AI The bell above The Raven's Nest jingles, cutting through the murmur of voices. Rory Carter pauses, the glass in her hand dripping onto the cherrywood bar. She doesn't look up. She knows that sound . Not the usual clatter of late-coming regulars, but something sharper —*nervous *.
"Rory?"
The name is a question, but it's not the first time she's heard it. Still, it flips a switch, tight and hot behind her ribs. She sets the glass down, the wet mark spreading like a bruise. "What the hell are you doing here?"
Eva. The name hits her like a fist. Same shape, same slant of the vowels—*Ee-vah *—but the voice is wrong. Thicker, edged with something Rory can't place: not the Welsh lilt they shared as kids, but a salt sea tang, like she's been living on winds off the Atlantic.
Eva steps into the light. The neon sign flickers green, gilding her hair—black, but streaked with silver, cropped close to her skull. Her coat is leather, worn at the cuffs, the collar turned up against the November chill . She hasn't changed much, Rory thinks, until she meets her eyes. They're blue, too—*faintly* blue, like someone watered down a sky—but the shape is wrong. Not the wide, trusting eyes that used to crinkle when she laughed. These are narrow, assessing.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Eva says. It's not a joke. Her fingers tap the bar, fast, a nervous habit. Rory's old, Rory realizes. Eva's got the same small hands, but the knuckles are knotted , as if she's spent years gripping something hard.
"I have," Rory says. She pushes a glass across the bar, wipes her hands on a rag. "Now get out. Silas will throw a fit if he finds you here."
"Silas," Eva says, like the name is a grenade. She hesitates, then adds, "I need to talk to you. Alone."
Rory's back stiffens. The scar on her left wrist itches—childhood, when she fell off a wall at the Ellises' house, chasing a stray cat. Eva saw it that day, too, cried because she thought Rory would bleed to death. "Alone?" She laughs, sharp . "You think I haven't learned to stay the hell alone?"
Eva steps closer. Her scent hits Rory—cumin and smoke, like she's been cooking over an open fire. "You still carry that knife under your bed, don't you?"
Rory's hand drops to the bar, where a bottle opener rests. It's not a knife, but it's sharp enough. "What do you want, Eva?"
The door swings open. Silas enters, his auburn beard glinting , a limp that's more a sway now. He stops, eyes flicking between them. "Rory. Lila—"
"Lila," Rory corrects, before the name can escape. It's been fifteen years, since Eva left Cardiff at dawn, leaving a note that said *Run * and a key to her London flat. Lila was the name she used when she started over, the one that wasn't *Eva Jones *, wasn't *the girl who got kicked out of school for punching a teacher *.
Silas nods, as if he's heard the correction before. He moves to the far end of the bar, adjusts a map on the wall—a faded street plan of Prague. "Quiet corner, Lila. Coffee's on me."
Eva's jaw tightens. "I don't want coffee."
"Then stop hovering," Rory says. She pulls a stool out, slides it to Eva like it's a grenade. "Sit. But if you so much as hint at Evan..."
"Evan's dead," Eva says.
Rory freezes. The world tilts. Evan—Evan Miller, with his cold hands and worse temper—died last year. Hit by a tube train on his way to work. The paper called it an accident. Rory had bought the paper, just to check.
"You're lying," she says.
Eva's hand trembles as she sits. "I wish I was. I got the call from the police. They said he had a train ticket to Ilford. That's where you—"
"Where I what?" Rory leans forward, her voice a growl. "Where I *hoped * he was? Where I packed my bag and left? Don't pretend you care."
"I care," Eva says. Her voice cracks. "God, Rory, I never stopped caring. I just... I had to."
"Had to what?" Rory yells. A glass clatters in the corner. Silas doesn't look up. "Hide from him? Hide from the fact that you knew he was going to hurt me? That you *let * him?"
Eva's eyes glisten. "I was scared, okay? He had power, Rory. Back in Cardiff, he was with the三合会. Triads. If I said no, he'd go after *your * dad. Your mom. The barrister, the teacher—they'd be dead before you could blink."
Rory's chest aches. She knows it's true. Evan had mentioned his uncle in Hong Kong once, a man with "connections." She'd laughed it off. Stupid.
"I didn't know where else to go," Eva says. "I took the money he gave me. The ticket. I thought... I thought if I made enough noise, he'd get bored. That we could—"
"Start over," Rory finishes. "Yeah. We did that, too." She taps the scar on her wrist. "Childhood accident. Not. Evan did that. Tried to cut it deeper when I fought back. Said it was punishment for 'disrespect.'"
Eva reaches for her hand. Rory flinches. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."
"Sorry won't bring the cuts back," Rory says. She stands, grabs her coat from the hook behind the bar. "I'm done with this. I'm closing early."
"Wait!" Eva stands, too, knocking over her stool. It clatters to the floor. "Please. There's something else. I need your help."
Rory pauses. The door is cold, the wind off the Thames biting. But Eva's voice is tight, *desperate *—the same way it used to be, when they were kids and she'd climb the walls of Llandaff Cathedral, screaming at the gargoyles because Rory had said she didn't believe in dragons.
"Help you with what?" Rory says.
Eva pulls a photo from her coat. It's crumpled, the edges frayed. The back is written in a shaky hand: *31 October 2023. Victoria Docks.*
The photo shows a warehouse, dimly lit through a crack in the door. Inside, there are barrels—oil drums, painted black. And a man. A man with a face Rory recognizes.
"Marcus Voss," Eva says. "He used to work for Evan. Before Evan... before he got stupid and started killing people."
Rory's blood turns to ice. Marcus Voss. The enforcer. The man who had broken Rory's nose when she tried to leave Evan's flat.
"Why are you showing me this?" she says.
"Because Voss is looking for you," Eva says. "He thinks you took something from Evan. Something he was going to sell to the Triads."
Rory laughs, but it's not funny. "Evan had nothing I wanted. He had a wallet, maybe. A watch that wasn't stolen. That's it."
Eva shakes her head. "He had a USB drive. With photos. Of you. Of your parents. Of Silas."
Silas. Rory's head snaps up. She turns to the bar, where he's still adjusting the map. His back is rigid, his jaw tight.
"I didn't know," she says.
Eva steps closer. "Silas helped you leave, didn't he? Back in 2008. Got you the fake ID. The train ticket. He's been watching you ever since."
Rory's throat is dry. Silas had been quiet the night she left, had just nodded when she knocked on his door, had pressed a envelope of cash into her hand. "Why?" she says. "What did he want?"
Eva hesitates. "He... he used to work with Evan's uncle. Before Prague. Before he retired."
The bell jingles again. A customer enters, but Rory doesn't look up. She's too busy staring at Silas, at the way his fingers trace the edge of the map, at the silver signet ring on his right hand—Evan's ring, Rory realizes, because she'd seen him wear it once, when she'd gone back to retrieve a book she'd left at his flat.
"When did you find out?" she says.
"Last week," Eva says. "Voss gave me the photo. Told me I had three days to find you and bring him the USB drive. Otherwise, he'd kill your mom. And your dad. And Silas. And... and me."
Rory closes her eyes. The world spins. She thinks of her parents, of their walks in Bute Park, of her mom's recipe for cawl, of her dad's stories about the law. She thinks of Silas, of the way he'd taught her to mix a martini, to read a room, to *survive *.
"You should have told me," she says.
"I tried," Eva says. "I went to your flat. You weren't there. I called. Your machine picked up. I left a message. You never called back."
Rory opens her eyes. "I've been busy. I have a life now. A bar. A job. I don't need this."
"Your life is a lie," Eva says. "Evan was a monster. But Silas is a *spy *. And he's been lying to you your whole goddamned life—"
"Evan was a Triad errand boy," Rory says, cutting her off. "Silas was MI6. He didn't lie. He *saved * me. If he wanted me dead, I'd be dead. That's why I stayed here, isn't it? Because I thought... because I hoped ..."
She trails off. Silas turns, meets her eyes. His hazel gaze is steady, unflinching.
"Come here," he says, his voice low .
Rory hesitates. Then she moves, crosses the bar. Silas reaches into his pocket, pulls out a key—old, brass, with a snake carved into the shaft.
"The secret room," he says. "I've been waiting for the right time to tell you."
"Why?" Rory says. "After all these years?"
"Because Voss is a problem," Silas says. "He has contacts. In Prague. In Cardiff. He'll find you. He'll find them. And if I'm not there to stop him..."
"You'll let me handle it," Rory says.
Silas nods. "You're good. Better than me, even. In 2008, I owed your father. A debt. He saved my life. In Prague. I owed him. And I owed you. Because you were the first person I knew who could outthink a monster. Who didn't back down."
Rory looks at the key. At the snake, coiled around the shaft. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Because secrets are heavier than lies," Silas says. "They weigh you down. You needed to be free. From Evan. From him. From... everything."
Eva clears her throat. "What about the USB drive?"
Rory looks at her. "Evan had it. So did Voss. So did Silas. Because he's a spymaster, right? He didn't just *save * me. He *kept * an eye on me. To make sure I didn't go back. To make sure I didn't... *break *."
Silas smiles. "Break is a big word, Rory. You're stronger than that."
"I am," she says. "But that doesn't mean I know how to fight a spy . Or a Triad enforcer. Or... the man I thought I could trust."
"Trust isn't a currency," Silas says. "It's a choice. And you made the right one, staying here. Staying *alive *."
Rory picks up the key. The snake is cold in her hand. She thinks of her parents, of Eva, of Silas, of the girl she was, the woman she is. She thinks of Evan, dead, and Voss, coming for her.
"Let's find the USB drive," she says.
Eva's face lights up. "You can do this?"
"I have to," Rory says. She looks at Silas. "Show me the secret room."
Silas nods, stands. He walks to the bookshelf, runs his hand along the spine of a leather-bound novel—*Notes from Underground *—and pulls. The shelf swings open, revealing a staircase, dark and narrow.
"Voss is waiting," Silas says. "We have an hour. Maybe less."
Rory takes the key from her pocket. Feels the scar on her wrist, itching again.
"Good," she says. "Let's make him wait."
She starts down the stairs, Eva right behind her. Silas lingers, looks at the door, then follows. The secret room is cool, lined with files, with maps, with a desk, with a laptop open, its screen showing a single file: *Aurora Carter. vital. not to be compromised.*
Rory smiles. She opens the file. There's a photo of Evan, dead, under a train. There's a photo of Marcus Voss, standing in front of a warehouse. And there's a message: *Watch her. Keep her safe. If anything happens to her, burn the world.*
She closes the laptop. Looks at Silas.
"Burn the world," she says. "Romantic."
Silas smirks. "MI6 isn't known for its sense of humor, Rory."
"Good," she says. "Then Voss is in for a treat."
She sits at the desk, opens the USB drive Evan had. Starts typing. Eva leans over her shoulder. Silas pulls up a map, his finger tracing Victoria Docks.
The clock on the wall ticks. Outside, the wind howls. Inside, the secret room hums with purpose.
Rory stares at the screen. Thinks of the girl she was, the woman she is, and the one she'll become.
Time, she knows, is a funny thing. It changes people. It heals. It hunts.
But for now, she's ready.
Ready to fight.
Ready to burn.
Ready to come home.