Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9NJYQ1TB3RQ43GDHFE

The green neon sign outside The Raven's Nest buzzed with a dying frequency, a pulse against the rain slicked pavement of Soho. Inside, the air was heavy, a damp blanket of stale tobacco and cheap gin that clung to the wool of her coat. Rory dropped her carrier bag onto the stool next to her. The bottles inside clinked, a sharp, unconscious reminder of the weight she carried home every night. She rubbed her gloved hands together, blowing into them. The Golden Empress delivery uniform felt wrong against her skin, scratchy and colored in reds and golds that clashed with the somber elegance of Silas’s sanctuary. She wasn't here for work, not tonight. The hour was too late, the kitchen closed for the night. She was here because she needed the taste of something that burned, something that didn't remind her of the restaurant's fumes. The bell above the door jingled, a sharp intrusion. A man in a trench coat stepped inside, shaking a umbrella. He scanned the room with eyes that missed nothing, hands tucked deep in pockets. He stopped at the bar. Silas Blackwood. Even after all these years, he hadn't lost that silhouette—the slight lean to the left shoulder, the way he centered his weight on his right leg with surgical precision. His auburn hair was peppered with more grey now, but the stern set of his jaw remained. He moved behind the mahogany counter with a fluidity that defied his age. "Table for one?" he asked. His voice was a gravelly rumble, the sound of old map paper being crumpled. "No. Just a whiskey." Silas didn't ask for an ID. He didn't need to. The scar—the small crescent on her wrist that used to make her hide her hands while he lectured her on geopolitical history—was still there. And the eyes. The bright blue had dulled to a steely, guarded gray. The fire was gone. The girl who used to sit across from him with notebooks full of pre-law annotations was gone. He reached behind the counter, pouring a dram of Lagavulin. The amber liquid swirled in the glass. He slid it across the heavy oak. "Yu-Fei sending you out into the storm?" Rory picked up the glass. The condensation felt cold against her palm. "Eva mentioned a large catering order for tomorrow night. I took it." "Karma, perhaps. Or just good business." Rory took a sip. The burn hit the back of her throat, anchoring her. "It paid for the dinner. And the rent. For another week." Silas wiped a glass with a rag, his gaze fixed on her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles. "You look tired, Rory. The bags under your eyes have deepened." "I'm not Rory anymore. You can call me Carter. At the restaurant, anyway." The name felt foreign in her mouth. She watched the condensation drip onto the coaster. The years in London had stripped away the nickname, the history, leaving behind a function. She was a delivery vector. A spare part in the machine of Eva’s chaotic life. "It suits you," Silas said. He leaned against the counter, the signet ring on his right hand catching a faint light from the ceiling. "Carter. Sharp. Brief." "I'm not sharp. I'm exhausted." "Exhaustion changes the shape of a person." Silas turned away, grabbing a bottle of whiskey. "Do you remember Prague? You were nineteen. You thought you were going to save the world. You spent hours in this very room talking about the loopholes in international law, about how a well-placed argument could dismantle a regime." Rory set her glass down hard. The sound echoed in the quiet room. "I remember. I wanted to be a barrister." "You had the mind for it. Evan… your ex, Evan. He saw the potential and tried to crush it under his heel. You came to me right after you fled. You were shaking, hiding your wrists." "I didn't come to you for advice. I came for a safe place to sleep for a week." "And you got it. Eva got you on your feet, found you the job at Yu-Fei’s." Silas paused, studying the back of his hand, looking at the ring as if it were a shackle. "You did exactly what you had to do. You survived." "I lost everything else." Silas straightened up. The limp in his left leg tightened visibly. "We all lose pieces of ourselves. I lost my knee in Prague. I lost the operation. I lost the girl I was supposed to marry because I was too busy playing spy. We trade lives for survival. The question is whether the trade is worth it." Rory looked away, toward the wall covered in black-and-white photographs of Soho from decades past. "I don't have time for philosophical dilemmas, Silas. I have five deliveries to make in the morning." "You have time for a drink with an old friend who helped hide you when the world burned." The words hung in the air, thick and heavy. He hadn't just helped hide her. He had watched the abuser, studied him, and ensured the door stayed bolted. But he knew better than to say that. Regret was a heavy burden; he didn't need to add to hers. "I don't have many friends," Rory said quietly. The defensive wall cracked, revealing a fissure of vulnerability. "Eva is… she’s everything. But she’s got her own life now. The gallery. The chaos. I’m just… baggage she needs on Tuesdays." "And now you’re baggage she needs on Sundays for takeout?" Rory let out a dry, humorless laugh. "That sounds about right." Silas moved from behind the bar, rounding the end. He stopped a few feet away. The floorboards creaked. He looked older than his years, the lines around his eyes etched deep by smoke and secrets. He used to tower over her, a pillar of authority. Now she was close to his eye level, but the dominance was different. It was the dominance of someone who had survived the apocalypse and come back to run a bar. "You were brilliant, Rory. The way you argued, the way you looked at people—like you could see right through them. You have that look still. But it’s cold now." "I had to be cold. If I wasn't, I’d freeze." "Or you’d burn." Silas reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook. It looked worn, the spine cracked. He placed it on the counter between them. "You left this at my flat the day you moved to London. I think it belongs to the person you were trying to find again." Rory stared at the book. It was her law notes. Her argument outlines. The intellectual parts of herself she thought she had left in a dumpster in Cardiff. "I don't need it." "Yes, you do. One day, you’ll want to argue for something. You can’t argue on an empty stomach. And you certainly can’t argue on a heart that’s been hollowed out." Silas’s voice softened, the sharp edges of his spy persona softening into the mentor who had once taught her to tie a Windsor knot and not trust anyone. "Drink your whiskey, Carter. And keep the notebook. It’s not just paper. It’s evidence that the girl who wanted to save the world didn't die with Evan." Rory picked up the book. The leather felt familiar, comforting. She ran her thumb over the cracked spine. The guilt of abandoning her potential clawed at her stomach, a sharp, gnawing pain. "I miss it," she whispered. Silas sighed, the sound of a weary man exhaling a lifetime of tension. "So do I. But the world doesn't care what we miss. It keeps turning. You keep delivering orders. You keep surviving. But every now and then, read a page. See if you can still argue with the text." Rory opened the notebook to a random page. The ink was faded, but the logic was sharp. She could feel her pulse slow down. The immediate, desperate need to run back to the flat, to the safety of her room, faded just a fraction. "I'll keep it on the bookshelf," she said, standing up and wrapping her coat tighter around her. "Right next to the box of legal pads." "Good." Silas nodded, picking up a rag and tossing it over a glass. "Good." She didn't say goodbye. There was no room for sentimentality anymore. She turned and walked out into the rain, the notebook tucked securely under her arm. The neon sign buzzed overhead, a reminder of where she had been, but the weight of the book in her pocket felt like a seed growing in the soil of her weariness.