Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9A50WZ6T0WWYFPYV6KK8K

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest bleached the rain-slicked Soho pavement a sickly lime as Rory Carter shoved through the door. She scraped rain from her straight black shoulder-length hair, her bright blue eyes darting to the dim corners of the bar—walls papered with frayed old maps, some marked with faded red ink, and black-and-white photographs of unsmiling men in tailored suits. A map of Prague hung center, its edges curled like burnt paper, and beside it a photo of a man with a raven perched on his shoulder. She leaned her scuffed delivery bag against the bar, her left wrist brushing the worn oak; the crescent scar there (a childhood fall off her father’s barrister’s bookshelf, when she’d reached for a first edition of Sherlock Holmes) caught the glow of a brass table lamp. Rain dripped from her coat collar onto the bar, leaving dark rings that merged with the faint watermarks of old drinks. A man’s limp thud echoed from the back storage room. He emerged, 6’1” with grey-streaked auburn hair and a neatly trimmed matching beard that dusted his collar, his left leg dragging slightly as he shifted a wooden crate of whiskey bottles to the bar top. His right hand wore a silver signet ring, its face etched with a raven’s head, and he wiped his palms on a stained linen towel slung over his shoulder. He paused mid-wipe when he saw her wrist. That scar. Rory’s breath caught in her throat. She’d not heard that low, rumbling voice since she was 15, when the man had helped her fish her father’s lost barrister briefcase from the churning Taff River in Cardiff—its contents soaked but salvageable, thanks to her quick idea to stuff the case in a plastic bag before they waded in. You’re Silas. She stepped back, her scuffed boot kicking the delivery bag; a container of dumplings clattered inside, its lid slipping. The crate in his hands clattered to the bar top—two bottles sloshing, their amber liquid swirling against the glass. I thought you vanished off the face of the earth. Rory’s fingers curled around the bar edge, her nails digging into the worn wood. She’d read a tiny snippet in the Cardiff Evening Post five years prior: ex-intelligence operative injured in foreign operation, status unknown. She’d stared at the words for an hour, her bright blue eyes burning, but she’d never picked up the phone to call the number listed for the story—too afraid of what she’d hear, too wrapped up in her own crumbling pre-law studies and Evan’s growing temper. The paper said you took a hit overseas. Silas shifted his weight to his right leg, his hazel eyes locking on her bright blue ones. He’d remembered her as a sharp, quick-thinking kid who’d outargued her father’s law clerks over scones and tea in the family’s Cardiff kitchen—who’d once pointed out a flaw in a high-profile case brief that even her father had missed. Now she wore a frayed delivery uniform from the Golden Empress restaurant, her knuckles scraped raw from hauling heavy food boxes up London’s narrow staircases, and her coat had a torn sleeve she’d tried to patch with black thread. Prague. Botched op. My knee gave out mid-escape, and I got captured for three days. He gestured to the center map of Prague, its red ink marks faint escape routes he’d abandoned when his knee failed. The map’s edges were singed, a souvenir from the fire he’d set to destroy evidence before he was caught. I left Cardiff without a word. Regret clamped his jaw tight, his beard twitching. He’d slipped out of her father’s study at 2 a.m. to meet a MI6 contact, and he’d never looked back. I owed you a thank-you for covering for me that night. Rory’s throat tightened. She’d lied to her father—Brendan the Irish barrister, a man who valued truth above all else—saying Silas had left to pick up urgent legal documents, not to meet a contact in a hidden alley. That lie had earned her a week of grounded dinners alone in her bedroom, her plate of shepherd’s pie growing cold as she stared at the raven figurine Silas had given her for her 14th birthday. I forgot that lie until this second. She pulled a crumpled receipt from her coat pocket, the name Evan scrawled on the back in his messy handwriting—an old bill he’d forced her to pay for his beer. She crumpled it smaller, her fingers trembling. I left pre-law six months ago. Fled Cardiff the day Evan broke my laptop for applying to a job without his permission. Silas’s gaze flicked to the crumpled receipt, his hazel eyes narrowing. He’d seen the same tight set of shoulders in witnesses he’d debriefed after violent incidents—those who’d learned to shrink into themselves to avoid further harm. He slid a glass of soda water across the bar—no ice, just like she’d liked it as a kid, when she’d refused to drink anything with ice because it made her teeth hurt. He’d never forgotten that tiny detail. You used to outthink every problem thrown at you. You once built a pulley system from rope and old curtain rods to retrieve a cat from your mother’s Welsh teacher classroom ceiling—saved the cat and avoided getting in trouble for climbing on the desks. Rory laughed, a sharp, short sound that died in her throat. The pulley system was a distant memory, replaced by the sound of Evan’s shouts echoing through their Cardiff flat, the burn of his hand on her arm when she’d tried to leave, and the taste of dumplings she’d eaten cold in London bus shelters. I deliver dumplings now. Live in a tiny flat above a laundromat, where the dryer thuds all night and mice chew through my food bags. Silas’s limp thud echoed again as he moved to the bookshelf behind the bar—its shelves lined with old spy novels and leather-bound history books, their spines cracked. He pushed a worn copy of Bram Stoker’s Dracula to the left, and the bookshelf swung open with a low creak, revealing a hidden back room lined with metal file cabinets and a small desk. The room smelled of old paper and cigar smoke. I own this bar. The hidden room’s for clandestine meetings with my old intelligence contacts—people who need a safe place to talk. I could use someone with your quick thinking to watch the door. Rory stared at the hidden room, her bright blue eyes wide. She’d not had an offer of purpose since she left pre-law—her days filled with delivering dumplings, her nights filled with staring at the raven figurine on her laundromat flat windowsill. Her father’s voice rang in her head: You’re wasting your intelligence on nothing, Rory. She flinched, her left wrist tensing, the crescent scar stretching as she curled her hand into a fist. I don’t do clandestine work. I left one dangerous life behind; I don’t want another. Silas leaned against the bookshelf, his silver signet ring glinting in the hidden room’s dim lamp light. He’d noticed her eyes dart to the back door the second she’d walked in—hidden behind a curtain of tattered velvet, its handle faded—and to the fire escape visible through a small window. She still scanned every room for exits, just like she’d done when they’d hidden from a group of bullies in Cardiff’s central library when she was 13. You scan every room for exits. You noted the back door and fire escape before you even leaned against the bar. Rory’s breath hitched. She’d indeed spotted both exits the second she’d stepped inside, a habit she’d developed after Evan broke down her bedroom door in Cardiff—she’d escaped through the window, landing hard on the grass below. That habit had saved her more than once in London. I learned that from you. You told me to always know my escape routes, no matter where I was. Silas’s jaw tightened, his hazel eyes darkening with regret. He’d regretted leaving Cardiff without saying goodbye, regretted not teaching her more skills to protect herself, regretted not knowing about Evan until this moment. I should have stayed. Should have taught you to fight back, not just run. Rory’s fingers brushed her left wrist scar, the smooth skin a reminder of her childhood courage—of the girl who’d climbed a bookshelf to reach a novel, who’d built a pulley system to save a cat. Evan had beaten that courage out of her, but for a second, standing in The Raven’s Nest, she felt it flicker again. I fight back now. I left him. I took the last of my money and got on a train to London, and I haven’t looked back. She set the crumpled Evan receipt on the bar top, her fingers steady now. Silas picked it up, tore it into tiny pieces, and dropped them into a brass ashtray on the bar—then struck a match and lit them, the flames turning the paper to ash. The flat above my bar’s empty. It’s small, but it’s quiet, and there are no mice. It’s cheaper than the laundromat. Rory’s bright blue eyes widened. She’d not had a safe place to sleep since she fled Cardiff—her laundromat flat had a broken lock, and the neighbors’ fights kept her up all night. She unclipped her delivery bag strap, setting the bag on the bar top with a thud. You’d let me stay there? Silas shifted his weight to his right leg, his limp more pronounced as he leaned in to look at her. He’d not had someone he trusted in his bar in years—someone who knew his old self, who could see past the bar owner facade and the limp, who could lie well and think quickly. I need someone to watch the hidden room when I’m in meetings. Someone who knows how to spot a threat before it’s too late. Someone who’s got that old courage I remember. Rory thought of her father’s grounded dinners, of the lie she’d told for Silas, of the pulley system she’d built, of the night she’d escaped Evan’s flat through the window. She exposed her left wrist scar again, this time not by accident, and she nodded. I can lie. I can spot a threat. I can watch the room.