Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX4B73N9CV6T4JBPV7NCYJ

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly against the damp Soho evening. 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 drink after a long shift—but tonight felt different. The air hummed with something she couldn’t name, a low thrum of anticipation that prickled the back of her neck. She slid onto a stool at the bar, the worn leather creaking under her weight. The bartender, a wiry man with a shaved head and a tattoo of a raven on his forearm, nodded at her without a word. He knew her order by now—whisky, neat, no ice. She traced the rim of the glass with her thumb, the crescent scar on her left wrist catching the dim light. “You’re early.” The voice came from behind her, smooth and deep, like gravel underfoot. Rory didn’t turn. She didn’t need to. She’d know that voice anywhere. Silas Blackwood limped into view, his left leg dragging just slightly, the way it always had since Prague. His auburn hair, streaked with grey now, was still neatly combed, his beard trimmed with precision. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted as he set a glass down beside hers. “Or you’re late,” Rory said, finally glancing up. His hazel eyes were sharper than she remembered, the lines around them deeper. Time had carved him into something harder, more angular. The man who’d once been her mentor, her protector, now carried the weight of years in the set of his shoulders. Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t been so tired. “Still sharp as a blade, I see.” “And you’re still full of shit.” She took a sip of her whisky, the burn grounding her. “What are you doing here, Si? Last I heard, you’d retired to some cottage in the Cotswolds.” He leaned against the bar, his fingers tapping a slow rhythm against the wood. “Cottage burned down. Arson.” Rory raised an eyebrow. “Convenient.” “Not really.” His mouth twitched, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You look different.” “So do you.” She gestured vaguely at his face. “Old.” That got a real laugh out of him, low and rough. “Cheeky bastard.” She grinned, but it faded quickly. The silence between them stretched, thick with all the things they weren’t saying. The years. The distance. The way they’d left things. Silas broke first. “Heard you’re working for Yu-Fei now.” “Delivery driver.” Rory swirled her glass, the amber liquid catching the light. “Not exactly MI6, but it pays the bills.” “You could’ve come back.” The words hung between them, heavy as a stone. Rory set her glass down with a click. “Could I?” Silas didn’t flinch. “You know you could.” She looked away, her gaze snagging on the old maps behind the bar—faded ink, crumbling edges. “I left for a reason, Si.” “Evan.” The name tasted bitter on her tongue. “Yeah. Evan.” Silas’s jaw tightened. “He’s still in London.” Rory’s fingers stilled. “I know.” “You’ve seen him?” “No.” She met his eyes, unblinking. “But I hear things.” Silas studied her for a long moment, then nodded. “You always did.” The bartender slid a fresh whisky toward Silas, who took it without looking. The ice clinked against the glass, the only sound in the sudden quiet. “You ever think about it?” Rory asked quietly. “What we did?” Silas didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “Every damn day.” She exhaled, her breath shaky. “Me too.” The weight of it pressed down on her—the missions, the lies, the way they’d both walked away from that life and never looked back. Or at least, she hadn’t. Silas had stayed. He’d kept the bar, kept the contacts, kept the game alive in his own way. “You could’ve come back,” he said again, softer this time. Rory shook her head. “I couldn’t.” “Because of him?” “Because of me.” She traced the scar on her wrist, the old wound aching like a memory. “I wasn’t the same after. Neither were you.” Silas didn’t deny it. He never had. The door to the bar swung open, letting in a gust of cold air and the distant hum of traffic. A group of laughing tourists stumbled in, their voices too loud, too bright. Rory watched them for a moment, then turned back to Silas. “You ever miss it?” she asked. “The old days?” Silas took a slow sip of his drink. “Miss the lying? The running? The way it ate at you until you didn’t recognise yourself in the mirror?” He set the glass down. “No.” Rory nodded, but she didn’t believe him. Not entirely. Silas must’ve seen it in her face. He leaned in, his voice dropping. “But I miss *you*.” The words hit her like a punch to the gut. She looked away, her throat tight. “Don’t.” “Why not?” “Because it’s not fair.” “Life’s not fair, Rory.” She laughed, sharp and humourless. “Tell me something I don’t know.” Silas studied her for a long moment, then sighed. “You’re still running.” “Aren’t we all?” “Not like you.” She didn’t have an answer for that. The truth was, she *was* running. From Evan. From the past. From the person she’d been when she worked for Silas, when she’d been sharp and fearless and untouchable. That girl was gone, and Rory wasn’t sure she wanted her back. Silas pushed off the bar, his limp more pronounced as he moved. “Come on.” Rory frowned. “Where?” “Back room.” He jerked his chin toward the bookshelf at the far end of the bar. “Unless you’re scared.” She scoffed. “Of you? Please.” But as she followed him, her pulse kicked up a notch. The hidden door behind the bookshelf creaked open, revealing the dimly lit back room—wooden panels, a single desk, a map of London pinned to the wall. The air smelled of old paper and leather. Silas shut the door behind them, the click of the lock loud in the quiet. Rory crossed her arms. “What’s this about?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he moved to the desk, pulling open a drawer. “I’ve got something for you.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “Si—” “Just look at it.” He slid a manila envelope across the desk. She didn’t touch it. “What is it?” “A job.” The word hung between them, heavy with implication. Rory stared at the envelope like it might bite her. “I’m not in the game anymore.” “You were born for it.” “No.” She shook her head. “I was *made* for it. There’s a difference.” Silas’s expression darkened. “You think I don’t know that?” She looked away, her fingers curling into fists. “Then why are you doing this?” “Because you’re wasting your life delivering noodles.” Rory’s head snapped up. “Excuse me?” “You heard me.” His voice was low, dangerous. “You’re better than this, Rory. You always were.” She laughed, sharp and bitter. “Better than what? Better than *you*?” Silas didn’t flinch. “Yes.” The word cut deep. Rory turned away, her chest tight. The maps on the wall blurred as her vision swam. She’d spent years trying to outrun this—this life, this man, the person she’d been when she worked for him. And now here he was, offering it all back like it was nothing. “You don’t get to do this,” she said, her voice shaking. “You don’t get to waltz back into my life and act like you know what’s best for me.” Silas was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: “I know what you’re capable of.” Rory swallowed hard. “That’s not the same thing.” “Isn’t it?” She didn’t answer. She couldn’t. Silas sighed, running a hand over his face. “Just look at the file, Rory. That’s all I’m asking.” She stared at the envelope, her fingers itching to reach for it. To open it. To remember what it felt like to be *her*—the girl who’d been sharp and fearless and untouchable. But that girl was gone. Wasn’t she? The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Outside, the bar hummed with life—laughter, clinking glasses, the low murmur of conversation. But in here, it was just the two of them, and the weight of everything unsaid. Rory reached for the envelope. Her fingers brushed the paper, the texture rough under her skin. She hesitated, then pulled it toward her. Silas watched her, his hazel eyes unreadable. She didn’t open it. Not yet. Instead, she looked up at him, her bright blue eyes sharp with something he hadn’t seen in years. Defiance. “You owe me an explanation,” she said. “And I’m not leaving until I get it.”