AI The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest * flickered like a dying ember as Rory Carter pushed through the heavy door, the bell above it chiming softly in the damp London air. The scent of aged whiskey and cigarette smoke hit her first—familiar , comforting —before the hum of low conversation and the clink of glasses settled over her like a second skin. She’d been avoiding places like this for years, but tonight, after another shift at the Golden Empress, the weight of the city had pressed down too hard, and she’d needed the quiet of the Nest’s dim corners.
She slid onto a stool near the back, where the light was thinner, and ordered a gin and tonic from a bartender who didn’t even glance up. The glass was cold in her palm, the ice clinking against the sides as she took a slow sip. The liquid burned just enough to distract her from the ache in her wrist, the one that flared when the weather turned. She flexed her fingers, tracing the crescent-shaped scar with her thumb—a childhood accident, nothing more. But sometimes, like tonight, it felt like a reminder of something else entirely.
A shadow stretched long across the floor as the door swung open again. Rory didn’t look up, but she knew. The air shifted, thickened, like the moment before a storm breaks. Then, a voice—deep, roughened by years, but still unmistakable.
“Well, well. If it isn’t Rory Carter.”
She turned.
Silas Blackwood stood there, filling the doorway like he always had—tall, broad-shouldered, his auburn hair now streaked with silver, his beard neatly trimmed. His left leg gave the slightest hitch as he moved, a limp she’d forgotten about until now. He wore a dark wool coat, the kind that looked expensive even when it was rumpled , and his right hand rested on the hilt of a cane she hadn’t noticed until he shifted his weight onto it.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. Rory’s pulse jumped. *Silas.* Here, in this bar, of all places. The last time she’d seen him, she’d been nineteen , fresh out of Cardiff, her future still a blank page. Now, she was twenty-five, and the page was half-filled with mistakes.
“Si,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “I didn’t know you still ran this place.”
He smirked, the kind of grin that used to make her stomach flip. Now, it just made her chest tighten. “Still here,” he said, sliding onto the stool beside her. “Still pulling strings.”
The bartender appeared without being summoned, setting a whiskey neat in front of Silas. He didn’t thank him, just lifted the glass in Rory’s direction. “You look good,” he said. “Healthy.”
She almost laughed. “You’re one to talk.”
His hazel eyes flickered over her—her black hair, still straight and shoulder-length, her simple black top, the way she sat with her shoulders slightly hunched, like she was bracing for something. “You always did have a way of looking like you were about to outrun trouble,” he said. “Still do.”
Rory swirled her drink, the ice rattling. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.”
Silas chuckled, low and dry. “Nothing’s changed, then.”
No, nothing had. Not really . She’d left Cardiff under the cover of night, her bags packed, her mother’s voice still ringing in her ears: *You’re throwing everything away.* And Silas—well, he’d been the one to slip her the train ticket, to tell her not to look back. *Some doors shouldn’t be opened twice,* he’d said.
She took a sip, the gin sharp on her tongue. “You look… different.”
“Older,” he supplied.
“Not just that.” She gestured vaguely at his cane, the way he moved. “You’ve got that limp now.”
His jaw tightened. “Old knee. Prague.”
Ah. The job that had ended his career. The one he never talked about. Rory remembered the way he’d come back from that assignment—quieter, sharper, like he’d been honed down to something leaner. “You still do it, don’t you?” she asked. “The spy stuff.”
Silas took a slow sip of his whiskey. “Occasionally.”
“Bullshit.” She set her glass down . “You’re still in it. I can see it in your eyes.”
He studied her for a long moment, then exhaled through his nose. “Maybe.”
The word hung between them, heavy. Rory’s fingers twitched. She wanted to ask how he’d ended up here, running a bar in Soho instead of pulling levers in some shadowy government office. She wanted to know if he ever missed it, if he ever wondered what might have been. But the questions died on her tongue.
Because she knew the answer.
Silas had always been the kind of man who thrived in the dark. He’d been her guide through the murkier parts of Cardiff—late-night walks through the city’s underbelly, whispered secrets in the back of his father’s old Jaguar, the way he’d taught her how to disappear when she needed to. Back then, she’d thought she was invincible. Now, she knew better.
“You’re working at the Golden Empress, aren’t you?” he said suddenly .
Rory blinked. “How did you—?”
“London’s a small city when you know where to look.” He swirled his glass. “Delivery driver, part-time. That right?”
She nodded, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. Pays the bills.”
“And the rest?”
“The rest what?”
“What do you do when the deliveries are done? When the money’s in the bank?”
Rory’s grip tightened on her glass. “I read. I walk. I—”
“You’re still thinking about law, aren’t you?”
The question hit like a punch. She hadn’t told anyone that. Not even Eva. “No,” she said quickly . “I mean—”
“Don’t lie to me, Rory.” His voice was gentle, but there was steel in it. “I know that look. You’re still chasing it.”
She stared into her drink. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Bullshit.” Silas leaned in, his voice dropping . “You think I don’t know what it’s like to want something and not be able to have it?”
The words stung. Because he did know. He’d wanted to stay in the game, to keep pulling strings, to be the man who called the shots. Instead, he’d ended up here, behind a bar, running a front for who knew what. “This isn’t the same,” she muttered.
“Isn’t it?” He gestured around them—the dim lighting, the old maps on the walls, the way the air hummed with something unspoken . “You think I don’t see the way you look at this place? Like it’s a ghost of what you could’ve been?”
Rory’s breath hitched. “I don’t—”
“You do.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a silver signet ring, the kind that looked like it belonged on the hand of a man who still had power. “I still have contacts. Still have ways of making things happen.”
She should’ve known. Of course he did. Silas Blackwood wasn’t the kind of man who just walked away from the game. He’d just learned how to play it differently.
“What are you saying?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper .
“I’m saying you’re still Rory Carter. The girl who could talk her way into anywhere. The girl who wasn’t afraid to fight for what she wanted.” He set the ring down on the bar between them, the metal catching the dim light. “I’m saying if you want to go back to school, if you want to actually do something with that mind of yours, I can help.”
Rory’s heart pounded. This was it. The moment she’d been waiting for, the chance to finally turn the page. But the weight of the past pressed down on her, the years of running, of hiding, of telling herself she didn’t deserve it.
“Why now?” she asked.
Silas’s expression darkened. “Because I see the way you’re looking at me. Like you’re waiting for me to let you down.”
The words landed like a blade. She looked away, her throat tight. “I’m not waiting for anything.”
“Bullshit.” His voice was rough. “You’re waiting for me to tell you it’s too late. That you’ve messed up too much. That you don’t deserve it.”
Rory’s hands trembled . She hadn’t realized how badly she’d needed to hear that until now. “Maybe I don’t.”
Silas reached across the bar and took her wrist, his fingers warm against her skin. She flinched, but he didn’t let go. Instead, he turned her hand over, tracing the scar on her inner wrist with his thumb. “This isn’t the only one, is it?”
She pulled back. “What?”
“You’ve got more scars than just this one.” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of something she couldn’t name. “On your soul.”
Rory’s breath came fast. She wanted to deny it. To tell him he didn’t know her anymore. But the truth was, he did. He always had.
She looked down at her drink, the ice long since melted. “I don’t know if I can do it,” she said softly . “Not after everything.”
Silas was silent for a long moment. Then, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. He slid it across the bar to her. “This is the address of a contact. A professor at LSE. He owes me a favor.” His eyes held hers. “You want to go back to school? You want to actually do something with that brilliant mind of yours? Then you start there. And when you’re ready, you come back to me.”
Rory stared at the paper. It was that simple. That impossible.
“What if I say no?” she asked.
Silas’s smirk was back, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Then you’re still running.”
The words hung between them, sharp and true. She thought of all the doors she’d closed, all the chances she’d let slip through her fingers. Of Evan, of Cardiff, of the life she’d left behind.
And of the life she was still waiting for.
Rory picked up the paper and tucked it into her pocket. “I’ll think about it.”
Silas nodded, like he’d expected nothing less. Then, he raised his glass. “To second chances.”
She clinked hers against his, the ice rattling. “To second chances.”
For a moment, they just sat there, the weight of the past and the promise of the future pressing between them. Then, Silas stood, his cane tapping softly against the floor. “I’ll be in the back if you need me.”
Rory watched him go, the way his limp was more pronounced now, the way he moved like a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. She thought of all the times he’d been there for her, all the ways he’d helped her disappear. And she wondered, not for the first time, if she’d ever really been the one in control.
She finished her drink in one long swallow, the gin burning all the way down. Then, she stood, her fingers brushing the paper in her pocket.
Maybe it was time to stop running.