Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8S0G59Y24YVT3CAKE89ZB

The rain hammered against the windows of The Raven’s Nest, blurring the neon green sign into a smeared halo. Silas polished a glass behind the bar, the rhythmic swish of the cloth a counterpoint to the rising tide of conversation and the mournful pulse of a blues track. He hadn’t seen a face he recognized in weeks, and the regulars were a comfortable, predictable blur. Then she walked in. The door opened with a reluctant groan, admitting a gust of rain and a woman who looked utterly, impossibly, like a ghost. Rory. It wasn’t a question, not really. The sharp angles of her face, the way her black hair fell straight and dark, the unmistakable brightness of those blue eyes – they hadn’t aged a day. Just… sharpened. Hardened. She scanned the room, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her features, then stopped dead when her gaze locked with his. A pause, thick with unspoken history, stretched between them. The music seemed to fade. The chatter died down. Even the rain outside seemed to hold its breath. “Silas,” she said, her voice low, carrying just enough to cut through the quiet. He turned, setting down the glass with a precise clink. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted in the dim light. “Aurora.” He didn’t smile. There hadn’t been a genuine smile on his face in a very long time. “Last I heard, you were off somewhere exotic, chasing something shiny.” She didn’t move, simply studied him, taking in the lines etched around his eyes, the slight limp that favored his left leg, the way the years had settled into his posture like a heavy coat. “I was running,” she replied, the words clipped and precise. "That’s usually what people do.” “Running from what?” He leaned against the bar, the wood cool beneath his palm. She took a slow, deliberate sip of the whiskey she’d ordered. “From a man who didn’t understand the value of silence.” Her eyes didn't waver. “From a life built on promises he couldn’t keep.” A memory, sharp and unwelcome, pricked at his mind – Evan. The ugliness of it. The way she’d looked then, vulnerable and adrift. He’d wanted to reach out, to offer a hand, but something – pride, perhaps, or a fatalistic understanding of human nature – had kept him silent. "You look… different," he observed, more a statement than a question. “I’ve been busy,” she stated flatly. "London isn’t conducive to pleasant afternoons." “You deliver food,” he pointed out, gesturing towards the kitchen door. “Yu-Fei’s place is… practical,” she said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. “It pays the rent.” She avoided his gaze, focusing on the swirling ice in her glass. The air shifted, thick with the residue of years. He remembered her ambitions at university, the burning desire to be a barrister like her father, the way she'd argued passionately about justice and the rule of law. Now, there was a pragmatism in her eyes, a cold calculation that hadn’t been there before. “What happened, Aurora? Really happened?” She finally looked at him then, and for a moment, he saw a flicker of the girl he’d known – the girl with the quick wit and the boundless optimism. It vanished quickly, replaced by a steely resolve. “I learned a few things,” she said, her voice barely audible above the music. “About loyalty. About betrayal. About the lengths people will go to protect what they want.” “Protection?” Silas inquired, tilting his head slightly. “From whom?” “Everyone,” she said, the word laced with cynicism. “Everyone. It started with a client. A simple missing person case. Turned into something… much bigger.” She paused, considering her words. “Someone wanted to bury a secret. A very dangerous secret. And I found it.” He took a slow breath. "And now?" “Now, I’m… invested,” she admitted, the word tentative. "I don’t exactly know *how* I'm invested, but it’s… persistent.” Silas studied her, his hazel eyes assessing, searching. He’d built his life on secrets, on navigating the murky currents of intelligence. He recognized the telltale signs of someone who’d been through the grinder – the guardedness, the reluctance to offer details, the faint scent of danger clinging to her like rain. "You’ve traded legal briefs for… something less tidy.” “The law isn’t always clean,” she countered, her chin lifting. “Sometimes, you have to get your hands dirty to find the truth.” A small, wry smile touched his lips. “A noble sentiment. And a remarkably expensive one.” He gestured to the bar. “Let me get you another drink. Something stronger.” As he moved to refill her glass, he noticed a small, almost invisible scar on her left wrist – a crescent shaped reminder of a childhood accident, a detail he’d almost forgotten. It seemed to shimmer beneath the dim light. “That’s a nasty one,” he observed, the words unintentional. She touched the scar briefly, her fingers lingering for a moment. “A long time ago,” she said, her voice distant. “Before everything changed.” He returned with the whiskey, placing the glass before her. “I remember you always had a knack for seeing through people.” “It was a survival mechanism,” she replied, swirling the liquid in her glass. “You learn to trust no one.” “You still have that instinct, I suspect,” Silas said, his gaze unwavering. “It’s a useful tool.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, "I always thought you'd be a formidable barrister." She laughed, a short, brittle sound. It didn’t reach her eyes. "Jurisprudence felt… limiting. Predictable.” He poured himself a drink, studying her profile. The rain continued to fall, a steady, insistent drumbeat against the windows. “Tell me about this… secret.” She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the glass. “It involves a politician. A missing shipment of arms. And a very powerful organization that operates in the shadows.” “Shadows are my specialty,” Silas said quietly. He reached under the bar, retrieving a small, tarnished silver lighter. He flicked it open, the small flame briefly illuminating her face – stark, resolute, and utterly alone. “It's not a game anymore, Silas,” she said, her voice tight. "This isn't some petty dispute. This is… dangerous.” “Everything’s dangerous, Aurora,” he replied, capping his drink. “The question is, are you willing to dance with the danger, or will you run from it again?” She met his gaze, and for the first time, he saw a glimmer of the old Rory – the girl who’d once dreamed of changing the world. It was a fragile spark, threatened by the darkness that clung to her. “I’m not running,” she declared, her voice gaining a newfound strength. “I'm hunting.” Silas nodded slowly, a flicker of something akin to admiration in his eyes. “Then let’s talk about the prey.” He gestured towards the hidden door behind the bookshelf, barely visible in the gloom. “The back room is a bit… sterile. We need somewhere less conspicuous to discuss this.” As she followed him through the narrow doorway, leaving the relative warmth and noise of The Raven’s Nest behind, Silas couldn't shake the feeling that he wasn’t just offering her a safe haven. He was offering her a chance—a slim, perilous chance—to reclaim the woman she’d lost. And he suspected, with a chilling certainty, that whatever she was hunting, it was hunting her right back.