Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRFE9K76NTA80WT42XE6TK

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered like a dying firefly against the rain-slicked pavement. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something older—dust, leather, the faint metallic tang of old secrets. Rory paused on the threshold, her breath visible in the cold, her fingers tightening around the strap of her messenger bag. She hadn’t been back here in years. The door swung shut behind her with a soft *thunk*, and the noise of the bar—laughter, clinking glasses, the occasional slurp of a pint—wrapped around her like a familiar shroud. She should’ve known. Of course he’d still be here. Silas sat in his usual corner, nursing a glass of something amber and slow. His right hand rested on the arm of the chair, the silver signet ring catching the dim light. He didn’t look up when she stepped inside, but his fingers stilled, the glass pausing halfway to his lips. The silence stretched, thick as the smoke curling from the ashtray between them. Rory exhaled through her nose, her shoulders dropping just slightly. She slid onto the stool across from him, the leather creaking under her weight. "You still let people drink here?" Silas finally lifted his gaze, his hazel eyes sharp as flint. "You look like hell." She laughed, sharp and brittle. "And you look like you haven’t aged a day." His mouth quirked, just once, before he took a slow sip. "Flattery won’t get you another round." Rory leaned forward, elbows on the bar, her black hair falling forward to hide half her face. "I didn’t come here for a drink." Silas studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he set his glass down with deliberate care. "Then what did you come for?" She hesitated, her fingers drumming against the worn wood. "I heard you retired." "A long time ago." "Not like that." She swallowed. "Not like *this*." His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, the one she’d tried to hide under her sleeve. She hadn’t seen him in five years. Five years since she’d left London, since she’d left *him*, and yet here he was, seeing things she hadn’t even realised she’d left behind. "You still have the limp." "Still have the knee." He shrugged, but his voice was rougher than she remembered. "You?" She met his eyes, her own bright with something she couldn’t name. "I’m fine." Silas let out a low, humourless laugh. "Rory." The name tasted like ash in her mouth. She’d never liked it when he said it like that, like he knew her better than she knew herself. She pulled her sleeve down, hiding the scar. "I didn’t come to talk about old times." "You didn’t come at all." His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, like the fine wire of a spring about to snap. "You just *showed up*." She flinched, but only for a second. "I needed to see you." "Why?" She opened her mouth, closed it. The words tasted like betrayal. "Because I missed you." Silas went still. The kind of still that meant he wasn’t breathing at all. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar toward her, the corner catching the light. Rory didn’t touch it. "What’s that?" "A list." His voice was flat. "Names. Dates. Places. Things I’ve been tracking for years. Things I thought were dead." She looked at the paper, then back at him. "You still do this." "I still *am* this." He gestured vaguely at the bar, at the walls lined with maps, at the way his fingers twitched like they were itching to reach for something—anything—off the shelf behind him. "I just don’t get paid for it anymore." Rory’s throat went tight. She’d known he’d never really leave it behind. But seeing him like this—older, harder—it was like looking at a stranger. "You could’ve told me." "Told you what?" His laugh was bitter. "That I’m still digging up corpses? That I haven’t stopped looking for the things that got left behind?" She wanted to argue. She wanted to say she hadn’t left anything behind. But the words stuck in her throat, because she knew, deep down, that wasn’t true. She’d left a lot behind. She’d left *him* behind. Silas pushed his glass away, his left knee bouncing once, twice, against the floor. "You look like you’ve been running." She didn’t deny it. "I was." "From what?" She met his eyes, her own burning. "From *you*." The words hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Silas didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just stared at her, like he was trying to memorise the shape of her face, the way her breath hitched when she lied. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph. He slid it across the bar toward her, the corner catching the light. Rory didn’t take it. "What’s that?" "A picture of your mother." His voice was low, rough. "From when she was younger. Before she—" "Before she died." Rory’s voice was steady, but her hands were shaking. She took the photo, her fingers brushing against his. "How did you—?" "I had my ways." He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. She looked at the photo, at the woman who’d been so alive in it—so *happy*. "You kept this." "I kept a lot of things." His gaze was fixed on her, unblinking. "Things I thought you’d want to know." She swallowed hard. "Why now?" "Why *not* now?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Because you’re here. Because you’re *back*." She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "I’m not back." "You left a trail like a dog in piss." His voice was harsh, but there was something else there, something raw and aching. "I could’ve followed it." She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him she hadn’t meant to leave a trail, that she hadn’t meant to hurt him. But the words died in her throat, because she knew, deep down, that she had. Silas pushed his chair back, his knee popping as he stood. He reached into his jacket again, this time pulling out a small, leather-bound book. He slid it across the bar toward her, the corner catching the light. Rory didn’t touch it. "What’s that?" "A ledger." His voice was quiet, but there was an edge to it, like the fine wire of a spring about to snap. "Names. Dates. Places. Things I’ve been tracking for years. Things I thought were dead." She looked at the book, then back at him. "You still do this." "I still *am* this." He gestured vaguely at the bar, at the walls lined with maps, at the way his fingers twitched like they were itching to reach for something—anything—off the shelf behind him. "I just don’t get paid for it anymore." Rory’s throat went tight. She’d known he’d never really leave it behind. But seeing him like this—older, harder—it was like looking at a stranger. "You could’ve told me." "Told you what?" His laugh was bitter. "That I’m still digging up corpses? That I haven’t stopped looking for the things that got left behind?" She wanted to argue. She wanted to say she hadn’t left anything behind. But the words stuck in her throat, because she knew, deep down, that wasn’t true. She’d left a lot behind. She’d left *him* behind. Silas pushed his glass away, his left knee bouncing once, twice, against the floor. "You look like you’ve been running." She didn’t deny it. "I was." "From what?" She met his eyes, her own burning. "From *you*." The words hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Silas didn’t flinch. He didn’t look away. He just stared at her, like he was trying to memorise the shape of her face, the way her breath hitched when she lied. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph. He slid it across the bar toward her, the corner catching the light. Rory didn’t take it. "What’s that?" "A picture of your mother." His voice was low, rough. "From when she was younger. Before she—" "Before she died." Rory’s voice was steady, but her hands were shaking. She took the photo, her fingers brushing against his. "How did you—?" "I had my ways." He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to. She looked at the photo, at the woman who’d been so alive in it—so *happy*. "You kept this." "I kept a lot of things." His gaze was fixed on her, unblinking. "Things I thought you’d want to know." She swallowed hard. "Why now?" "Why *not* now?" He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. "Because you’re here. Because you’re *back*." The door to the bar swung open, cutting through the tension like a blade. A gust of cold air rushed in, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else—something unfamiliar. Rory turned her head just slightly, her eyes narrowing. A woman stood in the doorway, her dark hair catching the neon light like a raven’s wing. She was tall, her posture confident, her gaze sharp as she took in the scene before her. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to. Silas exhaled sharply, his body tensing. "Eva." Rory’s breath caught in her throat. She turned back to Silas, her eyes wide. "Eva?" Silas didn’t look at her. His gaze was fixed on the woman in the doorway, his voice low and dangerous. "She’s been looking for you."