Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAD6MRBDZJD42Z1BHHM2ZK

The rain in Soho was a greasy film on the pavement, reflecting the sickly yellow glow of the streetlights. Rory shifted her weight, pulling her thin jacket tighter around her. Another late shift at Golden Empress, another lukewarm spring rolls and mumbled thank yous. The scent of soy sauce and desperation clung to her like a second skin. She’d been nursing a half-empty glass of something amber and vaguely unsettling for nearly an hour, watching the regulars shuffle in and out, each a tiny, contained world she wasn't privy to. Then he walked in. Silas. It wasn’t a sudden recognition, not exactly. More like a slow, insistent current pulling her attention, a vibration deep in the bones of memory. He hadn’t changed much in the face, though the lines around his hazel eyes were deeper, etched with a knowledge that seemed to fold in on themselves. The grey streaks in his auburn hair were more pronounced, thicker, like the paths of ancient rivers. He moved with a slight limp, a ghost of the injury that had ended his career, and carried himself with that quiet, unsettling authority she’d always found both intimidating and faintly comforting. He scanned the room, a slow, deliberate sweep, before his gaze locked onto her. “Rory?” His voice was gravel, roughened by years of smoke and something else she couldn’t quite place—regret, perhaps. She straightened, instinctively placing a barrier between herself and the rest of the bar. “Silas,” she replied, the single word a little rusty, like a forgotten hinge. “God, it’s…it’s been a while.” He nodded, a curt, economical movement. “Fifteen years, give or take. You look…good.” He slid onto the stool beside her, the worn leather groaning beneath his weight. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted in the dim light. “Golden Empress, I presume? Delivering greasy noodles until your fingers bleed?” A small, almost involuntary smile touched her lips. “Something like that. It pays the rent.” She took a long swallow of her drink. “You own this place?” He gestured around the dark, cluttered bar, the walls lined with faded maps and unsettling photographs. “The Raven’s Nest,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “I’ve had it for…a while.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “It’s a front.” “Always,” she said, the observation more statement than question. She’d known that much, implicitly, even when they’d been kids sharing stolen cigarettes behind the Cardiff docks. The silence stretched between them, thick with the unspoken echoes of their shared past. Rory traced the rim of her glass, avoiding his gaze. The small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a memento of a childhood accident she’d long tried to bury, throbbed faintly. She hadn't shown Silas that scar in years. “Evan,” he said finally, his voice low. “I heard he’d…moved on.” Rory flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. “He’s gone. It’s over.” “Is it?” He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "You always did have a remarkable talent for compartmentalization, Rory. Shielding yourself from the mess." She didn’t look at him. “Someone had to.” She took another drink, the amber liquid burning a slow path down her throat. "It wasn't exactly a picnic, Silas. You don't need to rehash it." “I’m not rehashing it,” he said quietly. “I’m observing. You built a life, Rory. A…practical one. Delivery girl. Small flat above Silas’. It's…safe.” "Safe isn’t always good," she countered, her voice sharper than she intended. “It’s just…stable. I don’t want stable.” “And what do you want?” He leaned forward slightly, his hazel eyes boring into hers. She hesitated. It had been so long since she’d articulated anything beyond a simple need – food, shelter, a way to pay the bills. “I… I don’t know,” she admitted, the words tasting like ash in her mouth. "I used to think I wanted…more. Something…bigger. But then you leave, and…" She trailed off, unable to articulate the hollowness that had settled in after he vanished. “You think running away solved everything?” He asked, his voice laced with a bitterness she hadn’t heard before. “It just…shifted the battlefield.” “It bought me time,” she said defensively. “Time to breathe. Time to get away from him.” The memory of Evan, the possessive, volatile darkness that had consumed them both, still clung to her like a phantom limb. “Time doesn’t heal, Rory,” Silas said, his gaze drifting to the darkened windows. “It just layers on the regret. I saw his face on the news once. A mugging. Some street kid. You don't forget things like that." He took a sip of his whiskey, the ice clinking softly against the glass. "Especially not when they haunt you.” Rory felt a prickle of something akin to shame. She hadn't thought of him, of *any* of them, in this way in years. The constant need to be pragmatic, to survive, had eroded her capacity for introspection. “I don’t regret leaving,” she said, the words flat and unconvincing even to her own ears. “Do you?” He didn't wait for an answer. He continued, his voice barely a whisper, “I should have stopped you. I should have…done something. But I didn’t. I was…busy.” The weight of his unspoken accusation settled heavily on her. He hadn’t been a knight in shining armor, not then, and certainly not now. But the possibility, the sliver of regret that hung unspoken between them, was more potent than any condemnation. “You were a spy,” she said, a small, brittle laugh escaping her lips. “Saving the world one clandestine operation at a time. That’s a pretty good excuse for inaction.” He ignored her deflection, his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked windows. “I traded action for comfort, Rory. A gilded cage of my own making. And now… I'm just a bartender, serving whiskey to ghosts.” He paused, then added, "And offering a little sanctuary to those who need it." She studied him, really studied him, for the first time since he'd arrived. The lines around his eyes were deeper, yes, but there was something else there too – a weary acceptance, a quiet understanding of the choices we make and the roads we don’t take. “You’re still running something,” she said, stating the obvious. He gave a ghost of a smile. “Always. Some things never change.” He signaled to a passing waiter. “Another drink, please.” As she watched him, Rory realized that she hadn’t just stumbled back into Silas’ bar; she’d stumbled back into a part of herself she’d carefully, deliberately locked away. And for the first time in a long time, the safety of her practical life felt desperately, suffocatingly small. The rain kept falling, washing the grime of the city clean, but it couldn't wash away the weight of the past, or the unsettling realization that perhaps, just perhaps, running wasn't the only option anymore.