Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX3KS92EDBF6SJGRZPAR66

Rain drummed a steady rhythm against the pavement outside The Raven’s Nest, the kind of persistent London drizzle that seeped into coats and moods alike. Inside, the bar glowed in amber pockets beneath low-hanging brass lamps. Jazz hummed from a vintage record player behind the counter — Chet Baker, late ‘50s, something melancholy and slow. Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a tumbler with a cloth, his signet ring catching the dim light each time he turned his wrist. His limp was more pronounced tonight, a remnant of Prague and bad decisions layered in frost and gunfire. The door creaked open. A man stepped in, shaking water from a long wool coat. He looked too sharp for Soho on a Tuesday — charcoal suit, polished brogues, a trench folded over one arm like it weighed nothing. His hair, once shaggy and sun-bleached, was now cropped close, greying at the temples. He scanned the room with an agent’s precision, not a tourist’s curiosity. Silas didn’t look up. “Took you long enough.” The man froze. Then, slowly, he smiled — a thing not meant for strangers. “You still serving whiskey neat or did you go artisanal on me?” “Only the cheap stuff for liars,” Silas said. “The good stuff’s reserved for ghosts.” The man approached. Set his trench on the stool beside him. “I’m not a ghost.” “You’re close.” They looked at each other, really looked, for the first time in twelve years. Silas saw the lines around the man’s eyes — not from laughter anymore, but calculation. The easy warmth in his posture had been replaced by containment, like he was bracing for impact. Silas set the tumbler down. Poured two fingers of Oban. Pushed one across the bar. The man picked it up. Sniffed. “Still the same?” “Still better than you deserve.” He laughed, but it didn’t land. “Always knew how to make a reunion sting.” “You disappeared,” Silas said. “No call. No letter. Just a burned apartment and a bullet in the wall where your head used to be.” “That wasn’t my head,” the man said quietly. “It was Kostić’s.” Silas exhaled through his nose. “So you vanished into the wind. Left me to clean up the mess. Again.” “You didn’t have to,” the man said. “You could’ve walked away.” “And let them come after you? After *us*?” Silas leaned against the bar, fingers curling around the edge. “You were reckless. Always were. Thought you could outsmart a black cell with charm and a forged passport.” “I survived.” “At what cost?” The man — Elias Voss — didn’t answer. He swirled the whiskey, watching the slow spiral of liquid cling to glass. “I heard you got out. Retired. Became a bartender.” “I became a curator,” Silas corrected. “For people who need to disappear. Or be found.” “You always were good at holding secrets.” “And you were terrible at keeping them.” Elias glanced at the bookshelf behind the bar — floor-to-ceiling, leather-bound, a little too symmetrical. “Still got the back room?” Silas didn’t reply. Didn’t need to. A figure appeared at the top of the narrow staircase that led to the flats above. Light from the landing haloed her — black hair falling flat against her collar, blue eyes scanning the room not with curiosity, but appraisal. She wore a damp navy tracksuit, courier bag slung over one shoulder, the Golden Empress logo stitched above the breast. Elias turned. His breath caught, just slightly. She didn’t smile. “Silas. Food’s here.” Silas nodded. “Aurora. Come down. You remember Elias?” Rory paused. Her gaze landed on him like a blade testing stone. Then she descended, slow, deliberate. “Yeah. I remember.” Elias stood. “Rory.” “Evan.” Her voice was flat. “Haven’t heard that name in years.” He flinched — not dramatically, just a tightening around the eyes. “I go by Elias now.” “Do you.” She set a brown paper bag on the bar. “Yu-Fei said extra dumplings. On the house.” Silas reached for the bag. Rory didn’t move. She stared at Elias like she was recalibrating the past. He looked different — older, yes, but also hollowed out, as if someone had taken the boy who screamed at her in kitchens, who left fingerprints like bruises on her arms, and sanded him down to something almost civil. “You look well,” he said. “I am.” Silence. Long enough for the music to bleed through. “You two know each other?” Silas asked, though he already knew. Elias didn’t take his eyes off her. “We were… close.” Rory snorted. “Is that what you’re calling it now?” “I didn’t know you worked for Silas.” “I don’t.” She pulled off her gloves. The crescent scar on her wrist caught the light — white, thin, a secret the sleeve usually hid. “I live upstairs. Deliver food. That’s it.” Elias stared at the scar. Rory followed his gaze. “Still got yours,” she said. “On your ribs. From when I kicked the boxcutter into the sink.” He touched his side instinctively. “Yeah.” “You ever think about it?” she asked. “Or did you just erase it all and move on?” “I didn’t move on,” he said. “I ran.” “And left me to clean up *your* mess.” “I was trying to keep you safe.” “By vanishing?” She stepped closer. “You told me you loved me one night. The next, your flat’s a crime scene and I’m getting death threats from men who think I know where you hid the files.” “I didn’t have a choice.” “You always had a choice,” she said. “You chose yourself.” Silas placed a hand on the bar — not heavy, just present. A boundary. Elias looked down. “I tried to contact you. After Prague. After the op collapsed. But you were gone. Cardiff. Then London. Off-grid.” “I didn’t go off-grid,” Rory said. “I just stopped being yours.” He reached into his coat. Pulled out an envelope. Worn at the edges. “I kept this,” he said. “All these years.” She didn’t take it. “What is it?” “The postcard you sent. From Tenby. With the seagull shitting on the lighthouse. You wrote, *‘Wish you were here to ruin the view.’*” Her throat worked. Once. Then she looked away. “I thought about you,” he said. “Every damn day.” “Good,” she said quietly. “You should.” Silas picked up the envelope, slid it to the side. “She’s not part of this anymore, Elias. Whatever you’re here for — it stays away from her.” Elias finally looked at Silas. “They’re reviving the Prague file. Reopening the inquiry. Someone’s naming names.” “You’re not safe.” “I never was.” Rory moved then — turned on her heel. “I’m going upstairs. The dumplings are getting cold.” “Aurora—” Elias began. She stopped. But didn’t turn. “I’m sorry,” he said. “For everything.” She exhaled. A long, slow release. “Apologies don’t heal wrists,” she said. “Or trust. Or time.” Then she climbed the stairs without looking back. The door closed softly. Elias stared at the space where she’d stood. “She called me Evan.” Silas poured another drink. “She calls no one by their old names.”