Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7JPJCW1F670S9A3T3RBS7

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—like old coins—hitting her before she even stepped inside. The bar was half-full, the hum of conversation low and steady, the kind of place where secrets didn’t just get whispered but sometimes got buried for good. She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, her fingers brushing the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a ghost from another life. She’d come here because Silas had texted her earlier that day—*Old friend needs a drink. Meet me at the Nest. No excuses.*—and though she’d hesitated (old habits died hard), something in the way he’d phrased it had pulled her in. *Old friend.* Like she was still the same person who’d left London three years ago, like time hadn’t carved them both into strangers. The bar was dim, the kind of dim that made shadows feel intentional. Rory scanned the room, her sharp blue eyes catching on the familiar shape of Silas Blackwood before he even turned. He sat in a corner booth, his broad frame half-turned toward the door, a glass of something amber and untouched in front of him. His grey-streaked auburn hair was longer than she remembered, his neatly trimmed beard now streaked with silver, but it was the limp—the slight hitch in his left leg as he shifted—that made her stomach tighten. He’d always carried himself like a man who moved without thinking, but now there was a weight to it, something deliberate. She slid into the booth across from him, the leather creaking under her. “You look like hell,” she said, because that was the kind of thing you said to people you hadn’t seen in years. Silas exhaled through his nose, a ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “And you look like you’ve been running from something.” His hazel eyes—sharp, assessing—flicked over her, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the way her black hair fell straight past her shoulders, the way she sat like she was already halfway out the door. “Still wearing that coat, I see.” Rory glanced down at the worn leather jacket she’d had since university. “It’s practical.” “It’s armor.” He reached for his glass, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the dim light. “You always did like your armor.” She didn’t answer. Instead, she flagged down the bartender—a wiry man with a shaved head and a permanent scowl—and ordered a gin and tonic, neat. The bartender slid it toward her without a word, and she took a long sip, the burn of the gin grounding her. Silas watched her. “You’re jumpy.” “London’s not exactly safe,” she said, though she knew that wasn’t what he meant. “No.” He swirled his drink. “It’s not.” A silence settled between them, thick with things unsaid. Rory traced the rim of her glass with her thumb, her mind flicking back to the last time she’d seen him. She’d been twenty-two, fresh out of Cardiff, her father’s disapproval still clinging to her like a second skin. Silas had been her lifeline then—someone who saw the sharp edges of her and didn’t flinch. He’d been the one to tell her, over whiskey and bad decisions, that she didn’t have to stay in a city that felt like a cage. “You got my message,” he said finally. “That’s something.” “You said *old friend*,” she said. “Like we’re still the same people.” Silas leaned back, his limp more pronounced as he stretched his leg out. “Aren’t we?” She almost laughed. “You own a bar now. You look like you’ve aged twenty years since the last time I saw you.” “And you look like you’ve been sleeping in doorways.” His voice was gentle, but there was an edge to it, something like accusation. “You used to be the one who talked about leaving. Not the one who got left behind.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “I didn’t get left behind.” “No?” He arched a brow. “Then why’d you run?” She didn’t answer. The question hung between them, heavy as the weight of the past. She’d run from Evan, sure, but she’d also run from the version of herself that had stayed too long, that had let herself get tangled up in things she couldn’t untangle. She’d run from the girl who’d thought she could outsmart the world, only to realize the world had other plans. Silas studied her, his gaze unrelenting. “You’re still doing deliveries for Yu-Fei, aren’t you?” The shift in topic was so abrupt it took her off guard. “How do you know that?” “London’s a small city when you know where to look.” He took a slow sip of his drink. “You’re still riding that same bike, too. The one with the dent in the fender.” Rory exhaled sharply. “You’ve been watching me.” “Someone’s got to.” His voice was quiet, but there was steel in it. “You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You think I don’t know you’re still sleeping above this bar, even if you’re not here?” She stiffened. “I’m not—” “You’re not what?” He cut her off, his voice low. “Not the girl who used to sneak into my flat at three in the morning because she couldn’t sleep? Not the one who could fix anything with a screwdriver and a prayer? Not the one who left without saying goodbye?” The words hit her like a physical blow. She’d been the one who’d bolted, who’d taken off for Cardiff and then, when that hadn’t worked, for the streets of London like they were her last chance. She’d left Silas behind because she’d been too afraid to look back. “I had to go,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah.” He nodded, his expression unreadable. “You did.” The bartender appeared beside them, sliding a fresh glass toward Silas without a word. Rory watched as Silas took it, his fingers brushing the rim before he lifted it to his lips. The gesture was so familiar, so *them*, that it made her chest ache. “You’re still drinking like you’re trying to drown something,” she said. Silas smirked. “And you’re still talking too much.” She almost laughed, but the sound died in her throat. Because this wasn’t the same. This wasn’t the easy, familiar banter of old friends who knew each other’s rhythms. This was two people who’d changed, who’d been shaped by the years between them, and now they were standing in the wreckage of what they’d once been. Silas set his glass down with a quiet *clink*. “You ever think about coming back?” The question was so sudden it stole her breath. “To London? No.” “Not to London.” His voice was softer now. “To *us*.” Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. “There is no *us*.” “There was.” He leaned forward, his hazel eyes burning into hers. “And I miss it.” She looked away, her gaze landing on the old maps and photographs that lined the walls of the bar—faded images of places she’d never been, people she’d never known. “You’re different,” she said finally. “And you’re not?” He reached out, his fingers brushing the scar on her wrist before she could pull away. “You’re still the same girl who flinches at loud noises. Who can’t stand being touched without permission. Who still carries that damn coat like it’s a shield.” Rory’s breath hitched. He knew her. He *always* had. “You think I don’t know what you’ve been through?” His voice was rough. “You think I don’t know you’re still running?” She wanted to deny it. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that she’d moved on, that she wasn’t the same scared girl she’d been three years ago. But the words stuck in her throat because they weren’t true. Silas exhaled, long and slow, like he was trying to steady himself. “I got a message today,” he said. “From Prague.” Rory’s head snapped up. “What?” “A contact of mine.” He hesitated. “Someone from the old days.” She knew what that meant. The old days were the days when Silas had been MI6, when he’d been in the field, when he’d been the kind of man who could walk into a warzone and come out unscathed. When he’d been *dangerous*. “What did they say?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Silas’s expression darkened. “They said you’re not the only one who’s been running.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “Silas—” “They said Evan’s still looking for you.” His voice was quiet, but there was a steel in it that hadn’t been there before. “And they said if you don’t want to end up like the last girl who crossed him, you’d better start hiding better.” The words hit her like a physical blow. Evan. The name was a ghost she’d thought she’d buried. The man who’d left bruises on her skin and scars on her soul. The man she’d spent years trying to forget. She swallowed hard. “How do you know this?” “Because I still have contacts, Rory.” His voice was low, dangerous. “And because I still care about you.” She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him she was fine, that she could handle herself, that she didn’t need his protection. But the words died in her throat because she *did* need it. She always had. Silas reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, folded piece of paper. He slid it across the table toward her. “That’s the address of a safe house. If you’re serious about disappearing, that’s where you go.” Rory stared at the paper, her fingers trembling. “You’re serious.” “Deadly.” His gaze was unrelenting. “You think I’d let you walk into this blind?” She wanted to be angry. She wanted to tell him she didn’t need his help, that she could take care of herself. But the truth was, she was exhausted. She was scared. And she was so, so tired of running alone. Silas leaned back, his expression softening just slightly. “You always were the best at hiding in plain sight,” he said. “But this time, you’re going to need more than a coat and a bike.” Rory looked down at the paper, her fingers brushing the edge of it. She thought of the scar on her wrist, of the nights she’d spent curled up in her flat above the bar, of the way the city had started to feel like a cage again. She thought of Evan. And she thought of Silas. “What about you?” she asked finally. Silas’s expression darkened. “What about me?” “You’re not coming with me.” “I’m not asking to.” His voice was quiet, but there was a finality to it. “But if you need me, you know where to find me.” Rory looked up at him, her heart pounding. She wanted to reach out. She wanted to tell him she was sorry. She wanted to tell him she missed him. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she stood up, her chair scraping against the floor. “I’ll think about it,” she said. Silas didn’t argue. He just watched her, his hazel eyes burning into hers, as she turned and walked away. The door swung shut behind her, the neon sign flickering like a dying star. And for the first time in years, Rory Carter let herself believe that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t alone anymore.