Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8T7ZXHW9A90HM1ZND21BP

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the London drizzle, its glow bleeding into the pavement like a bruise. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something faintly metallic—old blood, maybe, or the scent of secrets left to dry. Aurora Carter—Rory, if anyone asked—leaned against the bar, nursing a gin and tonic she hadn’t touched in twenty minutes. The ice had long since melted into a watery sludge, the glass rim damp against her fingers. She hadn’t meant to come here. Not after all these years. She’d been in the neighborhood for another reason entirely—delivering a takeout order for Golden Empress, the last stop before heading back to her flat above Silas’ bar. But the sign had caught her eye, just like it always had. The Raven’s Nest had been her and Eva’s second home once, back when they were still kids with too much time and nowhere else to go. Back when the world felt like it was theirs to shape, not just survive. The door chimed softly behind her, and she didn’t turn. She knew that walk before she saw him. The way his left leg dragged just slightly, the way his shoulders carried the weight of a man who’d seen too much. She exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening around the glass. “Took you long enough,” a voice drawled from behind her. She turned slowly, bracing herself. Silas Blackwood stood there, older than she remembered, but not by much. His auburn hair was streaked with silver now, his beard neatly trimmed, but his hazel eyes were the same—sharp, assessing, like they always had been. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted under the dim bar lights, a relic from a life she barely knew. “Si,” she said, voice flat. “I didn’t know you were still here.” He smirked, pushing off the bar to lean against it beside her. The movement was careful, deliberate, like he was reminding her—and himself—that time hadn’t been kind. “Thought I’d retire to the countryside. Turns out I like the city too much.” She studied him. The lines around his mouth were deeper now, his jaw more angular. He looked like a man who’d made peace with things, or at least learned to live with them. She didn’t. “You look different,” she said, because it was the only thing that came to mind. He laughed, low and rough. “So do you.” She ignored that. “You still run this place?” “Still run it.” He gestured to the bar. “Still own it. Still pretend I don’t know half the people who walk through that door.” She took a slow sip of her drink, the gin burning the back of her throat. “And the other half?” His gaze flicked to her, unreadable. “The other half don’t walk through the door.” A beat. The kind that hung between them like a question neither wanted to ask. She changed the subject. “Eva still alive?” Silas’ expression darkened just slightly. “She is.” “Good.” Rory set her glass down. “I should’ve known you’d be the one to tell me.” “You should’ve known a lot of things,” he said quietly. The words hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. She looked away first, her fingers tracing the scar on her left wrist—the one from the childhood accident, the one that had never fully healed, not like the rest of her. She’d thought about it often lately. “You look like you’ve been doing okay,” Silas said, breaking the tension. “Working at the restaurant. Living above here.” “It’s fine,” she said, because it was. Mostly. She had a job. A roof over her head. A life that didn’t involve running from things anymore. But fine wasn’t the same as good. Silas studied her for a long moment. “You ever think about going back to law?” She barked out a laugh. “Like I’d ever be good enough.” “You were always good enough,” he said, voice low. “You just didn’t want to be.” She turned to face him fully, her blue eyes sharp. “That’s not what this is about.” “Isn’t it?” He tilted his head, watching her. “You ran, Rory. And you never looked back.” The name stung. She’d hated it when he called her that, back when they were kids. Now, it felt like a rebuke. “People change,” she said, her voice tighter. “People do.” He took a slow sip of his drink, a whiskey neat, the way he always had. “But some things don’t.” She wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him she’d changed. That she wasn’t the same girl who’d left Cardiff behind, who’d let Evan break her, who’d thought she could outrun everything. But the words stuck in her throat. Silas sighed, rubbing his left knee absently. The limp was more pronounced tonight, or maybe she was just noticing it more. “You ever think about what you left behind?” The question hit her like a punch to the gut. She swallowed hard, her fingers curling into her palms. “I left behind a lot of things.” “Like me.” She looked away, her chest tight. “You were always going to leave, Si. You were always going to be the one who walked away.” He was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: “I never left you, Rory.” She turned back to him, her eyes burning. “You left me with Eva. You left me with a life I didn’t want.” “And you left me with a war,” he said, voice rough. “A job that broke me. A life I couldn’t walk away from.” She flinched. She hadn’t known that. She hadn’t known any of it. Silas exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. “I was supposed to be the one who made things right. And I didn’t.” “You didn’t have to—” “Yes, I did.” His voice was low, desperate. “I was supposed to be better than that.” She wanted to reach out to him. She wanted to tell him it was okay, that none of it was his fault. But the words wouldn’t come. Because some things weren’t okay. Because some things were just *done*. She looked away, her throat tight. “I should go.” Silas didn’t stop her. He just watched her as she grabbed her untouched drink and made her way to the door. The neon sign flickered above her, casting her in a green glow as she stepped into the cold London night. She didn’t look back. But she could feel him watching her, even from across the room. Even from across the years.