Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9N6C2RHWMS8JHA0PBJQ91

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying pulse, casting jagged shadows across the pavement. Rory Carter pushed through the door, the bell above jingling against the weight of her thoughts. The air inside smelled of stale beer and old wood, the kind of scent that clung to places where secrets were traded over pints. She slid onto a stool near the back, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty glass left by the last customer. The bar was quiet tonight, just a handful of regulars hunched over their drinks, their murmurs lost in the hum of the jukebox playing something slow and bluesy. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood stood behind the counter, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes. His back was to her, but she’d know that posture anywhere—the way his shoulders carried themselves, the slight hitch in his step when he shifted his weight. The years had etched deeper lines into his face, silver threading through his auburn hair, but his hands were still the same: steady, capable. She exhaled, her breath catching in her throat. Silas didn’t turn right away. He knew. Of course he did. “Rory,” he said finally, his voice rougher than she remembered. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” She twisted the scar on her wrist, the crescent-shaped mark pulling tight under her fingers. “Neither did I.” A beat of silence. The kind that stretched too long, heavy with things left unsaid. Silas set the glass down with a quiet *clink*. “What’ll it be?” “Whiskey. Neat.” He poured without looking at her, the amber liquid catching the dim light. Slid the glass across the counter. “You look like hell.” She took a sip. Burned. “Thanks.” He leaned against the bar, his signet ring glinting under the fluorescent strip. “You always did have a way with words.” Rory traced the rim of the glass. “You always did have a way of making me feel like shit.” Silas didn’t smile. Just watched her, his hazel eyes sharp. “You left.” “I know.” “Didn’t even say goodbye.” “I was running.” “From what?” She swallowed hard. “From everything.” Silas exhaled, slow and measured. “You could’ve come back.” “I couldn’t.” “Why not?” Because I was scared. Because I didn’t know how to be the person you thought I was anymore. Because I failed at everything I tried. Because I didn’t deserve you. But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she said, “You look different.” His jaw tightened. “People change.” “You always were the one who stayed.” “And you were the one who left.” Rory’s fingers curled around the glass. “I had to.” “Had to what? Run? Hide?” She met his gaze. “I had to live.” Silas studied her for a long moment, then turned away, grabbing a rag to wipe down the counter. “You’re not the same girl who used to climb those fucking scaffolding sites with me.” “No,” she said quietly. “I’m not.” He didn’t look at her. “What do you want, Rory?” She hesitated. Then, “I don’t know.” Silas set the rag down. “Then why are you here?” Because I needed to see you. To know if you’d still look at me the same way. To see if the weight of what I did would show in your eyes. But she said, “I was delivering a package. For Yu-Fei.” Silas raised an eyebrow. “Golden Empress?” “Yeah.” “You’re working for them now?” “Part-time.” “What, you can’t hack it in the law?” She flinched. “I didn’t hack it anywhere.” Silas didn’t press. Just nodded toward the back. “You want the usual?” She followed his gaze—the hidden door behind the bookshelf, the one that led to the back room where they used to plot missions over stolen whiskey and half-baked schemes. “No.” “Then what?” “I don’t know.” Silas sighed, running a hand over his beard. “You always were terrible at this.” “At what?” “At pretending you don’t need anything.” Rory looked down at her glass. “I don’t.” “Bullshit.” She lifted her chin. “Fine. I need to know if you still hate me.” Silas was quiet for a long time. Then, softly: “I never hated you.” She exhaled, sharp. “Then what?” “Disappointed,” he said. “Angry. But never hated.” Rory’s throat tightened. “I’m sorry.” “For what?” “For leaving. For not fighting. For not being the person you thought I was.” Silas studied her, his expression unreadable. Then, quietly: “You were always more than I thought you were.” She swallowed. “I was never enough.” “That’s not true.” “It is.” “You’re standing here, aren’t you?” She looked away. “Doesn’t mean I belong.” Silas leaned in, his voice low. “You never stopped belonging.” Rory’s hands trembled. “I did.” “No,” he said. “You just forgot.” The jukebox clicked, the needle dropping into a new song—something old, something familiar. The kind of song that made her chest ache. Silas reached across the counter, his fingers brushing hers. “Stay.” She didn’t move. “Just for tonight,” he said. “No plans. No running. Just… stay.” Rory looked at him, really looked at him—the lines on his face, the weight in his eyes, the way his hand still hovered there, waiting. She took a breath. “Okay,” she said. Silas didn’t smile. Just nodded, turning to grab another glass. Rory stayed.