Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX3HZRW2JSV1H42NZFT62B

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly as Rory Carter pushed through the door, the weight of her delivery bag digging into her shoulder. The scent of stale beer and old wood hit her first—familiar, comforting in the way only places that had seen too much could be. She’d been avoiding this bar for months, but the rain had turned the streets into a slick mess, and the Nest was the closest dry spot between deliveries. She shook the water from her jacket, scanning the room. The usual crowd—regulars hunched over their drinks, a few tourists mistaking the place for something quaint. Then her gaze snagged on the man at the far end of the bar, his back to her, the slope of his shoulders unmistakable even after all these years. Silas. Her fingers twitched. The last time she’d seen him, he’d been whole—no limp, no silver threading his auburn hair, no quiet weight in the way he held himself. She’d been twenty, reckless, still believing the world owed her something. Now she was just another courier with a bruised past and a flat above a bar she couldn’t afford. She should’ve turned around. Should’ve slipped out before he noticed. But her feet carried her forward, the old pull of him too strong to ignore. The stool beside him creaked as she slid onto it. “You let this place go to hell, Si.” His head turned slowly, like he’d been expecting her. Hazel eyes, sharp as ever, locked onto hers. A beat of silence. Then, “Rory.” No surprise. No warmth. Just her name, flat and final, like a door closing. She flagged down the bartender—some new kid, all nervous energy—and ordered a whisky, neat. “Still running this dump, I see.” Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if he’d let it. “Still delivering takeaway, I see.” The bartender slid her drink across the counter. She took it, the glass cold against her palm. “Someone’s got to keep the city fed.” “And someone’s got to keep it drunk.” He tapped his signet ring against the rim of his own glass, a habit she remembered from years ago. “You look like shit.” She grinned, sharp and humourless. “You look like a man who’s been hit by a bus.” A muscle twitched in his jaw. “Close enough.” The silence between them stretched, thick with all the things they weren’t saying. The years. The distance. The way she’d left without a word, like a thief in the night. She swirled her whisky, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “Heard you got out.” “Heard you got in.” His voice was low, rough. “London suits you.” “Like a noose.” He didn’t smile. Didn’t react. Just watched her, like he was trying to match the girl he’d known with the woman in front of him. She wondered if he could see the cracks. “You ever think about going back?” he asked. “Cardiff?” She scoffed. “Not a chance.” “Not the city.” His fingers tightened around his glass. “The life.” The question hung between them, heavy as a blade. She knew what he meant. The old days. The thrill. The way they’d moved through the world like ghosts, untouchable. Before Evan. Before the flat above the bar. Before she’d learned the cost of playing with fire. She took a slow sip, the whisky burning its way down. “I’m not that girl anymore, Si.” “No.” His gaze dropped to her wrist, to the crescent scar peeking out from under her sleeve. “You’re not.” The air between them shifted, charged with something older than regret. She remembered the last time she’d seen him—his hands steady on her shoulders, his voice low in her ear. *You don’t have to do this.* But she had. And look where it got her. “You ever miss it?” she asked. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared into his drink like it held the answers. “Miss what?” “The rush. The lies. The way it made you feel alive.” His laugh was a dry, brittle thing. “I’m alive enough.” She wanted to press. Wanted to dig her fingers into the wound and see if it still bled. But the bartender chose that moment to slide a bowl of peanuts between them, breaking the tension. Silas reached for one, his movements deliberate, controlled. “You still see Eva?” The name hit her like a punch to the gut. “No.” “She asks about you.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “She shouldn’t.” “She’s your friend.” “Friends don’t drag you into their messes and then walk away.” Silas’s eyes flickered, something dark passing through them. “No. They don’t.” The weight of the unspoken pressed down on her. She could’ve asked. Could’ve demanded to know what he wasn’t saying. But some doors were better left closed. She finished her whisky in one swallow, the burn grounding her. “I should go.” He didn’t stop her. Didn’t reach out. Just watched as she slid off the stool, her boots thudding against the worn floorboards. “Rory.” She paused, her hand on the door. “You ever need anything—” “I won’t.” The rain had eased to a drizzle by the time she stepped outside, the neon sign casting a sickly glow over the pavement. She didn’t look back. Didn’t let herself wonder what might’ve been. Some ghosts were better left buried.