Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYA9YVG8CZ3SBAH1GV1HZF4

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying ember as Rory Carter pushed through the heavy door, the bell above jingling against the weight of her thoughts. The air inside smelled of stale beer, burnt wood, and something faintly metallic—like old coins or the edge of a blade. She hadn’t been here in months, not since Silas had started locking the back room tighter than a vault. She spotted him immediately. Silas Blackwood stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes, his hazel eyes scanning the room like a man who’d spent too many years watching for threats. His auburn hair, streaked with silver now, was pulled back into a loose tie, but the limp in his left leg was more pronounced than she remembered. He moved like a man who’d been broken and then patched back together with too much care. Rory hesitated by the door, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. She hadn’t expected to find him here tonight. Not after all this time. Silas looked up. His gaze locked onto hers, sharp as a blade unsheathed. “Well,” he said, voice low, “if it isn’t the prodigal delivery girl.” She swallowed. “Still the charming bastard, I see.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips—just for a second—before he set the glass down with a deliberate *clink*. “Rory. Long time.” She stepped forward, the soles of her boots clicking against the warped floorboards. “You could’ve said something. I’ve been dropping off orders here for months.” “And I’ve been ignoring you.” He wiped his hands on a rag, his signet ring catching the dim light. “Figured you’d moved on.” She had. Or tried to. The bar was quieter than usual, the usual hum of conversation reduced to a handful of patrons hunched over their drinks. Rory slid onto a stool, the leather creaking under her weight. “Funny. I was just thinking the same about you.” Silas leaned against the counter, arms crossed. “What, that I’d finally retired for good?” “No.” She traced the rim of her wrist with her thumb, the crescent scar there catching the light. “That you’d stopped pretending.” A beat of silence. Then, quietly: “Pretending what?” “That you didn’t know.” She exhaled, sharp. “That you didn’t *see*.” His jaw tightened. “See what?” “Evan.” The name tasted like ash. “The way he looked at me. The way he *talked* to me. You were there that night. You *saw*.” Silas’s fingers stilled. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. Then, softly: “I saw a lot of things that night, Rory. But not all of them were yours to carry.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to unload the years of it—the way Evan’s hands had bruised her ribs, the way he’d laughed when she’d tried to leave, the way she’d stood there, frozen, until Eva had dragged her out of that flat like she was made of glass. But the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she said, “You could’ve said something.” “And what would’ve been the point?” His voice was rough. “You’d have walked away. Just like always.” She flinched. “That’s not fair.” “Isn’t it?” He pushed off the counter, moving to the other end of the bar where the whiskey bottles gleamed in the low light. “You left Cardiff like your skin was on fire. You left *me*. You left everyone who knew you before you became…” His voice trailed off, but the implication hung between them. *Before she became what?* Rory’s fingers curled into the stool. “I had to go.” “Yeah.” He poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass, the amber liquid catching the light like a warning. “You did.” She wanted to scream. Wanted to throw the glass across the room and watch it shatter. But she didn’t. Because she knew the truth of it. She *had* run. From Evan. From the way her father’s disappointment had carved into her like a knife. From the life she’d thought she was supposed to have—lawyer’s daughter, straight path, safe. From the girl she’d been before she realised she was drowning. Silas slid the glass toward her. “Drink.” She took it. The whiskey burned all the way down, hot and clean. “You look different,” he said. She almost laughed. “You too.” His eyes flicked over her—her black hair still straight, her clothes still too practical, too *her*. But there was something else now. A weight in her shoulders. A sharpness in her gaze. “You always did,” he said. “Change.” She set the glass down. “What about you?” He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached for a bottle of something darker, poured himself a drink. “I got old, Rory. That’s all.” “Bullshit.” A ghost of a smile. “Maybe.” She studied him—the way his hands trembled just slightly when he lifted the glass, the way his limp was more pronounced when he wasn’t paying attention. The man who’d once moved like a shadow now carried himself like a relic. “You still running?” she asked. His eyes snapped to hers. “What?” “Operations. Contacts. The whole thing.” She gestured vaguely at the bar, the maps on the walls, the way his gaze kept darting to the door like he was expecting someone to walk in. “You retired, but you didn’t *stop*.” Silas set his glass down with a slow, deliberate motion. “Some habits don’t die easy.” “Neither do some people.” She met his gaze, unflinching. “You could’ve helped me.” “And what would’ve been the point?” His voice was quiet, but the edge was back. “You’d have walked away anyway.” She wanted to hit him. Wanted to scream that he didn’t know her at all. But the truth was, he was right. She *had* walked away. From Cardiff. From her father’s expectations. From the life she’d thought she wanted. From the girl she’d been before she realised she was breaking. Silas poured another drink, his movements slower now. “You ever think about going back?” The question hit her like a punch. “To Cardiff?” “To *anything*.” She stared at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “It means,” he said, voice low, “that you’ve been running for a long time, Rory. And running’s a lonely way to live.” She wanted to argue. Wanted to tell him she wasn’t running anymore. That she’d built something here—something real, something *hers*. But the words stuck in her throat. Because the truth was, she *had* been running. From Evan. From her past. From the girl she’d been before she realised she was drowning. Silas finished his drink in one swallow. “You should go.” She blinked. “What?” “You heard me.” He wiped the glass with the rag, his movements sharp now, precise. “This isn’t your fight anymore.” “Since when?” “Since always.” His gaze locked onto hers, unyielding. “You’ve got your life. I’ve got mine.” She wanted to stay. Wanted to unload everything—the fear, the regret, the way she still woke up some nights sweating, Evan’s voice in her ear. But the words wouldn’t come. Instead, she slid off the stool. The bell above the door jingled as she pushed through, the cold night air hitting her like a slap. She didn’t look back. But for the first time in years, she wondered if she should.