Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9QYENNPMF0M89X0M6EFYS

Rory hefted the stack of foiled takeout containers higher on her left arm, the crinkle of their wrappers cutting through the hum of Soho’s evening foot traffic. The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest bleared above her, its glow painting the wet sidewalk a sickly lime that seeped into the cracks between paving stones. She’d never delivered to this bar before—Yu-Fei had pressed the order slip into her hand ten minutes prior, muttering about a regular who’d begged for a last-minute spread of pork buns and braised greens, his voice tight with the kind of urgency that meant a big tip was on the line. Rory pushed the door open. The air hit her first: wood smoke curled from a dormant fireplace in the corner, burnt malt clung to the ceiling beams, and the faint tang of old leather wrapped around her like a forgotten coat. Walls lined with frayed maps of Cold War-era Europe—their edges crinkled from years of being rolled and unrolled—and black-and-white photographs of men in tailored suits clustered around payphones swallowed the dim overhead light. A jukebox in the far corner sputtered a cracked jazz tune, its needle skipping over the same scratch on the record every three bars. Rory scanned the empty bar, her straight black shoulder-length hair falling in a curtain over one bright blue eye. She shifted the containers to her right arm, and the cuff of her faded Golden Empress delivery uniform slid down, revealing the small crescent scar on her left wrist—leftover from a childhood accident where she’d fallen off her dad’s boat while chasing a seagull. She tugged the cuff back up before anyone could see. A figure limped from behind the bar, his left leg dragging slightly over the scuffed wooden floor. He paused mid-step, his grey-streaked auburn beard catching the glint of a wall lamp strung above a map of Berlin. The silver signet ring on his right hand—etched with a raven’s head—caught her eye. She’d seen that ring on the finger of the man who’d taught her to play chess in her dad’s Cardiff study when she was twelve, the man who’d brought her a lollipop after she’d gotten her first stitches for the wrist scar. Silas. She stopped breathing. The takeout containers teetered on her arm, and she tightened her grip until her fingers ached. He moved faster than his limp suggested, snatching the top two containers before they could crash to the floor. He set them on the bar counter, his fingers brushing the foil with a gentleness she’d never seen in the man who’d once lectured her on the importance of unbroken eye contact during a cross-examination. Golden Empress delivery. Yu-Fei said your regular requested three pork buns and a side of braised greens. He flicked a threadbare bar towel over a chipped highball glass that still held a faint ring of condensation, his gaze fixed on the spot where her scar had peeked out from her cuff. You’re Brendan’s daughter. Rory’s jaw tightened. She twisted the strap of her delivery bag around her palm until her knuckles whitened, the rough canvas digging into her skin. I’m Rory. He nodded, his auburn hair streaked with grey catching the light again. She’d last seen him at her dad’s fortieth birthday party, when he’d worn a tailored navy suit and talked about a case that would take him abroad for “a few weeks.” He’d never come back to Cardiff. You vanished. Rory’s gaze darted to a map of Prague taped to the wall, its edges frayed from years of handling and marked with small red Xs. She’d heard whispers from her dad that Silas had taken a job in the city and never returned, but she’d never pressed for details—she’d been too wrapped up in her pre-law studies, too wrapped up in Evan, the man who’d later leave bruises on her arms that she’d hidden under long sleeves. You left first. He leaned against the bar, his left leg shifting to bear less weight, the boot on his left foot scuffing the floor. The signet ring glinted as he tapped his finger against the counter, a rhythm that matched the jukebox’s skipped beat. Prague went wrong. Rory’s throat tightened. She’d read a small article in the Cardiff Post two years prior about a botched intelligence op that left an agent with a permanent knee injury, but she’d never connected it to Silas. She’d thought he’d just abandoned his family friends, abandoned her. My dad never talked about it. He flicked the bar towel again, this time over a stack of paper napkins, folding each one into a neat square before stacking them back up. His neat beard twitched, a sign of irritation she’d only seen once before, when she’d beaten him at chess by moving her knight in a way he’d called “reckless but brilliant, the kind of move that wins wars or gets you killed.” He wouldn’t. Brendan’s code was tighter than a bank vault. He never mixed his barrister work with the mess I got into. Rory tugged her cuff down again, even though the scar was already hidden. She thought of the nights she’d locked herself in her dorm room, of Evan slamming his fist against the door, of Eva begging her to flee to London with her, of the pre-law textbooks she’d left stacked by her bed, unopened for months after she’d dropped out. I left Cardiff too. He raised an eyebrow, his hazel eyes narrowing. She’d forgotten how well he could read people—how he’d once guessed she was hiding a bad contract law test score just by the way she’d avoided his gaze while setting up a chess board. Pre-law didn’t stick. Rory’s face burned. She’d never told anyone but Eva about leaving school, about the delivery job that paid just enough to cover her rent and groceries, about the tiny flat she’d rented above a laundromat before she’d found a cheaper place closer to the restaurant. She’d been too ashamed—ashamed of letting her dad down, ashamed of letting Silas down, the man who’d once said she’d make a better barrister than her dad. I deliver food now. He nodded, his gaze softening. He reached under the bar and pulled out a glass of cold water, setting it in front of her. The limp was more noticeable when he leaned forward to push the glass across the counter, his left leg dragging slightly as he moved. It’s honest work. More than I can say for some of the jobs I’ve held. Rory stared at the water, her fingers hovering over the rim. She thought of the way her dad had looked at her when she’d told him she was dropping out of pre-law—disappointment mixed with fear, fear that she’d throw her life away. She thought of Silas, the man who’d once told her she’d argue her way out of a fortress if she had to. You once said I’d argue my way out of a fortress. He laughed, a low, rough sound that didn’t match the quiet bar owner she saw now. He flicked the bar towel over his shoulder, the signet ring catching the light as he did. I still think it. The fortress just looks different now. Rory picked up the water glass, her bright blue eyes meeting his hazel ones. She took a sip, the cold liquid soothing her parched throat. She glanced at the bookshelf in the corner, its shelves lined with dusty spy novels and leather-bound case files, the same bookshelf she’d seen in Silas’s old Cardiff flat, the one he’d used to store classified documents he’d hidden from her dad. You kept the bookshelf. He froze again, his thumb still resting on the edge of a takeout container. He glanced at the bookshelf, then back at her, his hazel eyes darkening. It’s useful. Hides things. Rory twisted the delivery bag strap again, her knuckles turning white. She thought of the years she’d spent avoiding calls from her dad, of the way she’d never checked in on Silas after Prague because she’d thought he’d abandoned her, of the unspoken regret between them—his for not reaching out after his injury, hers for not letting anyone in after fleeing Evan. I should go. Yu-Fei’s waiting for the receipt. He pulled a crumpled receipt from his pocket, scribbling his signature on the bottom with a black ballpoint pen. The signet ring glinted as he handed it to her, his calloused fingers brushing hers—his hands were a far cry from the smooth hands that had once taught her to hold a chess piece correctly, to not grip it too tight. Tell Yu-Fei I’ll add a twenty-pound tip to her account. For the quick delivery. Rory took the receipt, her fingers closing around the crumpled paper. She thought of the way Yu-Fei had told her about The Raven’s Nest, about the bar owner who was “quiet but fair,” about the hidden room behind the bookshelf that only regulars knew about. She didn’t ask about it. Thanks. She turned to leave, but he called out to her, his voice rough with an emotion she’d never heard from him before. Rory. She paused, her hand on the door handle, the cold metal seeping into her skin. She didn’t turn around, but she could hear his limp as he moved closer, his boot scuffing the floor. If you ever need a place to sit. For a drink. Or a chess game. The board’s still in the bookshelf. She nodded, her throat tightening again. She thought of the tiny flat above the laundromat, of the lonely nights she’d spent eating leftover takeout from Golden Empress, of the pre-law student she’d been, of the delivery person she was now, of the man who’d once been her mentor. I might. She pushed the door open, the green neon sign’s glow washing over her. She hefted the empty delivery bag over her shoulder, her left wrist throbbing where the scar was. She walked down the sidewalk, the hum of Soho’s traffic filling her ears, the receipt crumpled in her hand.