Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAX063A3P7NAW653GA2Z8M

Rory hauled four stacked golden takeout containers toward the dim bar’s back counter, her shoulder-length black hair catching on a frayed edge of a 1970s Berlin map taped to the wall—its edges curled with age, smudged with the faint residue of whiskey spills from decades of patrons leaning against it. She jerked her head free, and the top container teetered; she clamped a hand under it, her left wrist’s crescent scar scraping against the map’s gilded border. A sharp sound escaped her lips, sharp enough to cut through the low hum of a jazz record spinning on a turntable in the corner. She set the containers on the nearest empty stool, the wood worn smooth by years of use, then rubbed the scar—still pink when pressed, a leftover from the childhood bike crash that had left her crying on a rain-slicked Cardiff sidewalk until a stranger with a dented toolbox had knelt to help. She didn’t know then the stranger was a retired MI6 agent, not until later when her father had mentioned a “quiet man with an auburn beard” who’d helped him win a high-profile extradition case, but the memory clung to her like lint on a wool coat, a small flicker of kindness in a life that had grown too cold. A shadow stretched across the containers. She looked up. A man of 6’1” stood before her, his neatly trimmed auburn beard streaked with grey that hadn’t been there when she’d last seen him, his hazel eyes fixed on her wrist. He shifted his weight to his right leg, a slight limp pulling at his hip—something she’d never noticed in him before, a flaw that didn’t match the steady, unflinching man who’d fixed her bike’s bent spoke without a word of complaint. His right hand rested on the bar top, a silver signet ring glinting against the smudged wood, its surface etched with a raven’s head that matched the bar’s name. She adjusted the takeout’s paper lid, which had slipped to reveal a whiff of orange chicken and steamed rice, then brushed a strand of hair from her bright blue eyes. The bar’s walls closed in around her—covered in more maps, of Prague and Cardiff and Tokyo, and black-and-white photographs: one of a group of men in tailored suits standing outside a Prague café, another of a young woman with Rory’s black hair sitting on a bike in a Cardiff park, a third of Silas’s younger self, no grey streaks, no limp, his right hand lacking the signet ring. That scar’s been causing you trouble since 1999. Rory’s fingers stilled. She’d only told one person about the exact year of the crash—someone who’d fixed her bike’s bent spoke in five minutes flat, after she’d spent half an hour fumbling with it, who’d bought her a lemonade from a nearby stand and listened as she ranted about her father’s endless law lectures and her mother’s insistence that she stop “getting into mischief.” She leaned in, squinting at his face. The auburn hair had faded to a duller shade, the lines around his eyes deepened into furrows carved by years of worry, but the shape of his jaw matched the man she’d known in Cardiff, the man who’d laughed when she’d tried to quote a legal textbook to him. Silas? The man nodded, then gestured to the containers, his left leg shifting again to ease the weight off his knee. Yu-Fei’s order. For the back room meeting. He’d called this morning, said the client wanted extra orange chicken. Rory blinked. She’d taken the delivery job at Golden Empress three weeks prior, had no clue the Raven’s Nest—with its distinctive green neon sign she’d passed a dozen times without noticing, its glow seeping into the Soho sidewalk after dark—belonged to him. She’d fled Cardiff six months ago, stuffed a backpack with a change of clothes and her mother’s old Welsh poetry book, and hopped a train to London without reaching out to anyone but Eva, too ashamed to tell anyone about Evan’s fists, too afraid he’d find her if she left a trail. You never called after the Prague op. Silas’s jaw tightened. He turned to grab a clean napkin from the bar’s undercounter, his limp more pronounced as he bent, the creak of his knee echoing through the quiet bar. He set the napkin beside her containers, the fabric crisp against the golden cardboard. I didn’t call anyone. The op went south. A bullet grazed my knee. I retired. Opened this place six months later, used my old contacts to set up the back room—hidden behind the bookshelf by the counter—for clandestine meetings. He tapped the bookshelf, its leather-bound books lined up perfectly, a few of them fake spines that swung open to reveal a narrow staircase. Rory’s gaze flicked from the bookshelf to his knee, then to the black-and-white photograph of the Prague café. She’d heard rumors through her father’s legal contacts—something about a botched intelligence job that left one agent injured and two others missing, their bodies never found—but she’d never connected it to Silas, never guessed the steady man from Cardiff had a past that included gunfights and secret meetings. I fled Cardiff six months ago. Silas paused mid-wipe of a whiskey glass, the cloth freezing against the crystal. He set the glass down so hard the ice clinked, a sharp sound that cut through the jazz record’s hum. Why? Rory’s fingers curled around the takeout container’s edge, the wood’s rough grain pressing into her palm until her knuckles whitened. She’d never told anyone but Eva about Evan—about the nights he’d grabbed her wrist so tight she’d thought the scar would split open, about the lectures that turned into screams, about the day she’d walked in on him going through her mother’s poetry book and tearing out the pages with Welsh verses, about the train ride to London where she’d hidden in the bathroom for three hours, afraid he’d be sitting in the next car. An ex. He didn’t like me having memories that didn’t involve him. She nodded at the scar, now hidden under her sleeve, and tugged the fabric tighter, as if she could pull it over all her hurts. He tried to cut over it once. Told me it was a reminder of a life he didn’t want me to have. Silas’s signet ring dug into his palm as he clenched his hand, the raven’s head etching a small mark into his skin. He’d seen the scar first when he’d knelt to fix her bike, had noticed the way she’d flinched when he’d brushed against it—even then, she’d been quiet about her hurts, too quick to brush them off as nothing, too afraid to ask for help. I should have checked in. After the op. After I settled here. I had your father’s number, but I thought you’d moved on, that you’d forgotten about the bike fix and the lemonade, that you’d grown into the pre-law student your father wanted you to be. Rory shook her head, her black hair falling in front of her eyes. She’d had Eva’s number memorized, but she’d never looked up Silas. She’d thought he’d forgotten about her, that the bike fix and the lemonade had been a one-time kindness from a man with better things to do, a man who’d moved on from his Cardiff contacts to his London bar and his secret meetings. I didn’t look for you. I thought you’d moved on. That you didn’t want to hear from a kid who couldn’t stop getting into trouble—who’d snuck into her father’s office and stolen murder case files, who’d argued with her mother about pre-law, who’d ended up with a man who hated every part of her. Silas gestured to a booth in the corner, lined with old case files tucked under the seat, their pages yellowed with age, and a half-empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the table. He limped toward it, his knee creaking with every step, and Rory followed, her takeout containers forgotten for a moment, the whiff of orange chicken fading into the smell of whiskey and fried peanuts. When you were 16, you snuck into your father’s office and stole a copy of his most high-profile murder case files. You brought them to me, hidden in your school bag, and asked if the witness statements were fake—you’d noticed that one witness had claimed to see the murder at 10 PM, but the moon had been new that night, so there was no light to see anything. Rory laughed, a quiet, tight sound that didn’t reach her eyes. I thought I was a detective. You told me I’d get disbarred before I even applied to law school. You told me I had a knack for seeing what others missed, that pre-law was a waste of that knack. Silas sat down, his knee creaking as he shifted, and rested his right hand on the table, the signet ring glinting. I meant it. You fixed my bike’s bent spoke in five minutes flat, after I’d spent half an hour fumbling with it. You noticed the fake witness statement in your father’s files before he did. You’re not stupid. You’re not worth nothing. Rory’s throat tightened. She’d pursued pre-law because her father had insisted, because Evan had told her it was the only way she’d be “worth something.” She’d dropped out three months before fleeing Cardiff, after Evan had thrown her law textbook across the room and told her she’d never pass a single exam. I dropped out. After Evan told me I was too stupid to finish. I’ve been delivering takeout for Yu-Fei for three weeks, crashing on Eva’s couch, trying to save enough money for a flat of my own. Silas tapped his signet ring against the booth’s table, the raven’s head clicking against the wood. This bar’s flat is empty. Above the storage room. I’ve been looking for someone to rent it—someone I can trust, someone who can keep an eye on the bar when I’m in the back room. The rent’s cheap. Cheaper than any flat you’ll find in Soho. Rory froze. She’d been scanning classified ads every night, looking for a flat that cost less than her weekly delivery paycheck, but she’d never guessed the flat above Silas’s bar was available. She’d passed The Raven’s Nest a dozen times, never knowing it was his, never knowing he’d been looking for someone to rent the flat. You’d rent to me? Silas nodded, his hazel eyes softening. I know what it’s like to run from something. To hide from the past. To feel like you’re carrying everything alone. I don’t want you to carry it alone anymore. Rory’s left wrist tingled. She pulled her sleeve up, revealing the crescent scar, and let it sit in the bar’s dim light, for Silas to see—no more hiding, no more tugging her sleeve to cover it. I regret not calling. I regret thinking you’d forgotten me. I regret running to London without reaching out, without telling you what was happening. Silas’s hazel eyes filled with a quiet sorrow. I regret not checking in. I regret letting my own pain—my knee, my failed op, my guilt over the two agents who died—make me push everyone away. I regret not looking for you when I heard about your father’s law case falling apart, not realizing you were in trouble. He gestured to the takeout containers on the stool. Yu-Fei’s order is for my back room meeting. The clients will be here in ten minutes. I can help you carry the containers to the back room, then we can talk more about the flat. You don’t have to crash on Eva’s couch anymore. You don’t have to deliver takeout forever. Rory looked toward the bookshelf, lined with leather-bound books, and then back at Silas—his grey-streaked auburn beard, his slight limp, his signet ring glinting in the dim light. She’d spent six months running, six months hiding, but for the first time since she’d fled Cardiff, she didn’t feel alone. I have to drop off the containers first. Then I can talk about the flat. Silas stood, his limp pulling at his hip, and grabbed the top takeout container from the stool, his signet ring glinting against the golden cardboard. I’ll help you. You don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.