Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9F93B55P557NK6BQX6YQN

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 faintest trace of gunpowder, though no one had fired a shot in this place in years. The walls were lined with yellowed maps, their edges curled from decades of handling, and the photographs pinned above the bar were all men—some in uniform, some in suits, their faces stern, their expressions unreadable. The kind of men who didn’t smile for the camera. Aurora Carter—Rory, to her friends—leaned against the bar, nursing a glass of something amber and bitter. She hadn’t been back here since she left London, not since she’d walked out of her life like it was a room she’d outgrown. The flat above the bar had been cheap, the job at Golden Empress had been steady, and the streets had been quiet enough that she could pretend she wasn’t still running. But tonight, the rain had been heavier than usual, the kind that made the city feel like it was breathing in slow, wet gasps, and she’d found herself here anyway. She wasn’t supposed to be here. The door chimed softly behind her, and the air shifted. A man stepped inside, his presence filling the space before he even moved. He had that way about him—like he owned the room just by standing in it. His auburn hair was streaked with silver, his beard neatly trimmed, his posture just slightly off, as if he’d been carrying something heavy for too long. His hazel eyes scanned the bar, lingering for a beat before they landed on her. Rory didn’t turn. She didn’t have to. “Well,” she said, her voice steady despite the way her pulse had jumped at the sight of him. “If it isn’t Silas Blackwood. Still running things, I see.” He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Still avoiding me, I take it.” His voice was rough, like gravel underfoot. He slid onto the stool beside her, the wood groaning under his weight. “You look the same.” She shot him a look over her shoulder. “I don’t.” “You do.” He gestured vaguely at her—her black hair, her sharp jaw, the way she held herself like she was bracing for impact. “Still the same stubborn little devil.” Rory turned fully, crossing her arms. “You’re the one who looks like he’s been through a war.” Silas didn’t flinch. “I have.” The bartender—a young man with a name tag that read *JASON*—appeared with two fresh glasses, sliding one toward Rory without a word. She took it, the ice clinking against the glass. “You still own this place?” “Still running it.” He swirled his drink, the amber liquid catching the dim light. “Retired, but not gone.” “Retired from what?” “MI6.” He said it like it was a fact, not a confession. “Field work. Knee gave out in Prague.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “I didn’t know.” “Why would you?” He took a sip, then set the glass down. “You left.” The words hung between them, sharp as broken glass. She hadn’t meant to leave. Not really. But Evan had been there, his hands on her wrist, his voice a growl in her ear, and she’d known—knew—she couldn’t stay. Eva had been the one to tell her about Silas’s place, about the flat above the bar, about the job at the restaurant. *Just get out, Rory. Before he breaks you.* She hadn’t looked back. Silas studied her, his gaze unreadable. “You still working for Golden Empress?” “Delivery driver.” She took a sip of her drink, the whiskey burning the back of her throat. “Part-time.” “Still running from something?” The question was so direct it made her flinch. She set her glass down harder than she meant to. “I’m not running.” “No?” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “Then why haven’t you been back?” Because I’m afraid of what I’ll find. Because I’m afraid of who I’ve become. Because I left without saying goodbye. She opened her mouth, then closed it. The words stuck in her throat. Silas sighed, rubbing his left knee—just once, like he was reminding himself it was still there. “You always were good at walking away.” “And you were always good at not letting go,” she shot back. He smirked, just a little. “Fair.” A beat of silence. The hum of the bar, the distant chatter of other patrons, the occasional clink of glass. Rory picked at the label on her glass, her nails catching on the paper. “What are you doing here, Silas?” He exhaled, long and slow. “Same as you, I suppose. Looking for something.” “What?” “Answers.” He gestured around the bar, at the maps, the photographs, the way the place felt like a time capsule. “This was never just a bar. It was a front.” “I know.” “You do?” She nodded. “Eva told me.” His name dropped like a stone between them. *Eva.* The one person who had known her before she became Rory Carter, the delivery driver with a scar on her wrist and a past she didn’t talk about. The one person who had seen her fall apart and still believed in her. Silas’s jaw tightened. “She’s still in Cardiff?” “Last I heard.” Rory’s throat tightened. “She’s good.” “She always was.” Another silence. This one heavier. Rory stared at her glass, at the way the light caught the whiskey, at the way her fingers were trembling just a little. She hadn’t thought about Eva in months. Hadn’t thought about any of it. Silas reached into his jacket, pulling out a small, worn photograph. He slid it across the bar toward her. It was her. Younger. Smiling. Her hair was longer, her eyes brighter, her skin unmarked. She was standing in front of a building she didn’t recognize, her arm around a man who wasn’t Evan, who wasn’t anyone she’d ever met before that night. The man in the photo was Silas. Rory’s breath caught. “Prague,” he said quietly. “Before the knee. Before I retired.” She looked up at him. “You were there.” “Yes.” “And I wasn’t.” “No.” She swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?” “Because you weren’t supposed to know.” His voice was low, urgent. “Because it wasn’t your fight.” “But it was.” “No.” He shook his head. “It wasn’t.” She wanted to argue. She wanted to scream that she had been there, in the background, in the shadows, that she had seen things she couldn’t unsee. But the words died in her throat. Silas studied her, his eyes searching hers like he was looking for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. “You left, Rory. You walked away.” “I had to.” “Did you?” The question hung between them, heavy and unanswerable. She thought of Evan, of the way his hands had felt, of the way she had woken up some mornings with bruises she couldn’t explain. She thought of Eva, of the way her friend had looked at her like she was already broken, like she was already gone. She thought of the scar on her wrist, the one she never let anyone see. She thought of the life she had left behind. Silas reached out, his fingers brushing against hers. Just for a second. Just enough to remind her that he was still there, that he had always been there. “You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he said softly. She looked at him, really looked at him. At the lines on his face, at the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, at the way he carried himself like he had been through hell and back and still wasn’t sure he deserved to be here. She thought of the girl in the photograph, of the life she had almost had, of the life she had almost lost. She thought of the future. And she knew. She wasn’t afraid anymore. She was just tired. Rory took a deep breath, then another. She picked up the photograph, her fingers wrapping around the edges like they were holding onto something fragile. “What now, Silas?” He smiled, just a little. “Now we drink. And we talk. And we figure out what comes next.” She nodded. Because that was what they did. They figured it out.