Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX3QJRVH49SMKGPSXA5KFW

The neon sign above The Raven’s Nest flickered like a dying firefly, casting a sickly green glow over the pavement. Rory Carter pushed through the door, the scent of stale beer and old wood hitting her like a memory. She hadn’t set foot in here since before London, before Evan, before the life she’d left behind like a shed skin. The place hadn’t changed—same dim lighting, same maps yellowing on the walls, same hum of quiet conversation that made it feel like a secret. She slid onto a stool at the bar, her fingers drumming against the worn mahogany. The bartender, a wiry man with a shaved head, nodded at her without a word. She didn’t recognise him. Good. That meant he didn’t recognise her either. “Whisky. Neat.” The glass appeared in front of her, amber liquid catching the light. She took a sip, let the burn settle in her chest. The door swung open again, a gust of cold air rushing in. She didn’t look up. Then a voice—deep, rough, familiar—cut through the murmur. “Well, if it isn’t the prodigal daughter.” Her fingers stilled. The glass hovered halfway to her lips. She turned her head slowly. Silas Blackwood stood there, taller than she remembered, his auburn hair streaked with grey now, his beard neatly trimmed. He wore a dark wool coat, the collar turned up against the evening chill. His hazel eyes locked onto hers, sharp as ever, but something in them had shifted. Wariness, maybe. Or recognition. “Silas,” she said, her voice steady. “You own this place now?” He didn’t answer right away. Just studied her, like he was matching the woman in front of him with the girl he’d known years ago. Then he slid onto the stool beside her, his left leg stiff as he moved. The old knee injury. She remembered that, too. “Bought it five years back,” he said. “After Prague.” She didn’t ask. Some things didn’t need explaining. The bartender set a glass in front of Silas without being asked. He took a slow sip, his gaze never leaving her. “You look different.” “So do you.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Older, you mean.” “Wiser, I was going to say.” He chuckled, low and dry. “Wisdom’s overrated.” She swirled her whisky, watching the liquid cling to the sides of the glass. “You always did have a way with words.” “And you always had a way of showing up when I least expected it.” She met his eyes then. “Is that a problem?” “Depends.” He leaned back slightly, the stool creaking under his weight. “You here for a drink, or for something else?” She took another sip, let the silence stretch. The bar hummed around them, the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices. It was the kind of place where people came to disappear. Or to be found. “I needed a drink,” she said finally. “But I didn’t expect to find you here.” “No?” He raised an eyebrow. “Where did you think I’d be?” “Somewhere with better lighting.” That got a real laugh out of him, deep and warm. For a second, it was like no time had passed at all. Then his expression sobered. “You’ve been gone a while, Rory.” She set her glass down. “I had my reasons.” “Evan?” The name hit her like a punch to the gut. She didn’t flinch, but her fingers tightened around the glass. “You know about that?” “London’s a small town when you know the right people.” She exhaled through her nose. “Then you know why I left.” “I know what the papers said.” His voice was careful, measured. “But I also know you. And you don’t run unless you’ve got no other choice.” She looked away, her gaze landing on the old maps behind the bar. One of them was of Wales, the edges curled with age. Her mother’s homeland. “I didn’t have a choice.” Silas didn’t push. He never had. That was the thing about him—he let people come to him in their own time. It was what made him good at his job. And what made him dangerous. She finished her whisky in one swift motion, the burn sharp and clean. “I’m not here to talk about the past.” “No?” He signalled the bartender for another round. “Then what are you here for?” She hesitated. The truth was, she didn’t know. She’d walked into The Raven’s Nest on instinct, the way she used to when she was younger, when this place had been her refuge. But she wasn’t that girl anymore. And Silas wasn’t just the man who’d given her a place to hide. He was the man who’d taught her how to fight. The bartender set two fresh glasses in front of them. Silas slid one toward her. “You’re not still delivering takeaway, are you?” She almost laughed. “No. That was just… temporary.” “And now?” She wrapped her fingers around the glass, the cold seeping into her skin. “Now I’m figuring things out.” He studied her for a long moment. Then he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a key. He set it on the bar between them, the metal glinting under the dim light. “There’s a room upstairs,” he said. “Second door on the left. It’s yours if you want it.” She stared at the key. “Why?” “Because you look like you could use a place to stay.” “I didn’t ask for your help.” “No,” he said. “But you’re here.” She picked up the key, turned it over in her fingers. It was heavy, solid. Like a promise. Or a trap. “What’s the catch?” He took a slow sip of his whisky. “No catch. Just a room. And a job, if you want it.” She raised an eyebrow. “What kind of job?” “The kind that pays well and doesn’t ask questions.” She should’ve known. Silas didn’t do anything without a reason. And he sure as hell didn’t hand out favours for free. She set the key down. “I’m not getting involved in your games, Silas.” “It’s not a game.” His voice was quiet, serious. “It’s a job. Simple. Clean. No strings.” She almost believed him. Almost. “Why me?” He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. “Because you’re the only one I trust.” The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken meaning. She looked at him—really looked at him—and saw the lines around his eyes, the way his jaw tightened when he thought no one was watching. He was older. Wiser. But he was still Silas. Still the man who’d pulled her out of more scrapes than she could count. And still the man who’d let her walk away without a word. She picked up the key again, turned it over in her palm. “No strings?” “None.” She exhaled, slow and steady. “Fine. But I’m not making any promises.” He smiled, just a little. “I wouldn’t expect you to.” She pocketed the key, the metal warm against her thigh. The bar hummed around them, the weight of the past pressing in like a storm on the horizon. But for now, there was just this—two old friends, a half-empty glass, and the quiet understanding that some things never really changed.