Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRNJBTRRJTD6F3TY3C8SZ7

The Raven’s Nest smelled of aged whiskey and lemon polish, the kind of scent that clung to the wood like a second skin. Rory wiped her hands on her jeans, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the dim light as she reached for the glass Silas had slid across the bar. The ice clinked against the sides, a sharp sound in the quiet hum of the evening. She hadn’t meant to come in. The delivery had taken longer than usual—Yu-Fei’s cousin had insisted on showing her the new wok, as if she hadn’t seen one before—and by the time she’d locked her bike out front, the neon sign above the door had already flickered to life. The green glow seeped through the grimy window, pulling her inside like a moth. Silas was wiping down the counter, his signet ring glinting under the low lights. He didn’t look up right away. "You’re late." "Traffic." She took a sip, the bourbon burning just enough to make her throat tighten. "And Yu-Fei’s cousin." A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Still working for the dragon lady, then?" "Someone’s got to keep this city fed." She swirled the glass, watching the amber liquid lap at the edges. The bar was empty except for the two of them, the kind of quiet that settled in the bones. She should’ve left. But the warmth of the alcohol had already unspooled something in her chest, and she found herself leaning into the counter, elbows pressing into the polished wood. Silas set the rag down. His hazel eyes flicked over her, sharp as ever, like he was cataloging every change since the last time. "You look different." "Five years’ll do that." "Not just the years." He tilted his head, the grey streaks in his auburn hair catching the light. "You’re softer." She laughed, but it came out wrong, too quick, too brittle. "Soft? That’s a first." He didn’t smile. Just studied her, the way he used to when she’d come in here at nineteen, all sharp edges and borrowed bravado, running from something she wouldn’t name. Back then, he’d been the one to hand her a drink and say, *Talk or don’t, but you’re not leaving until you’ve got a plan.* Now, he just waited. Rory traced the rim of her glass. "I heard you retired." "Officially." He tapped his knee, the one that still gave him trouble. "Unofficially, I still know where the bodies are buried." "Literally or figuratively?" "Both." A beat of silence. The kind that stretched too long, too heavy. She should’ve asked about the bar, about the hidden room behind the bookshelf, about the life he’d built after the one that had nearly broken him. But the words stuck in her throat, tangled in the weight of all the things they weren’t saying. "You ever think about leaving?" she asked instead. "Every damn day." He poured himself a finger of whiskey, neat. "But this city’s got its hooks in me. Same as it’s got its hooks in you." She wanted to argue. Wanted to say she was different now, that she’d left Cardiff and Evan and the girl who’d flinched at raised voices behind her. But the lie tasted sour, and she swallowed it down with the last of her drink. Silas refilled her glass without asking. "You ever hear from him?" The question hit like a punch. She wrapped her fingers around the glass, knuckles whitening. "No." "Good." "Not like that." She exhaled, sharp. "He’s not—he’s not the reason I left." "Doesn’t matter why you left. Only matters that you did." He leaned forward, just slightly, the signet ring pressing into the wood. "You ever think about going back?" The words settled between them, heavy as the silence that followed. She could see it—the train tickets, the familiar streets, the way her mother’s voice would crack when she answered the door. But then there was Evan’s laugh, the way it had curled around her name like a noose, and the thought of it made her stomach twist. "No," she said, too quickly. "There’s nothing for me there." Silas didn’t call her on the lie. Just nodded, like he’d expected it. "Then what are you still doing here?" The question hung in the air, sharp as a blade. She opened her mouth, then closed it. The truth was, she didn’t know. London had been an escape, a place to lose herself in the crowd, in the rhythm of deliveries and late-night shifts and the quiet hum of the city. But escapes had a way of becoming cages, and she’d been here long enough to feel the bars. Silas watched her, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. He slid them across the bar, the metal cold against her fingers. "What’s this?" "The flat above the bar." He took a sip of his whiskey. "It’s yours if you want it." She stared at the keys, the weight of them unfamiliar in her palm. "Why?" "Because you look like you could use a place to land." He set his glass down. "And because I owe you." "You don’t owe me anything." "Don’t I?" His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of years. "You were the only one who didn’t treat me like a relic when I came back from Prague. You didn’t ask questions. Didn’t offer pity. Just handed me a drink and told me to get on with it." She remembered. The night he’d limped in here, his face a mask of pain and something darker, something she hadn’t been able to name. She’d been twenty then, still raw from Cardiff, still jumping at shadows. But she’d recognized the look in his eyes—the one that said he’d seen too much and wasn’t sure he wanted to see anything else. She’d poured him a whiskey and slid it across the bar. *Drink up. Then tell me what you need.* He’d laughed, just once, sharp and bitter. *I need a new knee.* *Then get one,* she’d said. *But first, drink.* Now, she turned the keys over in her hand, the metal biting into her skin. "I can’t afford this." "You can work it off." He nodded toward the back of the bar. "I could use someone to manage the books. And the deliveries." She should’ve said no. Should’ve walked out, gotten on her bike, and lost herself in the London night. But the keys were warm now, and the weight of them felt like an anchor, something solid in the storm. "Fine," she said, pocketing them. "But I’m keeping my job at the restaurant." Silas smirked. "Wouldn’t expect anything less." She took another sip of her drink, the bourbon smoother this time. The bar felt different now, the air less heavy, the weight of the past a little lighter. But as she looked at Silas, at the lines around his eyes and the way his hands still moved with the precision of a man who’d spent a lifetime keeping secrets, she knew some things never really changed. "You ever miss it?" she asked. "The field work?" He was quiet for a long moment. Then he reached for the bottle, pouring himself another drink. "Every damn day." She nodded, like she understood. But the truth was, she didn’t. Not really. She’d run from her past, but Silas had built his life around his. And as the neon sign outside flickered, casting shadows across the bar, she wondered if either of them would ever really be free.