Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7GX9AAGNY5FX8132A4C09

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying ember as Rory Carter pushed through the heavy door, the scent of aged whiskey and something faintly metallic—polished brass, perhaps—hitting her like a memory. The bar was half-full, the hum of conversation low and deliberate, the kind of place where people came to talk but not to be overheard. She slid onto a stool near the back, her fingers brushing the sticky rim of the countertop, and ordered a gin and tonic without looking at the bartender. The ice clinked against the glass as he set it down, and she took a slow sip, the burn of juniper settling in her throat. She wasn’t supposed to be here tonight. Not after the shift at the Golden Empress, not after the way the rain had turned the streets into a slick, treacherous thing. But the flat above Silas’ bar had felt too small, too quiet, and the Nest had always been a place where the walls had ears but the silence was hers to command. She traced the rim of her glass with her thumb, the crescent scar on her wrist catching the dim light just enough to make it glow like a half-moon. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood stood near the back, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he leaned against the wall, one hand resting on the counter, the other tapping absently against his thigh. His auburn hair was streaked with silver now, thicker at the temples, and his beard—neatly trimmed, as always—had more grey than she remembered. But it was the limp that did it. A slight drag in his left leg, barely noticeable unless you were looking for it, the way she was. The way she always had been. She hadn’t seen him in years. Not since Prague. The thought hit her like a punch to the gut. She set her glass down a little harder than she meant to, the ice rattling. Silas turned, his hazel eyes sharp in the low light, and for a second, there was nothing but recognition. Then his face split into that same easy grin, the one that had always made her feel like she could trust him, even when she shouldn’t have. “Well,” he said, pushing off the wall and making his way toward her. “If it isn’t Rory Carter.” Her name on his lips was like a spark. She swallowed. “Silas.” He slid onto the stool beside her, close enough that she could smell the leather of his jacket, the faint scent of pipe tobacco clinging to his clothes. “You look like hell,” he said, and she laughed—sharp, surprised. “And you look like you’ve been running a bar for the last decade,” she shot back. He chuckled, rubbing his thumb over the silver signet ring on his right hand. “Ten years, actually. Gave up the spy game for the less glamorous life of a publican.” “Retired, huh?” She turned her glass in slow circles, the condensation beading on the outside. “Something like that.” His voice was lighter, but there was an edge to it, something unspoken. She knew that tone. It was the one he used when he didn’t want to talk about it. She did too. The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly. It was heavier, like the air before a storm. She remembered the last time they’d been in a room together, the way the mission in Prague had gone sideways, the way she’d left without saying goodbye. The way he’d let her. “You never came back,” he said finally. She exhaled through her nose, a humorless laugh. “No.” “Thought you might.” “Did you?” She met his gaze, and for a second, she saw the ghost of the man he’d been—the one who’d recruited her, who’d trained her, who’d trusted her with secrets. The one who’d failed her. “Maybe,” he admitted. “For a while.” She looked away, her fingers tightening around her glass. “I had my reasons.” “So did I.” The words hung between them, fragile as glass. She wanted to ask. Wanted to know what had happened after she left, what had become of him. But the question died in her throat. Some things were better left unsaid. Silas took a slow sip of his drink—a whiskey, neat—and let the silence stretch. “You’re working at the Golden Empress now, isn’t that right?” She blinked. “How do you know that?” “London’s a small city when you know where to look.” He smirked, but there was no humor in it. “You always were terrible at keeping secrets.” She bristled. “I’m not a kid anymore, Silas.” “No,” he said softly. “You’re not.” The bartender appeared beside them, wiping down the counter with a rag. Silas ordered another whiskey. Rory nursed her gin, the ice long since melted. Outside, the rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened under the flickering streetlights. “You ever think about it?” she asked suddenly. “What happened?” His fingers stilled around his glass. “Every damn day.” She wanted to reach out, to touch his arm, to pull him back from whatever memory had just dragged him under. But she didn’t. Some wounds weren’t meant to be bandaged. “Evan’s dead,” she said quietly. Silas’ head snapped toward her. “What?” “Three years ago. Car accident. Or so they said.” She flexed her wrist, the scar catching the light again. “I should’ve gone back. Should’ve seen it through.” Silas studied her, his expression unreadable. “You don’t owe me an explanation.” “I know.” She took a long drink, the gin burning her throat. “But I owe *myself* one.” He was quiet for a long moment. Then, slowly, he said, “You always were the one who carried the weight.” She almost laughed. “And you were the one who taught me how.” His mouth quirked. “Guess we both learned our lessons.” The bartender brought Silas’ whiskey, and he took it without a word. Rory watched him, the way his fingers curled around the glass, the way his thumb traced the rim. She remembered the way he’d held a gun, the way he’d taught her to shoot. The way he’d looked at her like she was something precious, something breakable. “You ever think about her?” Silas asked suddenly. Rory’s breath caught. “Eva?” “No.” His voice was rough. “The girl you used to be.” She looked away, her gaze landing on the old maps pinned to the wall behind the bar. Prague. London. Places she’d been, places she’d left behind. “I don’t know if she’s still in there.” Silas was quiet for a long time. Then, softly, he said, “We all change, Rory. Doesn’t mean the old parts stop hurting.” She swallowed. “What about you? What became of *you*?” He turned to her, his hazel eyes dark in the dim light. “I became the man who runs a bar in Soho and wonders if he’ll ever see you again.” Her chest ached. “Silas—” “No.” He held up a hand. “Don’t. Not tonight.” She nodded, her throat tight. Outside, the city hummed, alive and indifferent. Inside, the weight of years pressed down on them, the unspoken words between them heavier than any secret. Silas finished his whiskey in one long swallow. “I should let you get back to your life.” She almost told him to stay. Almost reached for him. But the words died on her lips. Instead, she said, “Goodbye, Silas.” He didn’t look back as he walked away. The door swung shut behind him, and for a long moment, she just sat there, her fingers still curled around the empty glass. Then she stood, her legs unsteady, and walked out into the night.