Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY83384TNFM179M7C815EAE

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly as Rory Carter pushed through the heavy door, the scent of aged whiskey and something faintly metallic—polished brass, maybe—hitting her like a memory. The place hadn’t changed. Neither had the hum of low conversation, the clink of glasses, the way the dim lighting made everything feel like a half-remembered dream. She adjusted the strap of her messenger bag, her fingers brushing the scar on her wrist, a crescent moon of pale skin that never failed to remind her of the night she’d left Cardiff behind. She was halfway to the bar when the air shifted. A laugh, rich and warm, cut through the murmur of the crowd. Not just any laugh—*his* laugh. The kind that used to make her stomach flip, back when she still believed in second chances. Rory froze, her pulse thudding in her throat. She didn’t turn. She couldn’t. Not yet. Not when the weight of what she’d done—what she’d *left*—pressed down on her like the London sky after rain. Then, a hand settled on her shoulder. “Well, well,” Silas Blackwood said, his voice rough with amusement. “If it isn’t Rory Carter, back from the dead.” She exhaled, slow and controlled, before turning. And there he was. Older, of course—lines bracketing his hazel eyes, silver threading through his auburn hair, a faint limp in his left leg that hadn’t been there the last time she’d seen him. But it was his *face* that did her in. The same sharp jaw, the same stubborn set of his mouth, only now there was something harder in his gaze. Like he’d spent the last decade looking over his shoulder. “Silas,” she said, her voice steady, but her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “I didn’t know you still ran this place.” “Neither did I, at first.” He gestured to the bar, where a half-empty glass of whiskey waited. “But some of us need a front. Some of us need a place to disappear.” A front. A place to disappear. The words settled between them like dust. She knew what that meant. Knew the kind of work he’d done, the kind of work that left scars deeper than the one on her wrist. Rory slid onto a stool, the leather worn smooth under her palms. “You look well.” “And you look like you’ve been running.” His eyes flicked to her bag, then back to her face. “Still delivering for the Empress?” “When I’m not hiding from my past.” She forced a smile, but it felt brittle. “How’ve you been?” Silas leaned on the bar, his signet ring catching the light. “Alive. Mostly.” He paused. “You?” She should’ve known he wouldn’t let it go that easily. “Same.” A beat of silence. Then, “You’re lying.” Rory traced the rim of her glass with her thumb. “Maybe. But it’s not your business.” “Wasn’t always.” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something unsaid. The way he looked at her—like he could see right through her—made her skin prickle. She changed the subject. “You still got that back room?” “You still know how to find it.” His lips quirked, but there was no humor in it. Just acknowledgment. The kind that said *I remember you better than you think.* Rory slid off the stool. “I should go.” “Or you could stay.” He didn’t move, just watched her, his hazel eyes unreadable. “Talk. Like old times.” Old times. When she’d been younger, when she’d still believed in redemption. When she’d thought she could outrun her mistakes. She hesitated. Then, slowly, she nodded. The back room was just as she remembered—dark, the walls lined with maps and yellowed photographs, the air thick with the scent of old paper and something faintly metallic, like the bar out front. A single lamp cast long shadows across the table where they sat. Silas poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and slid it toward her. “Drink.” She took it, the amber liquid burning her throat. “You always did know how to make an entrance.” “And you always did know how to avoid one.” He studied her over the rim of his own glass. “You left Cardiff. No note. No goodbye. Just… gone.” Rory’s fingers tightened around the glass. “I had my reasons.” “Reasons don’t change the fact that you vanished.” His voice was low, but there was an edge to it. “Eva was worried sick. Your mother—” “Don’t.” She set the glass down harder than she meant to. “You don’t get to play the concerned friend now.” Silas didn’t flinch. “I’m not playing anything. I just miss you, Rory. That’s all.” She laughed, sharp and humorless. “You don’t miss anyone. Not really.” “That’s not true.” His gaze darkened. “I miss the girl who used to climb onto my roof at three in the morning, who thought the world was hers for the taking. I miss the girl who believed in second chances.” The words hit her like a physical blow. She stood abruptly, the stool scraping against the floor. “I’m not that girl anymore.” “No.” Silas didn’t move. “You’re not.” Rory turned toward the door, her hand already on the latch. “I should go.” “Before or after you tell me what really happened?” She froze. “What do you mean?” “Evan.” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something she’d spent years burying. “The bruises on your arm. The way you flinched when someone raised their voice. I saw it, Rory. I *knew* it.” Her breath caught. She hadn’t told anyone. Not even Eva. Not really. Silas leaned forward, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You ran because you were scared. And I get that. But you didn’t have to run *forever.*” She swallowed hard. “It’s not that simple.” “Isn’t it?” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing hers. “You could’ve come back. You could’ve talked to someone. You could’ve—” “Stop.” Her voice was raw. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” “Don’t I?” His eyes searched hers, and for a moment, she saw the boy she’d known—the one who’d been her best friend, her confidant, her anchor. “I know you better than you think.” She pulled her hand away. “You don’t know anything.” Silas stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “Then tell me.” She looked at him—really looked at him—for the first time in years. The lines on his face, the limp, the way his signet ring glinted in the lamplight. He was older. Harder. But he was still *him.* And she was still running. Rory turned toward the door, her fingers trembling. “I can’t.” Silas didn’t follow. He just stood there, watching her, his expression unreadable. She didn’t look back.