Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8EKKA78DAZ8C5CBBG1TT1

The rain in Soho was a persistent, greasy smear against the windows of The Raven’s Nest. It wasn’t a dramatic downpour, more a damp insistence, clinging to the cobblestones and reflecting the sickly green glow of the neon sign. Rory shifted on the worn velvet stool, the wood cool against her jeans, and watched the trickle of condensation run down the glass beside her. She’d ordered a gin and tonic, neat, and hadn’t touched it. The place smelled of stale beer, damp wool, and something vaguely floral – a desperate attempt, she suspected, to mask the deeper, darker scents of countless whispered conversations and dealt secrets. Then he walked in. It wasn't a dramatic entrance. No fanfare, no apologies, just Silas Blackwood, cutting a figure that seemed both familiar and utterly alien. He moved with a slight, deliberate limp, a subtle reminder of the Prague incident, and his grey-streaked auburn hair was shorter, neater, framed a face that had weathered more than a few storms. The silver signet ring on his right hand gleamed faintly in the dim light. It was a faint echo of the man she remembered, the one who’d pulled her out of a particularly messy breakup ten years ago, the one who’d offered a temporary haven above his bar. “Rory,” he said, his voice a low rumble, and the name felt distant, coated in a layer of something she couldn’t quite name. He didn’t smile. She pushed her drink aside. “Silas. Didn’t expect to see you here.” “Didn’t expect to see *you* here either,” he replied, sliding onto the stool beside her. The movement was slow, controlled. He didn’t look at her, instead studying the collection of faded maps plastered on the walls. “It’s been a while.” “Twelve years, give or take,” she said, the understatement a practiced shield. Twelve years of deliberate avoidance, of constructing a life carefully buffered from the wreckage of their past. “You own a bar.” It was a factual observation, a neutral statement, designed to avoid the avalanche of unspoken questions. “I do,” he confirmed, his gaze finally meeting hers. His eyes, hazel and marked with the subtle lines of a life lived on the edges, held a disconcerting intensity. “The Raven’s Nest. Small operation. Mostly ghosts.” He gestured vaguely around the room. “It looks…comfortable,” she said, the word feeling suitably bland. Comfortable. That was the key word, wasn't it? Her life was comfortable. Predictable. Safe. A far cry from the chaotic, reckless energy she’d once shared with Silas. “It’s a front,” he said, his voice dropping. “Always has been.” The rain intensified, drumming a steady rhythm against the windows. “You still doing…that?” she asked, the question hanging heavy in the air. He didn't flinch, didn’t offer a denial. “Let’s just say my skillset hasn’t entirely evaporated.” He took a slow sip of a dark amber liquid from a tumbler. “Information is a valuable currency, Rory. More valuable than most people realize.” She pushed a strand of black hair behind her ear, the movement habitual. “I deliver food,” she corrected, the small, mundane task a deliberate attempt to establish a boundary. “Yu-Fei’s place. It's honest work.” “Honest, perhaps,” he conceded. “But not exactly…fulfilling, is it?” There was a sharpness to his voice that she hadn't heard before, a glint of something resembling judgment. She avoided his eyes, focusing on the rain-streaked glass. “It pays the rent.” “Rent doesn’t buy happiness, Rory,” he said, his gaze unwavering. “Or peace.” A silence descended, thick with the weight of years and unacknowledged regrets. She could almost taste the bitterness of the unspoken – the shared grief over a friendship fractured by circumstance, the lingering shadow of Evan, the abusive ex she’d fled to Silas’s protection from. He hadn't fully understood then, she realized, hadn’t grasped the insidious nature of his control, the slow erosion of her self-worth. “You look well,” she said finally, a clumsy attempt at small talk that felt utterly inadequate. “I’m…functional,” he corrected. “Never been much of a man for aesthetics.” He paused, a ghost of a smile momentarily flickering across his lips. “Remember that ridiculous phase you went through? The black lipstick and the ripped fishnets? You looked like you’d just wrestled a badger.” She managed a small, involuntary laugh. The memory was a sharp, unwelcome jolt. “That was a long time ago.” “Time has a way of smoothing the rough edges, doesn't it?” he said, his voice laced with a quiet sadness. "But it doesn't erase the scars.” He lifted his hand, briefly showing the crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. "I remember you showing me that. Crazy kid, running with scissors.” The scar throbbed with a sudden, unfamiliar ache. She hadn’t thought about it in years. "You remember everything." “I remember enough,” he said. “Enough to understand why you’ve built this fortress around yourself." He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper. “You left London for a reason, Rory. A valid one. But running doesn't solve anything. It just…redirects the damage." She wanted to tell him about Eva, about the frantic phone call, the desperate plea for sanctuary. She wanted to tell him about Evan’s obsession, the chilling realization that her escape was only a temporary reprieve. But the words caught in her throat, choked by the years of carefully constructed silence. “I’m fine,” she said, the rote response sounding hollow even to her own ears. “Really, I am.” “You’re not,” he stated, his eyes boring into hers. “You’re carrying a weight. A weight you refuse to acknowledge. You're building walls when you should be dismantling them.” He reached into his pocket and placed a small, silver signet ring on the counter between them. It wasn't his. It was identical, a perfect replica. “This,” he said, his voice low, “is a reminder. A reminder that you’re not alone. That some things, some people, don’t just disappear.” He picked up the ring and tucked it back into his pocket. “Don’t mistake solitude for peace, Rory. It’s just a longer path to regret.” The rain continued to fall, washing over the windows of The Raven’s Nest, blurring the edges of the room, the faces of the patrons, the shadows clinging to the corners. Rory stared at the ring, at the lingering scent of Silas’s presence, and felt a strange, unsettling shift within her. A tiny crack in the wall she’d so carefully built. A fleeting glimpse of the woman she used to be, the woman she’d buried beneath layers of practicality and self-preservation. She looked up at Silas, at the quiet authority in his eyes, and realized he wasn't offering her salvation. He was simply offering her the uncomfortable truth she’d been diligently avoiding for twelve long years. And for the first time in a very long time, she wasn't sure she was ready to meet it.