Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY86QAZZA9TW55TGPRBGWMA

The green neon of The Raven’s Nest bleeds into the Soho rain, painting the wet pavement a sickly jade as Rory pushes through the door, her delivery bag slung over one shoulder and a crumpled chow mein container clutched in the other. It’s 11 p.m., her last drop of the night for Golden Empress—Yu-Fei had slipped her an extra portion, muttering about her looking too thin lately—and she’s here to grab a glass of water before trundling up the creaky staircase to her flat above the bar. The air hits her first: a mix of aged whiskey, polished oak, and the faint, lingering smoke of a patron’s cigar. Old maps line the walls, their edges frayed where Silas has run his fingers over mission coordinates a hundred times, and black-and-white photographs of shadowed figures (she’s never asked who they are) stare down from the mantel. Silas is behind the bar, his grey-streaked auburn beard glinting in the amber underlight as he wipes a rocks glass with a starched white cloth. His slight left limp is more pronounced tonight—he’d mentioned earlier that the rain worsened his knee, the one shattered in Prague 18 years ago—and he shifts his weight to his right leg every few seconds, his silver signet ring catching the light when he sets the glass down. He nods at her, his hazel eyes softening when he sees the chow mein. “Corner booth’s free,” he says, his voice low, the quiet authority of his MI6 days still threading through the words. “I’ll leave a bottle of water there.” Rory murmurs a thanks, slipping into the booth and peeling back the chow mein lid. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist catches on the plastic lid as she reaches for a pair of chopsticks—she’d gotten it at 10, falling off her father’s bike in Cardiff, Brendan yelling at her for being careless while Jennifer knelt to clean it—and she tugs her sleeve down self-consciously. She’s barely taken a bite when the door swings open again, and a man steps in, his raincoat dripping onto the doormat. He’s in his late 50s, too, with a sharp jaw and a scar slicing through his right eyebrow, and his eyes lock onto Silas immediately. Silas freezes. The cloth slips from his hand, landing with a soft thud on the bar. The man’s boots click across the floor, and he stops at the edge of the bar, his voice rough with disuse. “Silas Blackwood.” Silas clears his throat, picking up the cloth and resuming his wiping, though his hands are steadier than Rory expects. “Marcus Hale.” Rory pauses, her chopsticks hovering over the chow mein. She’d heard Silas mention Marcus once, in a slurred moment after a few too many whiskeys—his partner on the Prague op, the one who’d been shot in the shoulder while Silas dragged him to safety, the one who’d never spoken to him again after the mission was deemed a failure. She’d never thought she’d see him. Marcus leans against the bar, his gaze flicking to the maps on the wall. “I saw the green neon sign from the bus. Couldn’t resist. You always said you’d open a bar if you got out—something with a stupid name and a hidden nook for secrets.” “Changed my mind a few times,” Silas says, pouring a glass of whiskey and sliding it across the bar—neat, Rory notices, the way Silas drinks when he’s nervous. “But here we are. The Raven’s Nest. The nook’s still there, if you’re curious.” Marcus’s gaze snaps to the bookshelf by the mantel, the one Rory knows slides open to reveal the secret room. “That’s the same design we used in Berlin, 20 years ago. Hidden safe house behind a bookshelf, disguised by Le Carré novels.” Silas’s limp carries him to the bookshelf, his fingers brushing the spine of a tattered copy of *Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy*. “Old trick. Useful for storing… things.” He doesn’t say what—contact lists, encrypted phones, the gun he keeps locked in a safe back there—and Rory knows better than to ask. Rory’s chopsticks clatter against the container. She’d forgotten how loud regret could be, how it could fill a room faster than smoke. She thinks of Evan, of the way she’d stayed with him for two years, ignoring Eva’s calls to leave, until he’d grabbed her wrist (the one with the scar) and squeezed so hard she’d thought it would break. She’d fled that night, her Pre-Law textbooks still on her Cardiff flat desk, her father’s voice ringing in her ears—you’re throwing your life away, he’d yelled when she’d told him she was dropping out. She hasn’t spoken to him in a year. Marcus takes a sip of whiskey, his scarred eyebrow furrowing. “I stayed. Got stuck behind a desk, typing up reports about ops I can’t run anymore. My shoulder’s still useless—can’t even lift a suitcase without wincing. MI6 blamed you for Prague, but I know you pushed me out of the way of that bullet. I just… I was angry. Angry that you left without a word, angry that I was stuck picking up the pieces.” Silas’s signet ring glints when he runs his hand through his hair. “I fought enough. I lost my leg, my career, my friend. I didn’t want to lose more. The op was compromised—we had a double agent in our ranks, and I couldn’t track him down without getting more people killed. I retired. Opened the bar. Tried to forget.” Marcus stares at him, his eyes glistening. “I couldn’t forget. I spent 18 years digging into the double agent’s trail, only to find out MI6 covered it up. They didn’t want anyone to know they’d let a traitor slip through their fingers.” He nods at Rory, who’s been watching too closely. “Who’s she?” “Tenant,” Silas says, his voice tightening. “Lives above the bar. Delivers for the Golden Empress down the street. Fled Cardiff last year, from an abusive ex. I gave her a place to stay when no one else would.” Rory tugs her sleeve down again, hiding the scar. She knows Silas hasn’t told Marcus the rest—about the way he’d taught her to pick a lock last month when she’d lost her flat key, about the Welsh cakes Eva had sent her (still unopened on her desk), about the way he’d listened to her cry for an hour after she’d run into Evan at a grocery store last week. Marcus takes another sip of whiskey, his gaze drifting to the black-and-white photographs. “You still have the photos. The one of us outside the Brandenburg Gate, you with your signet ring glinting in the sun.” Silas nods, his hazel eyes softening. “I keep it by the cash register. The one with the gate. Sentimental. Old habits die hard.” They fall silent, the only sounds the rain tapping against the window and the faint hum of the neon sign. Rory finishes her chow mein, wiping her hands on a napkin, and stands up. She pauses by the bar, looking at Silas. “You okay?” she asks, her voice quiet. Silas nods, his hazel eyes sad. “Go on up. I’ll lock the door behind you. And Rory?” He gestures to her wrist. “You don’t have to hide it. The scar’s not a weakness.” Rory’s throat tightens. She’d never said anything about the scar, never explained how Evan had grabbed it, but Silas had noticed. She tugs her sleeve up a fraction, letting the crescent shape glow in the amber light, and murmurs a thanks before climbing the staircase. Her hand brushes the banister (Silas had sanded it for her last week, after she’d tripped on a splinter) and she pauses on the landing, listening to the conversation below. “I missed you,” Marcus says, his voice soft. Silas doesn’t answer right away. Rory hears the clink of a glass, then the sound of Silas shifting his weight to his right leg. “I missed you too. But time’s a tricky thing. It doesn’t erase the past. It just gives you a place to set it down.” Marcus stares at him, his scarred face softening. “I should go. My wife’s waiting for me at home. She doesn’t know I came here.” “Tell her hello for me,” Silas says, his limp carrying him to the door. “And Marcus? Don’t let the regret eat you alive. I did that for 10 years. It’s not worth it.” Rory climbs the rest of the staircase, closing her flat door quietly behind her. She sets the chow mein container on her desk, next to the unopened package of Welsh cakes and a photo of Eva (she hasn’t seen her in a year, either) and looks out the window. The green neon sign glows below, painting the rain jade. She thinks of the hidden back room, of the maps, of the secrets Silas keeps. She thinks of her own secrets, of the Pre-Law textbooks she’d left behind, of Evan’s voice in her head. She runs her finger over her scar again, and for the first time, she doesn’t hide it. She lets it glow in the neon light, a reminder of the past, of the people she’s lost, of the time she’s wasted. And somewhere below, Silas is wiping down the bar, his signet ring catching the light, his regret heavy in his chest but a little lighter than it was an hour ago. He slides the bookshelf open, revealing the secret room, and pulls out a faded photograph of him and Marcus in Prague, their arms slung over each other’s shoulders, smiling like they had the whole world figured out. He sets it on the bar, next to the rocks glass, and stares at it until the rain stops.