Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8ZMX9HE9RVRVSX088P0S4

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 jingling against the weight of her thoughts. The air inside smelled of stale beer, polished wood, and something faintly metallic—like old coins or blood. She hadn’t been here in months, not since Silas had started acting strange, his usual easy charm replaced by something sharper, colder. But tonight, she’d needed a drink that wasn’t from a bottle in her flat, and the Nest had been the only place that didn’t feel like a mistake. She slid onto a stool near the back, where the light was dim enough to hide the way her hands trembled. The bar was half-full, the usual mix of late-night regulars and the occasional tourist who’d wandered in off the street. Rory ordered a gin and tonic—neat, no ice—and watched the bartender’s reflection in the mirror behind the shelves. His back was to her, but she knew that stance. The way he moved, slow and deliberate, like a man who’d spent too many years waiting for something to happen. Then the door swung open again. The air shifted. Rory didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. She recognised the weight of the silence before the words even formed. A beat of hesitation, then the scrape of a stool being pulled out, the faint creak of leather against wood. “Well,” a voice said, smooth as aged whiskey. “If it isn’t Rory Carter.” She exhaled through her nose, fingers tightening around her glass. The ice clinked. Silas Blackwood stood there, broader than she remembered, his auburn hair streaked with silver now, his beard trimmed close to his jaw. The limp in his left leg was more pronounced, a ghost of the old knee injury that had ended his career. He wore a dark suit tonight, the kind that looked expensive but had seen better days—like a man who still dressed for a job that no longer existed. His hazel eyes, sharp as flint, locked onto hers. Rory swirled her drink. “Silas.” A pause. The kind that used to mean he was about to say something clever, something that would make her laugh. Now it just meant he was deciding how much of himself he was willing to show. “You look well,” he said finally. She almost laughed. “You’re lying.” His mouth twitched. “Fair.” The silence settled again, thick and unspoken. Rory remembered the last time they’d talked like this—years ago, in his flat above the bar, the two of them drunk on cheap wine and bad decisions, laughing about nothing and everything. Back then, Silas had still been *Silas*, the man who’d pulled her out of more scrapes than she could count. The man who’d taught her how to lie with a straight face, how to disappear when she needed to, how to trust no one but herself. Now, he was just a stranger with a signet ring on his right hand. “You’ve changed,” she said. His fingers brushed the rim of his glass—whiskey, no ice either. “So have you.” Rory didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The scar on her left wrist, the one from the childhood accident, was still there, but it wasn’t the only thing that had marked her. The way she carried herself now was different. Tighter. Like she was always bracing for something. Silas studied her for a long moment. “You’re working for Yu-Fei again, aren’t you?” She blinked. “How do you—” “London’s a small city when you know where to look.” His voice was mild, but there was an edge to it, something like disappointment. “Thought you’d gone straight.” “Thought you’d retired for good.” His jaw tightened. “So did I.” The bartender slid a fresh drink toward Silas without being asked. Rory watched the way his fingers curled around the glass, the way his thumb traced the rim. Old habits. “You still running the Nest as a front?” she asked. Silas didn’t flinch. “And you still delivering takeaway like it’s some grand rebellion.” She took a sip. “It pays the rent.” “Does it?” The question hung between them, heavy as the silence that followed. Rory set her glass down with a little too much force. “What do you want, Silas?” He leaned back, just slightly, like he was considering his next move. “Same as always. To talk.” “About what?” “About the fact that you haven’t been back here in months.” His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist, then away. “About the fact that you look like you’re one wrong move away from running.” Rory’s fingers twitched. “I’m fine.” “Bullshit.” The word hit like a punch. She didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at him, her bright blue eyes cold. Silas sighed, running a hand over his beard. “You always were terrible at lying.” “And you always were terrible at subtlety.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “Still am.” Rory exhaled, slow and controlled. “What happened to you, Silas?” His expression shut down. “What do you mean?” “You used to be the guy who’d drag me out of trouble. Now you’re the guy who lets me walk right into it.” She leaned forward, voice low. “What changed?” Silas’s fingers tightened around his glass. “People do.” “Not like this.” For a long moment, he just looked at her. Then, quietly: “I got hurt. Bad enough that I couldn’t do the job anymore. So I opened a bar. Kept the contacts. Kept the… *habits*.” Rory’s stomach twisted. “You’re still in it.” “Not the way you think.” “Then what way?” He didn’t answer. Just stared at her, his hazel eyes dark with something she couldn’t name. The bartender moved to the other end of the bar, giving them space. Rory watched the way Silas’s gaze followed him, the way his fingers tapped once against the wood. Old instincts. “You ever think about what we could’ve been?” Silas asked suddenly. Rory’s breath caught. “What?” “You and me. Back then.” His voice was rough. “Before the jobs, before the scars. Before the lies.” She looked away. “That wasn’t real.” “Wasn’t it?” The question burned. Rory stood abruptly, her stool scraping back. “This was a mistake.” Silas didn’t move. Didn’t stop her. Just watched as she turned, her black hair swinging over her shoulder, her bright blue eyes flashing with something raw and unguarded. The door swung shut behind her. Silas stayed where he was, his glass half-full, his mind replaying the last five minutes like a loop he couldn’t turn off. He should’ve let her go. But he didn’t.