Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9PJ5HKASJYW1AB47M0WNG

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying pulse as Rory Carter pushed through the heavy door, the scent of aged whiskey and cigarette smoke wrapping around her like an old coat. The place hadn’t changed—same sticky floorboards, same low hum of conversation, same way the light pooled in thick, golden pools over the polished mahogany bar. She’d only been inside a handful of times, always with Silas, but the familiarity of it settled in her bones. She ordered a gin and tonic—neat, no ice—and took a stool near the back, where the shadows clung tighter. The bartender, a wiry man with a salt-and-pepper beard, slid the glass toward her without a word. Rory traced the rim with her thumb, the condensation cool against her skin. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood stood at the far end of the bar, his back to her, talking to a man in a tailored suit. His auburn hair, streaked now with silver, was cropped shorter than she remembered, the neat beard he’d always kept trimmed sharp enough to cut glass. He moved with that same quiet authority, one hand resting on the bar, the other tapping absently against his thigh. The limp in his left leg was more pronounced than she recalled, a faint hitch in his step that made her stomach tighten. She should’ve left. Should’ve finished her drink and slipped out before he noticed. But she didn’t. The man in the suit laughed, something sharp and practiced, and Silas turned his head just enough for her to see the side of his face. The scar above his eyebrow—she’d forgotten about that. A souvenir from Prague, he’d called it once, years ago, when they’d been younger and still reckless. She’d pressed her fingers to it then, traced the line like a map, and he’d caught her wrist, his grip firm but not unkind. “You’re staring.” His voice cut through the noise like a blade. Rory didn’t turn. “Not staring. Remembering.” Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. “Funny. I’d have thought you’d forget.” She finally looked at him. His hazel eyes—always too sharp, too knowing—locked onto hers. The years had carved lines around his mouth, deepened the grooves between his brows, but his gaze was the same. Unreadable. Waiting. “Took you long enough,” he said. Rory swirled her drink. “Had to make sure it was really you.” The man in the suit cleared his throat, shifting on his stool. Silas didn’t take his eyes off her. “This is business,” he said, voice low. “We can finish later.” The man nodded, sliding off his stool. “Another time, then.” He tossed a few notes onto the bar and disappeared into the crowd. Silas turned fully toward her, propping his elbows on the counter, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the dim light. “You look well,” he said. Rory almost laughed. “You’re the one who’s changed.” His jaw tightened. “We both have.” She should’ve let it go. Should’ve smiled, nodded, played along. But the words slipped out before she could stop them. “You used to be able to dance.” Silas stilled. The muscles in his forearm flexed as he gripped the bar tighter. “Used to be a lot of things.” The air between them thickened, heavy with everything unsaid. Rory remembered the last time she’d seen him—his apartment in Kensington, the night before she left for London. They’d been drunk, laughing, his hands on her waist as they swayed to some jazz record, his knee pressed against hers. *You’re leaving me*, he’d said, but she’d kissed him instead, her fingers tangling in his hair. She’d been twenty-two. He’d been thirty-five. “You still own this place?” she asked, voice lighter than she felt. “Still own it.” His gaze flicked to the door, then back. “You still deliver for Yu-Fei?” “Still deliver.” A beat. The kind that stretched too long, too heavy. Rory took a sip of her drink, the gin burning clean down her throat. “You ever think about what you could’ve been?” Silas asked. She almost choked. “What?” “You. Law. Courts. All of it.” His thumb traced the rim of an empty glass. “You were always too smart for this.” Rory set her glass down hard. “And you were always too stubborn to quit.” His lips twitched. “Some things don’t quit you.” The words hung there, raw. She wanted to argue. Wanted to say she’d chosen this, that she’d made her own path, that none of it was his fault. But the truth was, she’d run. From Evan, from Cardiff, from the life she’d been building—from the life she’d thought she wanted. Silas pushed off the bar, the slight limp more noticeable now. “You’re still living above the bar?” “No.” The word came out sharper than she meant. “I’ve got a place in Camden.” His eyebrows lifted. “Camden. Fancy.” She bristled. “It’s not fancy. It’s just—” “A place to hide,” he finished. Rory’s fingers curled into the bar top. “I’m not hiding.” “No?” His voice was soft, almost amused. “Then why’d you come back?” She didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Silas sighed, running a hand over his face. “You always did have a way of showing up when I least expected it.” The bartender appeared beside them, sliding a fresh glass toward Silas. He didn’t look at it. “You still work for them?” The question was quiet, but it hit her like a punch. Rory’s breath caught. “Who?” “You know who.” She did. The old network. The old games. The things they’d both been part of, back when they were younger, back when the world had still felt like it belonged to them. Silas’s expression darkened. “You swore you were done.” “I am.” “Bullshit.” Rory’s laugh was bitter. “You always did have a way of calling me out.” His eyes held hers, unflinching. “I always did have a way of knowing you.” The weight of it pressed down on her. The years. The choices. The man he’d become and the woman she’d tried to leave behind. She should’ve walked away. Should’ve finished her drink and disappeared into the night like she always did. But she didn’t. Instead, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the small, folded piece of paper she’d been carrying for weeks. She slid it across the bar. Silas didn’t touch it. “What’s that?” “A name.” Her voice was steady. “A job.” His fingers hovered over the paper, then snatched it up. He unfolded it, his eyes scanning the lines. His expression didn’t change, but the tension in his shoulders shifted, coiled tighter. “You’re serious,” he said. Rory took a slow sip of her drink. “Deadly.”