Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX2FA72VMJNTKEPFAZH2DV

The neon glow of the Raven’s Nest sign flickered like a dying ember against the damp Soho pavement. Rory Carter pushed through the door, the scent of stale beer and old wood wrapping around her like a familiar coat. She’d been here a hundred times before—delivering takeaway orders, slipping in for a quick pint after a long shift—but tonight felt different. The air hummed with something she couldn’t name, a current just beneath the surface. She slid onto a stool at the bar, the leather cracked and worn beneath her palms. Silas Blackwood stood at the other end, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes. His back was to her, the grey-streaked auburn of his hair catching the dim light. For a second, she hesitated. Then— “You’re late.” His voice cut through the murmur of the bar, low and rough as gravel. Rory’s fingers stilled on the counter. She hadn’t even seen him turn. “By five minutes,” she said, keeping her tone light. “And I’m not here for a lecture.” Silas set the glass down with a quiet *clink*. His hazel eyes flicked up, sharp as flint. “No. You’re here because you’re avoiding your flat.” She exhaled through her nose, a humourless laugh escaping. “You always did have a knack for stating the obvious.” He didn’t smile. Just studied her—the way her black hair fell straight past her shoulders, the way her left wrist twitched when she was lying. The crescent scar there, pale against her skin. She’d been seventeen the last time he’d seen it. “You’ve lost weight,” he said. “And you’ve lost your manners.” A beat. Then, the ghost of a smirk tugged at his mouth. “Fair.” He reached beneath the counter, pulled out a bottle of something amber and unlabelled. “Drink?” She should’ve said no. But the weight of the last few months pressed down on her—Evan’s voice still echoing in her skull, the way London had swallowed her whole after Cardiff. She nodded. Silas poured two fingers into a glass, slid it across the bar. The liquid burned going down, smooth and sharp all at once. Rory set the glass down harder than she meant to. “You look like hell,” he said. “Thanks.” “Not the compliment you think it is.” She dragged her thumb along the rim of the glass. “I know.” Silas leaned against the counter, arms crossed. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the light. “Last I heard, you were in Cardiff. Law school.” “Pre-law.” She corrected him automatically. “And I left.” “Why?” Because Evan had split her lip open the night before her final exams. Because Eva had shown up at her door with a train ticket and a look that said *get out now*. Because Rory had spent years pretending she was fine, and one day, she just wasn’t. She didn’t say any of that. “Change of scenery,” she lied. Silas’s gaze didn’t waver. “Bullshit.” The word hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Rory swirled the whiskey in her glass, watching the way it clung to the sides. “You always could spot a lie.” “Old habit.” He reached for the bottle again, topped her off. “You’re not the only one who’s changed.” She looked at him then—really looked. The lines around his eyes were deeper, the limp in his left leg more pronounced. The signet ring was still there, though. Always there. “You retired,” she said. “Something like that.” “MI6 let you go?” His laugh was a dry, humourless thing. “No one *lets* go in this line of work, Rory. You know that.” She did. She’d known it since she was fifteen, sneaking into his flat after school, listening to the stories he’d tell her—half-truths wrapped in cautionary tales. *This is what happens when you trust the wrong people. This is what happens when you stay too long.* “So what now?” she asked. “You run a bar and play at being a civilian?” His fingers tightened around the glass. “I run a bar. The rest is none of your business.” She should’ve dropped it. But the whiskey had loosened her tongue, and the weight of the last few years pressed down on her ribs. “You used to tell me everything.” “You used to listen.” The words landed like a punch. Rory set her glass down, the clink sharp in the quiet. “I *did* listen. I just didn’t—” She cut herself off. “Didn’t what?” *Didn’t want to end up like you.* The thought burned in her throat. She swallowed it down. Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “You think I don’t know what you’re running from?” Her fingers curled into fists. “You don’t know anything.” “Don’t I?” He leaned in, voice dropping. “You think I didn’t see the way you flinched when that bloke at the door brushed past you? You think I don’t recognise the look in your eyes when you walk into a room and check the exits first?” Rory’s breath hitched. She hadn’t realised she’d done it. Silas straightened, his expression unreadable. “You’re not the only one who’s had to learn how to survive, Rory.” The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. She wanted to ask him what he meant. Wanted to demand answers, to peel back the years and see what had really happened in Prague. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she reached for her glass, drained the last of the whiskey. The burn grounded her. “Why’d you come back here?” Silas asked quietly. She set the glass down. “I didn’t have anywhere else to go.” For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The bar hummed around them—laughter from a corner booth, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of conversation. But in their little pocket of the world, it was just the two of them, the weight of time pressing down. Silas broke the silence first. “You’re staying upstairs?” She nodded. “Good.” He turned, reached beneath the counter, and pulled out a key. Slid it across the bar. “Back room’s still there if you need it.” Rory stared at the key. The metal was cold against her palm. “I don’t—” “Take it.” His voice left no room for argument. She pocketed the key, her fingers brushing the crescent scar on her wrist. “Thanks.” Silas nodded, once. Then he turned, limping slightly as he moved down the bar to serve another customer. Rory watched him go, the weight of the key in her pocket like a promise. Or a warning.