Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAX86SASSZHDXZ89FNRG6N

The neon green sign of *The Raven’s Nest* flickered like a dying firefly as Rory Carter pushed through the heavy door, the scent of aged whiskey and cigarette smoke wrapping around her like an old coat. She’d only meant to grab a quick drink before heading back to the flat above the bar—Silas’ flat, technically, though he’d never kicked her out after that night three years ago when she’d shown up on his doorstep, bruised and shaking. But the place had changed. The bar was quieter than she remembered. The usual hum of conversation, the clink of glasses, the low thrum of jazz from the corner speakers—all of it felt muted, like the world had turned down the volume. Rory slid onto a stool near the back, where the light was dim and the shadows pooled like spilled ink. She ordered a gin and tonic, neat, the way she used to drink them before London started feeling like a cage. Then she saw him. Silas Blackwood stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate strokes. His back was to her, but she’d know that posture anywhere—the way his shoulders carried themselves, broad and unyielding, like he was still expecting a bullet to come flying through the door at any second. His hair had more grey now, streaked through the auburn like iron filings in rust. The limp in his left leg was more pronounced, a hitch in his step when he moved between the shelves. She should’ve left. Should’ve turned and walked out before he noticed her. But she didn’t. Rory took a slow sip of her drink, watching the way his fingers curled around the glass, the signet ring on his right hand catching the light. That ring had always been his tell—something he’d never take off, not even in the field. She remembered the first time she’d seen it, when they were kids sneaking into his father’s study, him swiping it off the desk like it was a trophy. “You’re staring.” His voice was rougher than she remembered. Deeper. The kind of voice that didn’t ask questions—it made statements. Rory turned, swirling her glass. “Didn’t mean to disturb you.” A lie. They both knew it. Silas set the glass down with a quiet *clink*. “You always were shit at lying, Carter.” She exhaled, half-laugh, half-sigh. “Still am.” He studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes sharp in the low light. “You look different.” “So do you.” That got a smirk. “Older. Greyer. Still limping like a man who’s seen too many wars.” Rory traced the rim of her glass with her thumb. “You always did have a way with words.” Silas leaned against the bar, crossing his arms. “You’re not here for small talk.” “No.” “Then why?” She hesitated. The truth was a knife she wasn’t sure she wanted to twist. “I was delivering for the Empress. Thought I’d stop in. Haven’t been back in years.” A beat. The ice in her glass tinkled as she shifted it. “You still own this place?” “Still own it.” His gaze flicked to the scar on her wrist—the one she’d gotten when she was twelve, climbing the fence behind his house, skinning her knee on the rusted metal. He’d patched her up in his kitchen, his mother scolding him for letting her near the stove. “You still work for Cheung?” “Part-time. Delivery.” Silas nodded, like that explained everything. Like it made sense that she’d ended up here, in this bar, after everything that had happened. “You look good, Rory.” She almost laughed. “Bullshit.” “You do.” His voice was steady. “You always were too thin. Now you’ve got some meat on your bones.” She shot him a look. “Thanks.” “Don’t mention it.” He reached for a rag, wiping down the counter with slow, methodical strokes. “You still in law?” “Dropped out.” Another nod. “Figured.” “Why’s that?” “Because you’re standing in a bar at midnight, not in a courtroom.” Rory took another sip. “You always could read me like a book.” “Used to be my job.” She set her glass down. “You still doing that? The spy stuff?” Silas didn’t answer right away. He poured himself a whiskey, neat, the way he always had. “Occasionally.” “Still with MI6?” A pause. “No.” “Then what?” He took a slow drink, watching her over the rim of the glass. “You really want to know?” “Yes.” Silas set the glass down. “I run a network. Independent. People who…” He trailed off, searching for the right words. “People who need things done that the government won’t touch.” Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. “Like what?” “Like finding people who don’t want to be found.” His eyes held hers. “Like extracting information from people who’d rather die than talk.” She swallowed. “You’re still playing with fire.” “Someone’s got to.” The air between them thickened. Rory looked away, her gaze landing on the old maps pinned to the wall behind the bar—London, Prague, places she’d never been but had heard whispered about in hushed tones when she was younger. “You ever think about what you’re missing?” Silas didn’t react. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. “Every damn day.” She exhaled sharply. “I didn’t come here to dredge up the past.” “No?” He stepped closer, his voice low. “Then why’d you come back, Rory?” Because I needed to see if you’d still be here. Because I needed to know if you’d changed as much as I had. Because I needed to know if you’d forgive me. The words burned in her throat, but she didn’t say them. Instead, she finished her drink in one swallow and stood. “I should go.” Silas didn’t stop her. Just watched as she slid off the stool, her coat brushing against the bar as she turned to leave. “Rory.” She paused. “You still got that key to my flat?” She didn’t look back. “Yeah.” “Good.” And then she was gone, the door swinging shut behind her, the neon sign flickering like a dying pulse. Silas stayed where he was, staring at the empty space where she’d been standing. The weight of years pressed down on him, heavy as a tombstone. He poured another whiskey. And for the first time in a long time, he let himself wonder if maybe—just maybe—he’d made the wrong choice.