Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9T4Z45EQVBSAZH6JP05B8

The green neon sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered weakly against the rain-slicked pavement, its glow bleeding into the puddles like a dying ember. Inside, the air smelled of aged whiskey and something older—dust, ink, the faint metallic tang of old secrets. Rory paused on the threshold, her breath fogging the glass door before she pushed it open. The bell above the door chimed softly, a sound she hadn’t heard in years. The bar was quieter than she remembered. The usual hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low murmur of laughter—all of it muted, as if the place itself had exhaled. She scanned the dimly lit space, her fingers tightening around the strap of her messenger bag. The back corner was empty. The booth by the jukebox, too. The long bar stretched ahead, polished wood gleaming under the dim overhead lights. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood sat at the far end, his back to her, a glass of something amber in front of him. His auburn hair, once a bold chestnut, was now streaked with silver, and his beard—neat, always—had a few more threads of grey woven through it. He wore a dark suit, the lapels slightly frayed at the edges, as if he’d worn it too many times to count. His left leg gave a slight hitch as he turned, the movement slow, deliberate. Rory’s stomach twisted. “Well,” she said, stepping forward. Her voice sounded too loud in the quiet. “If it isn’t the Spymaster himself.” Silas didn’t smile. He didn’t have to. His hazel eyes—sharp as they’d always been—locked onto hers, unreadable. “Rory.” The name tasted like something left unsaid. “Took you long enough.” She slid into the stool beside him, the leather groaning under her weight. The scent of him was familiar—leather, pipe tobacco, something earthy, like damp soil after rain. “Thought you’d retired from people-watching,” she said, nudging a half-empty glass of gin and tonic toward him. “Or at least pretended you had.” Silas took a slow sip, his gaze flickering to the scar on her wrist—the one she’d gotten when she was twelve, climbing a tree to prove she could. “Pretending’s for amateurs,” he murmured. “Besides, the game’s just changed. The rules are different now.” Rory exhaled through her nose, watching the condensation trail from her glass. “So you’re still playing.” “Always have been.” He set the glass down with a quiet *clink*. “You look different.” She laughed, sharp and brittle. “So do you.” A beat of silence. The jukebox in the corner let out a low, mournful hum, the kind of sound that made you want to dance even when you didn’t. “You’re still working for the restaurant, I take it,” Silas said, tilting his head. “Delivery girl, last I heard.” “Still am.” Rory swirled the ice in her drink. “Yu-Fei’s got me running errands, fetching ingredients, that kind of thing. Keeps me busy.” “And the law?” Silas asked, his voice low. “Still chasing it?” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Left that behind.” “Left it behind.” He repeated the words like they tasted sour. “Or ran from it.” She didn’t answer. The memory of Evan’s hands on her wrist, the way he’d laughed when she’d tried to pull away, still made her skin crawl. She’d thought she’d left all that in Cardiff. Thought she’d outrun it. Silas studied her, his expression unreadable. “You look like you’ve been running for a while.” Rory barked out a laugh. “You always did have a way with words.” “Just telling it like it is.” He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping. “You ever think about why you came back?” The question hit her like a punch to the gut. She’d come back for Eva. For the life she’d left behind. For the idea that maybe, just maybe, she could outrun the past. But she didn’t say any of that. Instead, she reached into her bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. Slid it across the bar toward him. Silas unfolded it slowly, his eyebrows lifting. It was a map—hand-drawn, ink smudged in places. A route from the docks to a warehouse on the outskirts of the city. “Where’d you get this?” “Doesn’t matter.” Rory’s voice was steady, but her pulse hammered in her throat. “Someone’s moving something. Something big. And I need to know what.” Silas studied the map, his fingers tracing the lines. “And you think I can help.” “You always could find things out.” Rory’s gaze flicked to the signet ring on his right hand—the one she’d never seen him without. “You still got your ways.” He didn’t look up. “Depends on what you’re asking.” “Just tell me who’s behind it.” Rory’s voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. “And why.” Silas finally met her eyes. “You sure you want to know?” She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. The air between them thickened, charged with something unspoken. The weight of years, of choices made and not made, of lives that had diverged and never quite found their way back. Silas exhaled, slow and measured. “Fine. But you’re going to have to earn it.” Rory’s breath caught. “What do you mean?” Silas pushed the map back toward her. “You want answers? Then you’re going to have to prove you’re still the girl I knew.” She opened her mouth to ask what he meant— But the door chimed again, and a gust of cold air rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and something else. Something sharp. Silas’s head snapped toward the entrance. Rory followed his gaze. And froze.