Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY80C7JRJHYVK9W9D79HASV

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the London drizzle, its glow bleeding into the pavement like a bruise. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something older—dust, maybe, or the faint metallic tang of secrets left too long in the dark. Rory Carter paused on the threshold, her breath fogging the glass of the door. The place looked the same as it had years ago: low ceilings, the hum of a jukebox playing something slow and smoky, the usual cluster of regulars hunched over pints. But then she saw him. Silas Blackwood sat in his usual corner booth, the one by the window where the light never quite reached. His auburn hair was streaked with silver now, his beard trimmed tighter than she remembered, as if he’d spent years shaving against the weight of something. He didn’t look up when she stepped inside, just swirled the amber liquid in his glass with deliberate slowness. The signet ring on his right hand caught the dim light, catching her eye before she could look away. She hesitated. The last time she’d been here, she’d been twenty-one, drunk on the thrill of escape, not the kind. That girl had been reckless, quick to laugh, quick to leave. This one—she wasn’t sure what this one was yet. “Rory.” The voice was rougher than she expected. Not just from age, but like it had been worn down by something sharper. She turned. Silas’ hazel eyes locked onto hers, unreadable. “Took you long enough.” She slid into the booth across from him, the leather groaning under her weight. “Thought you’d moved on by now.” “Moved on?” He chuckled, low and dry. “This place is my retirement. Or what’s left of it.” His fingers tightened around the glass. “You?” “Delivery work.” She gestured vaguely at the door. “Yu-Fei’s restaurant. Keeps me busy.” “Busy enough to come back?” His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, the one she’d tried to hide under her sleeve. She hadn’t noticed him seeing it until now. She pulled her arm back instinctively. “Just passing through.” “Liar.” The word wasn’t accusatory. It was just… there. Between them. The silence stretched. Outside, a car horn blared. Somewhere, a glass shattered. “You look different,” she said finally. Silas didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter. “So do you.” She wanted to ask him what he meant. *How?* But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she reached for the menu on the table, though she knew by heart which dishes Yu-Fei’s chefs made best. “Still doing the same old thing, then.” “Same old thing.” He took a slow sip. “You ever think about what happens when you stop?” She didn’t look up. “I’m not stopping.” “No.” He set his glass down. “You’re just… going.” The way he said it made her skin prickle. She remembered the way he’d used to talk like that—like he knew things before they happened. Like he could see the threads of a life before they were spun. That had been the thing about Silas. He’d always been the one who saw too much. “You always were good at reading people,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Still at it?” He didn’t smile. “Depends on who you are.” She exhaled through her nose, a sharp sound. “I’m not here to be read.” “No?” He leaned forward slightly, just enough to make the table creak. “Then why are you here?” She opened her mouth, then closed it. The truth was, she hadn’t planned on coming. But the moment she’d seen the sign, she’d known. Like her body had remembered something her mind had tried to forget. “Just… missed the place,” she said at last. “Missed you.” Silas studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the table toward her. She didn’t touch it. “What’s this?” “A job.” His voice was steady. “If you’re still interested.” She looked down at the paper. The ink was faded, like it had been handled too many times already. The words were simple: *Contact me. Tonight. Midnight. The back room.* No name. No explanation. “You’re retired,” she said. “Retired doesn’t mean I stop knowing things.” His gaze never wavered. “And it doesn’t mean I stop offering them.” She wanted to ask what kind of things. What kind of job. But the question died on her lips. Because she already knew. She’d always known. The back room of *The Raven’s Nest* was exactly as she remembered it—dark, the air thick with the scent of old wood and something sharper, like ozone before a storm. The bookshelf along the wall looked the same, the spines worn smooth by years of use. But when she pressed her palm to the middle shelf, the wood gave way with a soft click, and the door swung open. Silas stood just inside, his silhouette sharp against the dim light from the hallway. He didn’t turn around immediately. Just waited. She stepped inside, the door sealing shut behind her with a quiet *thud*. “You always were good at following orders,” he said, still not looking at her. She crossed her arms. “And you were always good at giving them.” He finally turned, his hazel eyes reflecting the faint glow of the hallway. “Things change.” She wanted to argue. To tell him that some things didn’t. That she hadn’t. But the words felt heavy in her throat. Instead, she asked the question that had been burning in her since she’d seen him. “What happened to you?” Silas exhaled, slow and measured. “I got older.” “No.” She shook her head. “Not that. The job. The one that broke you.” He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was quieter, rougher. “Prague. A man named Veles. Thought I could handle him. Thought I could walk away.” She remembered the stories. The ones she’d heard from other operatives, the ones that slithered through the bars like whispers. “He got to you.” “He got to *her*.” Silas’ jaw tightened. “And I let him.” The air between them thickened. She could feel the weight of it pressing down, like the moment before a storm breaks. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said softly. He looked at her then, really looked at her. “I know.” She wanted to reach out. To touch his arm, his shoulder, anything to bridge the distance between them. But she didn’t. Because some things couldn’t be fixed with words or touch. Instead, she asked the question that had been gnawing at her since she’d walked in. “What do you want from me?” Silas studied her for a long moment. Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, worn photograph. He held it out to her. She took it. The picture was yellowed with age, the edges frayed. In it, a younger Silas stood beside a woman—tall, dark-haired, her smile sharp and knowing. The date on the back read *1998*. “Her name was Elara,” Silas said quietly. “She was my partner. My best friend.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the photo. “I’m sorry.” Silas didn’t look at her. “She was the one who got away.” The words hung between them, heavy and unspoken. She could feel the past pressing down on them, the weight of years, of choices, of things that couldn’t be undone. “You still have that scar,” she said suddenly. He glanced at his left knee, where the limp had always been more pronounced. “Reminder.” She wanted to ask him more. To dig deeper. But the question died on her lips. Because some wounds didn’t heal. And some stories weren’t meant to be finished.