AI A glass smashed against the bar top, spilling amber across the polished wood.
Rory slipped the broken shards into the sink, her bright blue eyes scanning the room for a familiar face. The neon green sign above the doorway pulsed rhythmically, casting a sickly hue over the patrons. She was midway through a delivery run for Yu‑Fei Cheung's Golden Empress, the scent of ginger and soy clinging to her coat, when she noticed a man in the corner nursing a single whisky. His silver signet ring glinted on his right hand, the slight limp in his left leg giving him a deliberate swagger.
Silas Blackwood stared at the glass, his hazel gaze flickering between the amber spill and the man who had just entered. He glanced at the empty stool opposite him, then at the bookshelf that concealed the hidden back room, the faint scent of old maps and cigarette smoke hanging in the air. He lifted his glass, the amber catching the green light, and set it down with a quiet clink.
"Rory?" he said, his voice low but unmistakable.
"Silas." She smiled, the crescent scar on her left wrist catching a flash of light as she brushed her hair from her face. "You look like you haven't moved in decades."
He chuckled, the sound rough around his grey‑streaked auburn hair. "Time has a habit of standing still for those who sit behind a bar."
The bartender, a wiry man with a tattoo of a dragon curling up his forearm, poured another whisky and slid it across the counter. The liquid swirled, catching the neon glow.
"I've been hearing rumors about the Nest," Rory said, leaning forward, her shoulders relaxed but her jaw tight. "Word's you run a little... side business."
Silas's eyes narrowed, the hint of a smile tugging at his lips. "You always liked the spice of the unknown. The side business is just a side of the same coin."
"Coin?" She tilted her head, the scar glinting . "You mean the old intel runs? The ones you used to whisper about at university parties?"
He tapped the ring on his finger, the metal cool against his skin. "Those nights are dead. The only thing that lives now is the bar."
Rory's gaze drifted to the back wall where a bookshelf hid a narrow doorway. "And the secret room? Still there?"
A faint rustle rose from the shelves as a patron shifted, a stack of newspapers teetering. Silas's limp shifted, his weight settling on his good leg. "The room is just a room. It holds nothing if you don't bring anything."
She laughed, a sound that cut through the low hum of conversation. "You always did love your riddles."
Silas leaned forward, his elbow resting on the bar. "You think you've left the past behind, but the past has a habit of following you like a stray dog."
Rory's fingers brushed the scar, the memory of a childhood accident flashing briefly. "I left Cardiff because of a man named Evan. You were the only one who ever believed I could disappear."
He stared at her, the hazel eye catching the green glow. "You vanished into the night, and the city swallowed you. I watched the streets you walked, hoping you'd return."
She pressed her palm against the wood, feeling the faint vibration of the neon sign. "I came back because of Eva. The delivery gig kept me moving. The bar kept me alive."
Silas's hand tightened around his glass. "You used to be a law student. You had a future carved in courtroom marble . Now you carry food on a bike."
Rory's smile faded, the edge of her mouth tightening. "You can still see the same girl behind the bike, can't you? The one who could argue a judge into silence ."
He chuckled, a breath that seemed to carry years of secrets. "I saw you argue with a judge, then later saw you argue with a bartender about the price of a pint."
She raised an eyebrow . "What about the scar? Still there, I assume."
Silas placed his thumb over his own scar, a faint line on his left forearm. "We both wear our scars, Rory. Some are visible, some are not."
The neon sign flickered , casting a brief strobe across the room. A sudden crash echoed from the back of the bar as a shelf toppled, sending a cascade of old photographs onto the floor. The patrons gasped, the sound of breaking glass mingling with murmured curses.
Rory's eyes darted to the chaos, her mind racing . "What did you hide in that secret room, Silas? Something that could bring all this down?"
Silas's hand moved to the signet ring, his fingers twisting it. "The only thing I hide is what I cannot forget."
A figure slipped into the shadows of the hidden doorway, a silhouette moving with practiced silence . The air grew colder, the scent of copper and dust filling the space between them.
"Who?" Rory whispered, her voice barely audible over the murmurs .
Silas's lips curled into a thin line. "Someone who knows the price of secrets."
The figure emerged, a man in a dark coat, his face obscured by a cap. He placed a single envelope on the bar, the paper thick and heavy. Silas's eyes narrowed , his grip tightening around his glass.
Rory reached for the envelope, her fingertips brushing the edge. "What is it?"
Silas's voice was a low growl. "A choice. One that will either bind us to the past or cut it clean."
She hesitated, the weight of the envelope matching the weight of the years between them. "You always liked to make me choose."
A sudden scream rose from the back room, a woman's voice tearing through the quiet. The hidden door swung open, revealing a flash of white light and a silhouette that fell to the floor.
Silas lunged forward, his limp momentarily forgotten, his hand reaching for a weapon concealed beneath the bar. Rory's breath caught, her heart hammering against her ribs.
The neon sign flickered again, the green light sputtering as if struggling to stay alive . The bartender shouted, his voice cutting through the tension . "Everyone stay back!"
Rory stepped back, her eyes locked on Silas as he pulled a sleek, black pistol from beneath the counter. The gun clicked, a sound that reverberated like a metronome in the dim room.
Silas stared at her, his hazel gaze now a mixture of anger and regret. "You never meant to leave, did you? You just... disappeared."
Rory's voice trembled , but she forced it steady. "I came back for you. For the bar. For the chance to make things right."
Silas's finger hovered over the trigger, his ring glinting in the green light. "Right? Or do you think we can erase what we did?"
The figure from the shadows raised a hand, the cap sliding back to reveal a familiar face—Eva, Rory's childhood friend, her eyes dark with urgency. She whispered, "Don't let him—"
A sudden crash of metal echoed as the shelf behind the secret door gave way, the hidden room exposing a wall of surveillance screens flickering with static and images of past operations.
Silas's eyes widened , his grip faltering. "What the—"
Rory lunged, grabbing the edge of the shelf, pulling it forward. The screens cracked, spraying shards of glass across the bar. A hissing sound rose as a wire sparked, sending a pulse of electricity through the room.
The neon sign sputtered, then flared bright, casting a harsh white light over the chaos. In that split second, Silas's pistol slipped from his hand, skidding across the floor and landing with a dull thud.
Silas stared at the gun, his breath shallow, his mind racing through decades of covert missions and quiet betrayals. He lowered his head, the weight of his signet ring suddenly heavy.
Rory's hand shook as she reached for the envelope, the paper crinkling under her grip. She glanced at Silas, then at Eva, the tension in the room palpable as a taut string.
A sudden shout erupted from the doorway, a voice muffled but urgent. "Police! Get back!"
Silas's eyes flicked to the entrance, the green neon sign now flashing erratically. He raised his hand, the signet ring catching the light, and whispered, "We have to go."
Rory's voice cut through the clamor, fierce and determined . "No. We stay."
The back room door burst open, a flood of officers spilling in, their guns raised, their faces sharp with purpose. Silas's limp faltered, his body swaying as he tried to steady himself.
A barrel of smoke curled around the bar, the scent of burnt paper and metal thickening. The police officer at the front raised his weapon, his muzzle aiming at the hidden doorway.
Silas's gaze locked onto Rory's, the crescent scar on her wrist shimmering in the neon light. A single, unspoken thought passed between them—a memory of a night in London, a promise whispered in the dark, a regret that had festered for years.
The officer shouted, "Hold it! Everyone, on the ground!"
Rory dropped to her knees, the envelope falling from her grasp, its contents spilling onto the floor—a stack of photographs, a blood‑stained ledger, a key to a rusted safe. Silas knelt beside her, his hand trembling as he lifted a photograph—a young woman with a bright smile, a child in her arms, a man with a familiar grin.
A sudden, deafening crack reverberated through the bar as a pipe burst, water flooding the floor, the neon sign sputtering and then going dark. The room plunged into blackness, broken only by the frantic shouts of the police and the shattering of glass.
In the darkness, a single hand grasped another, fingers interlacing with a desperate urgency. Silas's voice, hoarse and strained, whispered, "Rory—"
She turned her head, eyes wide, the glow of the police lights painting her face in stark red. "What have we done?" she breathed.
A distant siren wailed, growing louder as it approached the building, its echo bouncing off the walls of the Nest. The water surged, the floor slick, the secret room's hidden door ajar, a faint glow emanating from within.
Silas's mouth opened, a sound caught in his throat, as a sudden, metallic clang rang out—something heavy fell from the hidden room, striking the bar and sending a shockwave through the room.
The bar's green neon sign flickered one final time, casting a fleeting , eerie illumination over the scene. The police officers froze, their weapons lowered, as the floodwaters rose, swallowing the floor, the secrets, and the weight of years.
Rory's eyes met Silas's, a silent question hanging in the air, just as a hand emerged from the shadows, gripping a pistol, the barrel pointed directly at them. The click of the trigger echoed like a promise unkept.