Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7MRYAT2J6NY5V6R54BZCW

The green neon of The Raven’s Nest bleeds into the Soho dusk as Rory Carter shoves through the door, her delivery bag slung over one shoulder still reeking of Golden Empress’s garlic chive dumplings and damp rain. Her boots squelch against the worn wooden floor—she’d cycled through a sudden downpour on her last run to a Camden flat, the dumpling container slipping in her bag twice before she’d fished it out, soy sauce oozing through the paper. The bar’s dim air wraps around her like a frayed blanket: wood smoke from the unused fireplace, old whiskey from the back shelf, the scratch of Silas’s towel against a crystal tumbler. The walls are lined with relics: a 1970s map of Prague’s cobblestone streets (taped crookedly, a nod to Silas’s botched op there), black-and-white photos of his old MI6 team (one showing a younger Silas, no grey in his auburn hair, standing straight before his knee injury), and a small, faded photo of a woman with red hair (his late wife, Rory has guessed, though he’s never said). She rubs the crescent scar on her left wrist, a habit she’s never shaken—a souvenir from the childhood accident where she’d fallen off her dad’s Irish cottage fence. Silas looks up, his grey-streaked auburn beard glinting in the low light from the bar’s string bulbs, and gives a small nod. His left leg shifts, the slight limp pulling at his stance as he sets the tumbler down. The silver signet ring on his right hand catches the light when he wipes a smudge from the bar top—she’s never asked what’s engraved on it, though she suspects it ties to his MI6 days, a symbol of the network he still runs out of the bar’s secret back room (accessible through a bookshelf of leather-bound spy novels). “Late shift?” he says, his voice rough but warm, the kind of tone that says he’s already noted the soy sauce smudge on her sleeve and the damp trickle down her neck. “Some bloke in Camden forgot his dumplings,” Rory says, slinging her bag onto a stool by the end of the bar. She nods at the Prague map, her bright blue eyes tracking the cobblestone streets Silas has mentioned in passing. “Had to double back. Yu-Fei’s gonna dock my pay for the delay—said I was supposed to be back by eight to help fold fortune cookies.” Silas snorts, reaching under the bar for a bottle of ginger beer—her usual, no questions asked, even on the nights she stumbles in at two a.m. after a panic attack about Evan finding her. “Yu-Fei’s a soft touch. He’ll leave a dumpling container on your windowsill later, mark my words. Probably the pork ones you like, not the chive.” The door creaks open again before Rory can reply, and a woman in a sharp navy barrister’s robe steps in, her hair pulled into a tight bun, a leather briefcase dangling from her hand. Rain drips from her robe’s hem onto the floor, and she scans the bar, her eyes locking on Rory’s straight black shoulder-length hair—she’d know that hair anywhere, the way it falls just past her shoulders, the faint split end at the left temple from the time they’d cut each other’s hair with kitchen scissors during a pre-law study bender. Rory’s bright blue eyes widen—she’d know that jawline anywhere, the faint scar above Clara Hale’s left eyebrow from the time they’d stumbled off a Cardiff pub’s fire escape while chasing a stray cat that had stolen their contract law notes. Clara hesitates, then walks over, her heels clicking against the worn wooden floor loud enough to cut through the faint jazz playing on the bar’s old record player. “Rory? Aurora Carter?” Her voice is polished, the kind of tone that wins court cases, nothing like the scratchy laugh she’d had when they’d crammed for tort law exams in Rory’s dad’s Cardiff study (the study lined with Brendan Carter’s law books, his Irish barrister’s robe hanging on the door). Rory’s hand flies to her wrist scar, the garlic scent in her bag suddenly cloying, the dampness of her boots seeping through her socks. “Clara. I didn’t—” “God, it’s been seven years.” Clara sets her briefcase on the bar, her gaze darting to Silas, who pauses his wiping to observe, his hazel eyes sharp enough to cut through her polished facade. “I was in Soho for a trial—some corporate fraud case, the kind your dad would have torn apart—and I thought I’d grab a scotch before heading back to Cardiff on the late train. I never thought I’d see you here. You just… vanished after your third year of pre-law.” Silas slides Rory’s ginger beer across the bar, his signet ring glinting as he does, a silent signal that he’s paying attention, that he’ll step in if things go south. Rory takes a sip, the fizz burning her throat, and glances at the bookshelf of spy novels in the corner—she knows the secret room is behind it, that Silas keeps a first-aid kit and a phone with untraceable lines back there, in case Evan ever finds her. “I live above the bar.” Rory gestures to the narrow staircase at the back of the bar, the one that leads to her tiny flat with the leaky window. “Work deliveries for a Chinese restaurant down the street. Golden Empress. Yu-Fei’s the owner—he’s a good bloke, even when he docks my pay for being late.” Clara blinks, her polished facade cracking for a second, her bun slipping a little as she reaches up to adjust it. “Deliveries? But you were the best in our pre-law class. You aced that contract law exam everyone else failed—even the professor said you’d be a top barrister one day. Your dad—Brendan Carter, the Irish barrister—he was my idol. I still quote his 2015 article on domestic violence in my closing arguments. I thought you’d be running a chambers by now, not… carrying dumplings around Soho.” She gestures to Rory’s delivery bag, the soy sauce smudge on her sleeve, the dampness of her boots. Rory’s chest tightens. She can’t tell her—the nights Evan had grabbed her wrist so hard the scar had split open again, the way she’d hidden in her mom’s Welsh teacher’s closet for hours, the frantic call from Eva that had gotten her on a train to London with nothing but a backpack and her dad’s old law notebook. She’d cut all ties, changed her number, left no note for anyone in Cardiff—including Clara. Clara doesn’t know any of that. She just thinks Rory dropped out for no reason, that she was too lazy to finish pre-law. “I dropped out,” Rory says, her voice flat, her eyes darting to the Prague map on the wall—Silas’s old injury a reminder that sometimes you have to run from things, even if it means leaving everything behind. Clara’s face falls, her scotch order forgotten as she leans forward. “I thought… I thought you’d gotten bored. That you’d decided law was too much work, that you’d rather travel or something. I was so focused on my exams, on getting a traineeship at your dad’s chambers, that I never… I never tried to find you. I regret that. Every time I quote your dad’s article, I think of you, and I wonder what happened.” The word regret hangs in the air, thick as the wood smoke from the fireplace. Rory thinks of her dad’s study, the shelves lined with law books, the way he’d taught her to argue a case when she was ten (using a debate about whether she could stay up late to watch a Welsh rugby match as practice). She thinks of the night she’d packed her bag, leaving her pre-law textbooks on her bed, and wonders what would have happened if Evan hadn’t been there—if she’d finished her degree, if she’d joined her dad’s chambers, if she’d be sitting across from Clara in a barrister’s robe instead of a delivery uniform. But she knows she couldn’t have. Evan would have hurt her, maybe killed her. “Evan asked about you once,” Clara says, and Rory’s hand stills on her wrist, the pain from the old scar flaring up. “A year after you dropped out. He was at a bar in Cardiff, and he said you’d left without a word. I thought you’d just… moved on, that you’d gotten tired of him. I didn’t know…” She trails off, her eyes darting to Rory’s wrist, to the way she’s clinging to it. Rory’s bright blue eyes flash. She leans forward, her voice low, the ginger beer sloshing in her glass. “Don’t mention his name. Ever.” Silas’s left leg shifts, his limp more pronounced as he leans against the bar, his quiet authority cutting through the tension like a knife. “Ms. Hale,” he says, his tone calm but firm, “I think my friend’s had a long day. She’s been cycling through Soho rain, delivering dumplings, and she’s not in the mood for conversations that bring up painful memories. Maybe we can table this for another time.” Clara looks at Silas, then back at Rory, and realization dawns—she’d missed something. The way Rory’s hand clings to her wrist, the way she flinches at Evan’s name, the fact that she’s living above a Soho bar instead of practicing law. She remembers the way Rory had started skipping classes in her third year, the way she’d flinch when her phone rang, the way she’d stop talking whenever Evan’s name was mentioned. She’d thought Rory was just stressed about exams, but now she knows it was more. “I didn’t know,” Clara says, her voice softening, her barrister’s robe slipping off one shoulder. “I didn’t see… anything. I was so focused on my career, on getting that traineeship at your dad’s chambers, that I didn’t notice if you were hurting. I regret that. I regret not being a better friend.” Rory can’t speak. She takes another sip of ginger beer, her eyes darting to the bookshelf of spy novels—she can see the faint crack between the books, the hint of the hidden room behind it, the faint glow of a lamp from inside. Silas glances at it too, a faint nod, a promise that he’ll let her use it if she needs to, that he’ll help her if Evan ever finds her. “I once asked you to introduce me to your dad,” Clara says, her voice small, “and you declined. I thought you were just being stubborn, but now I think… you were hiding something. You were hiding Evan from him.” Rory’s eyes fill with tears. She nods, her straight black shoulder-length hair falling in her face. “My dad would have killed him,” she says, her voice barely a whisper. “But I didn’t want to drag him into it. I didn’t want Evan to hurt him, or my mom. So I left. I took the train to London, and I never looked back.” Clara’s face falls. She reaches into her briefcase and pulls out a copy of Brendan Carter’s 2015 article on domestic violence, the one she’d mentioned earlier. “I brought this with me. I was going to give it to your dad when I got back to Cardiff. I didn’t know… he doesn’t know where you are, does he?” Rory shakes her head. “I haven’t spoken to him in seven years. I don’t want Evan to find me through him.” Clara checks her watch, her briefcase clicking as she picks it up. The late train to Cardiff leaves in twenty minutes, and she can’t miss it—her client is counting on her. “I have to go. But I’ll do something. I’ll tell your dad you’re safe, that you left because of Evan. I won’t give him your address, I promise. I just… I think he deserves to know why you vanished.” Rory’s bright blue eyes widen. She’d never thought of telling her dad—she’d thought he’d be angry, that he’d think she was weak for leaving. But now, hearing Clara say it, she wonders if he’d understand. She wonders if he’d be proud of her for escaping. “I don’t know,” Rory says, her voice small. “I’m scared.” Silas’s left leg shifts again as he walks around the bar, his limp more noticeable now, his grey-streaked auburn beard glinting in the low light. He claps her on the shoulder, his signet ring cold against her skin. “You don’t have to decide right now. Clara can wait. You can take all the time you need.” Clara pulls a business card from her briefcase, writes a note on the back, and slides it to Rory. The note says: “I won’t tell anyone where you are unless you say so. Call me if you need anything. I’m your friend.” She hands her the copy of Brendan Carter’s article too. “Take this. It’s your dad’s. You should have it.” She turns and walks out, her heels clicking against the floor, the door creaking shut behind her. Rory stares at the business card, the article, and the crescent scar on her wrist. The weight of the years apart, the things left unsaid, the different paths they’ve taken, presses down on her. She thinks of her dad’s study, of Clara’s polished barrister’s robe, of the nights she’d hidden from Evan in her mom’s closet. Silas wipes a glass, his hazel eyes soft. “You don’t have to call her,” he says, his voice rough but warm. “You don’t have to tell your dad anything if you don’t want to. You’re safe here. The secret room’s open if you need to sit with it for a while—there’s a fire in there, and I’ve got a pot of tea simmering.” Rory rubs her wrist scar, the crescent line faint but still a reminder of why she’d fled. She picks up the copy of her dad’s article, opens it, and sees his handwriting in the margins—notes about domestic violence cases, about the need to protect victims. She thinks of Clara’s regret, of her own regret, of the weight of time. But for the first time all night, she feels safe. She stands up, picks up her delivery bag, and walks toward the bookshelf of spy novels. Silas watches her go, his left leg shifting, his signet ring glinting in the low light, and knows she’ll be okay.