Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA33CC85VF8NP71FYJ9TB2

Rory hefted the stack of bamboo steamers onto her hip, their wicker edges digging into the soft flesh above her waist. The Golden Empress logo blazed red across her jacket’s back as she pushed through The Raven’s Nest’s creaky door, the sound of Soho’s traffic fading into a distant hum behind her. The green neon sign’s glow bleached the edge of her sleeve before the dim interior swallowed it—thick, smoke-tinged air curling around her like a forgotten blanket. Old maps crinkled at the corners of the walls, their faded ink marking trade routes and shadowed alleyways from cities she’d never heard of; black-and-white photos of shadowed figures stared down from above the mahogany bar, their faces half-obscured by fedoras and cigarette smoke. She scanned the room for the contact Yu-Fei had named—some bloke with a silver signet ring, a slight limp—when a limping step scraped the floor behind her, the sound sharp enough to cut through the low murmur of a jukebox playing old jazz. “Cardiff accent’s still thick enough to stir into a pint of Guinness, even after all these years.” Rory jolted. The steamers shifted, their contents clinking softly inside; she clamped a hand to their tops to keep them from toppling, her fingers brushing the warm bamboo. She turned, her straight shoulder-length black hair swinging into her face, and froze. A man with grey-streaked auburn hair and a neatly trimmed matching beard leaned against the bar’s edge, his elbows propped on the mahogany surface. His left leg angled slightly inward, a faint furrow in his brow as he studied her, his hazel eyes narrowing like he was trying to piece together a broken map. A silver signet ring glinted on his right hand, its surface etched with a raven’s head—she recognized it immediately, the same ring he’d worn when he’d sat on her father’s porch in Cardiff, drinking whisky and talking about secret missions. “Silas Blackwood?” He pushed off the bar, his weight shifting to his right leg as he crossed the room, each step a quiet declaration of the knee injury he carried—she remembered him telling her once, when she was ten, that he’d gotten it jumping from a rooftop in Prague. He stopped a foot away, his hazel eyes locking on her bright blue ones, and she could see the faint lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there when they’d last met. “Last I saw you, you were ten years old, climbing your father’s bookcase to steal his barrister’s wig. You landed on a brass paperweight—cut your left wrist bad enough to need three stitches. Your mother cried for an hour; your father yelled for two. I gave you a lollipop shaped like a raven to calm you down.” Rory’s throat tightened, a knot forming that she couldn’t swallow. She set the steamers down on a nearby oak table, her left wrist brushing the wood—she tugged her jacket’s sleeve down to cover the crescent scar, the fabric soft against the still-throbbing skin. That memory was buried under layers of Evan’s shouts, of Cardiff University’s sterile lecture halls, of the train ride to London that had felt like a jailbreak, her backpack slung over her shoulder and her phone’s screen cracked beyond repair. “Reckless is what he calls running from a man who broke my phone so I couldn’t call for help. Refusing pre-law is what he calls choosing to breathe instead of living his dream. He never told you about Evan, did he?” Silas’s face fell, his jaw tightening as he processed her words. He turned to the bar, his limp scraping the floor as he fetched a glass of cold water, his ring clinking against the glass as he picked it up. He set it in front of her, the water’s ripples catching the table lamp’s light. “He said you’d grown distant. Refused to come to family dinners. He didn’t mention a man.” Rory stared at the water’s ripples, her eyes tracing the circles as they faded into the glass. She’d forgotten how Silas used to listen—how he’d sat with her for an hour after her mother’s first breakdown, not saying a word but handing her a lollipop every time she started to cry. She’d forgotten how he’d defended her when her father had yelled at her for painting the living room walls blue, telling him that she was just expressing herself. “I lived above a kebab shop for two months after I got to London. The floor was sticky, the walls were covered in mold, and I could hear the neighbors fighting every night. Eva—my childhood friend—found me, got me the delivery job at Golden Empress. I just found a flat last week—above some bar I haven’t checked out yet. The landlord didn’t give his name.” Silas froze, his hazel eyes widening as he processed her words. He turned back to her, his left leg shifting to take less weight, and he could feel the faint throb in his knee that always flared up when he was surprised. “The flat above The Raven’s Nest. It’s been empty for six months. I put the ad up last Tuesday, didn’t put my name on it—didn’t want old MI6 contacts showing up at my door. The rent’s half what any other spot in Soho charges, no credit check, no questions asked.” Rory blinked, her bright blue eyes widening as she stared at him. She thought of the kebab shop’s sticky floors, of Evan’s face appearing in the window one night, of the way she’d hidden in a closet for three hours until he left. She thought of the old stories Silas had told her—of outsmarting guards, of finding hidden rooms, of choosing your own path—and she could feel the faint flicker of hope that she hadn’t felt in months. “Why are you doing this?” Silas gestured to her sleeve, his ring glinting in the table lamp’s light. He could see the faint outline of the scar under the fabric, the same scar he’d helped her clean when she was ten. “I saw the scar. You’re still the kid who climbed bookcases to take back what’s hers. I’m still the man who should have been there to catch her when she fell. After Prague, I shut myself off from most of my old contacts—your father included. I thought I was protecting them from the mess I’d made. But I was wrong. I should have checked in. I should have been there for you when you needed it.” Rory pulled her sleeve up, the fabric sliding down her arm to reveal the crescent scar, which glinted in the table lamp’s light. She picked up the glass of water, took a sip, the cool liquid soothing her parched throat. She thought of the hidden back room Silas had mentioned, of the old maps and files, of the way he’d always been able to see the parts of her that her parents couldn’t. “I need to drop these steamers off to your contact. Yu-Fei said he’d be here at seven. Said you ordered pork dumplings for a meeting.” Silas’s jaw tightened, his hazel eyes narrowing as he thought of the clandestine meeting in the hidden back room—his old MI6 contact was coming to tell him about a new threat, one that could put Rory in danger if she stayed in Soho. He nodded, gesturing to the bookshelf in the corner, its edges worn like someone had pulled it open a hundred times. “That’s me. I ordered the dumplings for the meeting in the hidden back room—accessible through the bookshelf over there. Just pull the red-bound map of Prague, and it’ll swing open. But we can talk about the flat after you drop them off. I’ll leave the door unlocked for you.” Rory hefted the stack of bamboo steamers back onto her hip, their wicker edges digging into her waist again. She glanced at the bookshelf, its red-bound map of Prague sticking out slightly from the other books, and she could feel the faint flicker of hope growing stronger. She thought of the weight of time between them—of the ten-year-old girl who’d admired Silas, of the 25-year-old woman who needed a place to hide—and she could feel the unspoken regret hanging in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. She walked toward the bookshelf, her straight black hair swinging into her face, and Silas watched her go, his limp making it hard to follow. He thought of his father’s old stories about loyalty, of the way he’d failed to be loyal to Rory and her family, of the way he’d shut himself off after Prague. He thought of the hidden room’s maps, of the contacts he’d be meeting with, of the way Rory’s accent still sounded like Cardiff’s rain, and he could feel the faint throb in his knee flaring up again.