older—dust, secrets, the faint metallic tang of a hundred unwashed glasses. Rory paused on the threshold, her breath fogging the cold air just for a second before she pushed the door open. The bar was quieter than she remembered. No laughter, no clinking glasses, just the low hum of a jukebox playing some forgotten jazz standard. She scanned the faces—most were strangers, but then again, she’d been gone long enough that even the regulars might not recognise her. The back corner was empty, the usual cluster of old men hunched over pints gone. The only occupied stool faced the bar, and the man sitting there turned his head slowly, as if he’d been waiting for someone. He was older. His hair had thinned, streaked with silver now, and his jaw was lined with years she hadn’t seen. But his eyes—those hazel eyes—were the same. Sharp. Calculating. The same way they’d always been. Rory hesitated. She could walk past. She could pretend she hadn’t noticed. But the way he looked at her, like he’d been holding his breath for years, made her chest tighten. She slid onto the stool beside him. Silence stretched between them, thick as the smoke curling from the bar’s ancient ashtray. The man exhaled first, slow and measured. “Took you long enough.” Rory’s fingers twitched around the edge of the stool. “Should’ve known you’d be here.” “Where else would I be?” She laughed, but it came out sharp. “Not in Cardiff. Not in some quiet bar in Soho.” His lips quirked, just for a second. “You always were good at pointing out the obvious.” She should’ve left it there. Should’ve let the past stay buried. But the words spilled out before she could stop them. “You look like hell.” The barman—some young kid with a nametag that read *JASON*—glanced over, then busied himself polishing a glass. Silas didn’t flinch. “And you look like you’ve been running from something.” Rory’s pulse jumped. She grabbed her water bottle from her bag, unscrewed the cap with more force than necessary. “I’m not running.” “No?” His voice was low, amused. “Then why the hell are you in London?” “Work.” “Delivering takeout?” She shot him a look. “I’m not *that* desperate.” “No?” He took a slow sip of his whiskey, watching her over the rim. “Then what are you doing here, Rory?” The name felt like a punch to the gut. She hadn’t let anyone call her that in years. Not since she’d left. Not since she’d burned the bridge behind her. “Same as always,” she said, voice steady. “Surviving.” He studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly: “You look tired.” She exhaled through her nose, a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I’m fine.” “Liar.” The word hung between them, heavy as the silence. Rory’s fingers tightened around the bottle. She should’ve walked away then. Should’ve told him she didn’t have time for this, for the ghosts, for the way his gaze still held the same heat it always had. But she didn’t. “You always were good at reading people,” she said instead. His smile was faint, almost sad. “And you were always too stubborn to listen.” The barman cleared his throat, interrupting the moment. “Can I get you two anything?” Rory shook her head. “No, thanks.” Silas turned to the kid. “Another whiskey. Neat.” Jason nodded, already reaching for the bottle. Rory watched the way Silas’s hand rested on the bar, the silver ring on his right ring finger catching the dim light. She hadn’t seen it in years. Hadn’t known he’d ever wear it again. “You still running that network of yours?” she asked, voice flat. He didn’t look up from his glass. “What network?” “Don’t play coy with me, Silas.” His gaze finally lifted, sharp as ever. “You really want to go down that road?” She met his eyes. “I want to know if you’re still the same man who used to tell me everything would work out.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “And did it?” She swallowed. “Not yet.” The word hung between them, raw and unguarded. Silas exhaled, slow and deliberate, like he was choosing his next words carefully. “You always did have a way with words.” She barked out a laugh, bitter and dry. “Spare me the compliments.” “No compliments.” His voice dropped, rougher now. “Just the truth. You look like you’re one bad decision away from breaking.” Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t let anyone see her like this in years. Not since— She cut it off. “I’m not.” “No?” He leaned forward just slightly, the movement subtle but deliberate. “Then why do you keep looking over your shoulder?” The question was a blade. She flinched. “Because some people don’t change,” she said, voice tight. “And some debts don’t get paid.” Silas’s expression darkened. “You’re talking about Evan.” She didn’t deny it. “You should’ve told me.” She laughed again, but this time it was hollow. “You were gone. You left.” “And you left *me*.” The words struck like a punch. Rory’s fingers dug into the edge of the stool. “I had to.” “Because of him?” She didn’t answer. Silas’s gaze darkened. “You think I don’t know what he did to you?” “I don’t know what you know,” she said, voice low. “Enough.” His voice was a razor’s edge. “You think I didn’t see the way he looked at you? The way he *touched* you.” Rory’s skin prickled. She hadn’t thought about that night in years. Hadn’t let herself. “It was a long time ago,” she said, but her voice wavered. “And you think I forgot?” She looked away, at the flickering neon sign outside, at the rain streaking down the window. “I didn’t come here to relive the past.” “Then why are you here?” She met his eyes again. “Because I needed to see you.” Silas studied her, his gaze searching. Then, quietly: “You always did have a way with words.” She shot him a glare. “Don’t.” “No flattery.” He took another sip of his whiskey. “Just the truth. You look like you’re holding your breath.” She exhaled sharply. “I’m fine.” “No,” he said, voice firm. “You’re not.” The barman returned with Silas’s drink, setting it down with a soft *clink*. Rory watched the condensation form on the glass, the way the light caught the amber liquid inside. “You always were good at reading people,” she said, voice flat. Silas’s lips twitched. “And you were always too stubborn to listen.” She looked away, at the empty bottles lined up on the shelf behind the bar. At the old photographs pinned to the wall—faces she didn’t recognise, people who weren’t here anymore. “What happened to you?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. Silas’s expression darkened. “What do you mean?” “You’re not the same man I remember.” He studied her for a long moment. Then, quietly: “I got older.” “No.” She shook her head. “You got harder.” Silas’s gaze didn’t waver. “Some things can’t be undone.” Rory’s breath caught. She hadn’t realised until that moment how much she’d been holding onto the past. How much she’d been waiting for him to say something—anything—that would make it all go away. But it wouldn’t. She stood abruptly, her stool scraping against the floor. “I should go.” Silas didn’t stop her. Didn’t try to talk her into staying. She walked out into the rain, the cold air hitting her like a slap. She didn’t look back.