Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8DR62QX13BF3M8TM0KEDF

The rain hammered against the windows of The Raven’s Nest, a steady, insistent drumming that seemed to mirror the unease in my chest. The air hung thick with the scent of stale beer, wood polish, and something vaguely medicinal – Silas’s signature blend, I suspected. He stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with a slow, deliberate motion, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the dim light. He didn't look up. Then he did. His hazel eyes, the same shade as fallen leaves, flickered over me, lingering a moment too long. Recognition, sharp and sudden, etched itself onto his face. “Rory?” The sound of my name ripped through the low murmur of the bar. I straightened, pulling my worn leather jacket tighter around me. "Silas." He pushed himself away from the bar, the limp in his left leg evident as he moved, a slight hitch in his stride. He crossed the small space between us, the wood floor slick under his shoes. He didn’t smile. “It’s… been a while.” “Twelve years,” I replied, the words flat. Twelve years since I’d bolted from London, twelve years since I’d last seen him. Twelve years of building a carefully constructed wall around the wreckage of my past. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze assessing. "You look… different.” Not in a bad way, exactly. More like water smoothed by a long current - the sharp edges had softened, the surface calmer. “Life does that to you,” I said, gesturing vaguely at the rain. “Adds layers.” “More layers than I anticipated,” he murmured, turning to examine the intricate patterns of a map adorning one of the walls. “You’re delivering tonight, aren’t you?” “Yu-Fei needs a hand. Golden Empress demanded double the usual rush.” The work was honest, if grueling, and it kept me moving. It kept me away from…everything. He finally looked at me directly, his eyes holding a depth that felt both familiar and unsettling. “Evan.” The name hung in the air, a low, poisonous note. I swallowed, the lump in my throat doing familiar work. “Don’t.” “Don’t what?” He tilted his head, the grey streaks in his auburn hair catching the light. “Don’t mention his name? Don’t acknowledge the shadow that clings to you still?” His tone wasn't accusatory, just…observant. Like he’d seen straight through the carefully constructed defenses I’d erected. “It was a long time ago.” “Twelve years isn’t long when you’re building a fortress of silence,” he said quietly. “I saw you, Rory. Before you left. The way you flinched when he raised his voice. The way you avoided his gaze.” I didn’t respond. The rain intensified, drumming a frantic rhythm against the windows. “He wasn’t always like that,” Silas continued, his voice low, almost hesitant. “There were good days. Moments of… tenderness. Before the drinking, before the rage.” “Tenderness doesn’t excuse abuse,” I said, the words sharp, brittle. “No,” he conceded. “It doesn't. But it reminds you that sometimes, things aren't as simple as they appear.” He paused, picking at a loose thread on his worn tweed jacket. “I should have done more. I told myself it wasn’t my place. That I was just an agent, there to gather intelligence, not to intervene in people’s lives. A coward’s justification.” He took a slow sip of whiskey from a glass on the bar. The amber liquid caught the light, reflecting in his eyes. “I see now it was both.” I turned away, focusing on the swirling patterns of condensation on the windowpane. "You were in Prague. That's why you retired.” “Prague was…complicated,” he said, his voice grim. “A mission gone wrong. A betrayal. Let’s just say I learned a harsh lesson about the cost of loyalty.” “And you built a bar,” I observed, the dryness in my voice a shield. “A repository,” he corrected. “A place where people can find a moment’s respite, a quiet corner to think. And a place where…connections can be made. Discreet ones.” He glanced around the dimly lit bar, his gaze lingering on the faces of the regulars – older men in well-worn suits, a couple huddled in a booth whispering into their phones, a solitary figure nursing a pint in the corner. “I collect information, Rory. Not through espionage anymore, but through observation. Listening to the rhythm of a room. Figuring out what people are hiding.” There was a brief silence, broken only by the persistent rain. “Why are you asking about this?” I asked, the question tentative. "After all this time." He placed his glass down with a quiet thud. "Because I’ve been watching you, Rory. For a while now. You've built a decent life, I see. A respectable one. But I also see the ghost of that girl you used to be. The one who didn’t tolerate shadows.” “That girl is gone,” I said, the statement a defensive rattle. “Not entirely,” he countered, his gaze unwavering. “She’s buried beneath layers of practicality, of self-preservation. But she’s still there. I can see it in the way you hold yourself, in the way you meet a challenge. Don't mistake resilience for contentment.” He pushed himself up and walked over to a bookshelf, running his hand along the spines of the old maps. “I’ve been…assembling a puzzle. A small one. Involving a name I know you’d rather forget.” “Don’t,” I repeated, the urgency in my voice sharper this time. He pulled a small, worn photograph from behind the books. It was a picture of me, younger, perhaps twenty, laughing with Evan. The sunlight seemed to illuminate a brief, vanished moment of genuine joy. He held it out to me. “Recognize the look on your face?” he asked, his voice soft. “That flicker of hope. Before it was extinguished.” I didn't take the photograph. I stared at it, a wave of nausea washing over me. The memory of that day – the false promises, the suffocating control – flooded back, sharp and visceral. “He’s gone,” I said, the words a desperate plea. “He’s dead.” Silas nodded slowly. “Officially. According to the records. But there are always records that aren’t entirely…accurate.” He paused, his eyes narrowing. “I’ve found evidence suggesting he wasn’t alone in his…activities. That he was involved in something far more dangerous than you ever imagined.” I felt a cold dread settle in my stomach. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying you might be carrying a piece of that puzzle, Rory. And what you’re running from might be closer than you think.” He turned back to me, his expression serious. “I need your help. Not as a friend, not as a former operative. As someone who might hold the key to unlocking a very dangerous secret.” The rain seemed to press closer, a tangible weight against the windows. The flickering gaslights cast long, distorted shadows across the bar, turning the familiar space into something unsettling. “Why me?” I asked, the question a haunted whisper. Silas placed a hand on my arm, a brief, unexpected touch. "Because you never learned to let go, Rory. And some shadows...they have a way of clinging to those who carry them longest.” He released my arm, turning back to the bar. “I’ll need you to come down to the back room. Tonight."