Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTY16HJB0PQB1DB66TFRVMB

The green neon of the Raven's Nest sign hummed, a low-frequency vibration that rattled the marrow of anyone standing too close to the brickwork. Inside, the air tasted of floor wax and stale gin. Silas Blackwood stood behind the mahogany sanctuary of his bar, polishing a highball glass with the rhythmic, mechanical precision of a man who had spent decades cleaning up other people’s messes. His silver signet ring caught the amber glow of the overhead pendant lights. Aurora leaned against the edge of the bar, her fingers tracing the grain of the wood. She had just finished a shift at the Golden Empress, her lungs still carrying the ghost-scent of Szechuan peppercorns and exhaust fumes from the motorbike. The door creaked. A draft cut through the humid interior, smelling of impending rain and expensive leather. A man stepped into the light. He wore a charcoal wool coat that cost more than Rory’s monthly rent. His hair, once a chaotic bird's nest of chestnut curls, was now slicked back into a severe, professional chop. He didn't see her at first. He scanned the room with a practiced, predatory caution—a habit Rory remembered from a lifetime ago, though the context had shifted from avoiding school bullies to whatever corporate battlefield he now inhabited. "Stark." The name slipped out before Rory could stifle it. The man froze. He turned toward the sound, his gaze sweeping past Silas and locking onto Aurora. For a heartbeat, the mask of the successful city boy faltered. His eyes, once wide with a frantic sort of curiosity, looked heavy, hooded by the shadow of a dozen boardrooms. "Laila?" He used her middle name, the one only her family and the ghosts of Cardiff called her. He walked toward her, his gait missing the old bounce. Every step looked calculated, measured against the friction of the floor. "It’s Rory now, Evan. It’s been five years." He stopped a foot away. He smelled of sandalwood and scotch. He looked at her shoulder-length black hair, then down at the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. His mouth thinned into a line that wasn't quite a smile. "Five years and two months. You look… tired." "I'm working. Some of us still do that." Silas didn't look up from his glass, but the rag in his hand slowed. His hazel eyes darted toward Evan, cataloging the tuck of the shirt, the shine of the shoes, the way the man didn’t quite know what to do with his hands when they weren't holding a smartphone. "The Golden Empress." Evan read the fading logo on her windbreaker. "Still delivering for that place? I thought you’d be halfway through a pupillage by now. Your father had those Chambers in Bristol all lined up." "My father had a lot of things lined up. Most of them involved me becoming someone I didn't recognize. I prefer the bike. The wind doesn't ask for legal precedents." "It's a waste, Rory. You were the sharpest person in the lecture hall." "I was the loudest. There's a difference." She signaled to Silas. He slid a pint of dark ale toward her without a word. The condensation climbed her knuckles. Evan watched the glass as if it were a prehistoric artifact. "Order something or move along, son," Silas said. The Spymaster’s voice carried a gravelly weight that made Evan straighten his spine. "People come here to drink, not to audit the staff." Evan cleared his throat, adjusting his cufflinks. "A Macallan. Neat." Silas reached for a bottle on the back shelf, his left leg dragging slightly as he pivoted. Evan watched the limp, his brow furrowing. "Nice place you've got here. A bit… rustic." "It keeps the rain off the bottles," Silas replied, sliding the scotch across. "And the noise off the street." Evan turned back to Rory. He reached out as if to touch her arm, but she shifted her weight, pulling the crescent scar out of his reach. He let his hand drop, instead gripping his glass. "I saw your mother last Christmas," Evan said. "In the village. She said you stopped answering her letters." "The letters were just his voice transcribed in her handwriting. I didn't see the point in reading the same lecture twice." "He's worried. We all were." "Worried is a polite word for losing control, Evan. Let's not pretend we're in a Cathedral." The silence between them stretched, filled only by the muffled clinking of glasses from a booth in the back. Evan took a sip of the scotch, wincing slightly as the peat hit his throat. He looked at her again, really looked at her this time, searching for the girl who used to steal his law textbooks and hide them in the rafters of the university library. "You've changed your face," he whispered. "The way you hold your jaw. You used to laugh at everything. Now you look like you're waiting for a punch." "I learned that it's better to be ready for it than to be surprised when it lands. You've changed too. You look like a brochure for a life you don't actually enjoy." Evan let out a short, dry laugh. "I have a flat in Canary Wharf. I'm a junior partner. I don't have to worry about the cost of the heater in February." "And yet you're in a dive bar in Soho on a Tuesday night looking like you've seen a ghost. Are you happy, Evan? Or just well-funded?" He stared into his amber liquid. The neon green from the window bled across his cheek, making him look sickly, washed out. "I remember the night we left Cardiff," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "Rain was coming down so hard we couldn't see the hood of the car. You said we’d make it. You said London was big enough to hide both of us." "London is big enough to hide anything. The problem is when you start hiding from yourself." "I did what I had to do. I adapted." "No. You surrendered. You traded the chaotic person I liked for a suit that talks in bullet points." Rory drained her pint, the bitterness of the ale a sharp contrast to the cloying sincerity in Evan’s eyes. She felt Silas watching them, a silent sentinel who knew exactly how much damage a past could do when it caught up to the present. "I should go," Evan said, though he didn't move. "I have a briefing at seven." "Then go. The city doesn't wait for sequels." "Rory, wait." He reached into his coat and produced a small, embossed business card. He slid it across the damp wood of the bar. "If you ever… if the bike gets too cold. If you want to finish what you started." Rory looked at the card. The gold foil shimmered. She didn't pick it up. "I finished what I started the day I got on that train, Evan. I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be." Silas stepped forward, his silver ring clicking against the mahogany as he reclaimed Evan’s empty glass. "The lady said she’s fine," Silas murmured. The threat wasn't in his volume, but in the stillness of his posture. "And the Macallan is twenty pounds." Evan fumbled for his wallet, tossing a note onto the bar. He looked at Rory one last time, a flickering moment of the boy from the library appearing behind the tired eyes of the lawyer. He opened his mouth to say something—perhaps an apology, perhaps a plea—but the iron set of her shoulders stopped him. He turned and walked out. The green neon flickered as the door swung shut, momentarily bathing the sidewalk in a sickly light before he vanished into the London gloom. Silas picked up the business card. He turned it over, his thumb tracing the sharp edges. "He's got the look of a man who forgets where he parked his soul," Silas said, flicking the card into the bin under the bar. Rory stared at the spot where Evan had stood. The scent of sandalwood lingered, a dying ember in the cold room. "He didn't forget it, Silas. He sold it for the charcoal coat." "And you?" Rory looked at her wrist, the crescent scar white against her skin. She gripped her empty glass until her knuckles turned the color of bone. "I'm still holding onto mine. It’s just getting heavier." Silas nodded, reaching for a fresh glass. He poured a small measure of a clear, potent liquid and set it in front of her. "On the house. For the ghosts." The rain finally began to hit the window, a frantic tapping against the glass. Rory watched the droplets race each other down the pane, blurring the neon light into a jagged green smear. Outside, the city hummed, indifferent to the two people who had once known everything about each other and now knew nothing at all. " He’s taller than I remembered," she said, her voice barely a whisper. "Common trick of the light," Silas replied, his limp sounding louder in the quiet bar as he moved to the other end of the counter. "People always look bigger when they're leaving." Rory took the shot. It burned all the way down, cauterizing the urge to run after him, leaving nothing but the cold, steady realization that the past was a country she no longer had a passport for. She set the glass down with a sharp click. The Raven's Nest felt smaller now, the maps on the walls showing routes to places that didn't exist anymore. "I have a delivery in Camden," she said, pulling her keys from her pocket. "Watch the slick on the corners," Silas warned without looking up. "The rain is turning the oil into ice." "I'm used to the slide." She zipped her jacket to the chin, the Golden Empress logo crinkling. She walked toward the door, her boots echoing on the boards. As she reached for the handle, she stopped, looking back at the empty stool where Evan had sat. The ring of condensation from his glass was already evaporating, leaving a faint, ghost-like circle on the dark wood. She pushed through the door. The London air hit her, sharp and wet. She climbed onto the motorbike, the engine turning over with a guttural roar that drowned out the hum of the neon sign. She didn't look back at the bar, and she didn't look for the charcoal coat in the crowd. She kicked the stand up and leaned into the first turn, her eyes fixed on the blurring red lights of the traffic ahead, chasing the only thing she had left: the next mile.