Run: 2026-03-18-01KM0AD88N9YT86B2462Z1625M

The neon sign buzzed like an insect caught in a jar above the door, its green light flickering across the pavement. Rory paused under it, the same old coil of dread tightening in her chest. Three years since she’d walked these cobbled streets, three years since she’d set foot in The Raven’s Nest. Yet the place still pulled at her, like a scab she couldn’t help but pick. She pushed the door open. The air hit her—smoke and stale beer and something faintly chemical clinging to the back of her tongue. The bar hadn’t changed. The same warped wooden floor, the same mismatched chairs, the same ceiling fan with one blade slightly off-kilter. The walls were still papered with yellowed maps and black-and-white photos of men in fedoras, their faces half-erased by time. Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a glass with a rag that might’ve been white once. His auburn hair had more grey now, streaked through it like fault lines. He moved slower, too, the limp in his left leg more pronounced after years of standing. His hands were steady though—always steady. Rory hesitated by the door. Three months she’d lived upstairs, and in all that time she’d made sure to come and go through the back staircase. But tonight, she’d run out of milk. And the landlord’s knock had echoed down the corridor just after midnight, his voice nasally and insistent about the rent being late *again*. So here she was. Silas’ eyes flicked up. Recognition bloomed slow, like a match catching. He didn’t stop polishing. “You’re out of hours,” she said. Her voice felt rusty from disuse. “Customers come when they need to.” His fingers stilled, just for a second. Then resumed their motion. “You look well.” She wasn’t. Not really. The fluorescent lights above the bar turned her dark skin sallow, and the circles under her eyes weren’t just from exhaustion. But she lifted her chin anyway. “I’ve got used to sleeping at night.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “So have I.” Silas slid the polished glass onto the shelf behind him with a quiet *click*. He reached for another one, inspected it against the light. The signet ring on his right hand caught the glow, silver flashing between his fingers. Rory stepped forward, her boots scuffing the floor. The soles were worn thin where she dragged her feet when she walked alone at night. She’d bought them second-hand. Everything nowadays impressed her that way—cheap and temporary. “What’ll you have?” “Whiskey. Neat.” She said it like she lived here. Like she hadn’t spent three years avoiding the question of why she left Cardiff in the first place. Silas didn’t comment. He poured two fingers into a glass, slid it across the bar. The liquid caught the neon glow, amber and warm. Rory wrapped her fingers around it, felt the chill of the glass against her palm. She took a sip. The burn surprised her—she wasn’t used to drinking something that didn’t come in a can labelled Emergency or Guilt. They stared at each other. Not hostility, not warmth. The kind of stillness that happened when two people knew too many secrets to speak them aloud. “You’re working at the Golden Empress now,” he said finally. “Delivery driver. Part-time.” She traced a finger along the bar’s edge. The wood was sticky in places. “Flexible hours. No questions asked about schedules.” “Smart.” “Not really.” Silas exhaled through his nose, a sound that might’ve been a laugh in another life. “You always knew how to survive.” The words hung between them. Survival wasn’t the half of it. Survival was eating cold beans from a can while huddled under a blanket. Survival was calling your mother at 3 AM just to hear a familiar voice before hanging up. Survival was the hollow thump in your chest when Evan’s fingers closed around your wrist again. But Rory didn’t say any of that. Silas leaned his weight on his good leg, the left one that gave him trouble after Prague. “The flat’s paid up till the end of the month.” “I know.” “Then why are you still here?” The question settled between them like a dropped coin. Rory swirled the whiskey, watched it climb the sides of the glass. She could say she liked the location. Easy access to Soho, close to the restaurant, the transport links. She could say it was temporary until she saved enough for something better. But they both knew the truth. She’d stayed because it was the last place that felt like home. Even if Silas hadn’t talked to her in over a thousand days. He turned away, busied himself wiping down the optics. “You eat yet?” “Not hungry.” “Liar.” A beat. “Yu-Fei’s got leftovers. Pork belly. Still warm in the bag.” Rory’s stomach answered for her—a sharp, traitorous growl. Silas’s mouth twitched. Fifteen minutes later, she stood in the back alley behind the bar, the scent of fried meat cutting through the usual stench of bin bags and old rain. The delivery bag was warm in her hands. Silas had added a chilli sauce packet and a fork wrapped in paper. No note. Just the food. She bit into the pork belly. The meat was tender, infused with five-spice and garlic. Perfect. Yu-Fei never disappointed. Back inside, the bar had filled up—regulars at the far end, a couple in the corner booth whispering over a laptop, some bloke hunched over a single glass of something expensive. The hum of voices wrapped around Rory like an old coat. Familiar. Safe. Silas watched her from behind the bar as she ate, something unreadable in his expression. “You’re not working tonight?” she asked around a mouthful. “Cover came in.” He nodded toward the back. The secret room’s door was ajar, a sliver of light cutting through the dim. “No rest for the wicked.” Rory swallowed. “Needs must.” Silas’s laugh was quiet. “My thoughts exactly.” She wiped her fingers on a napkin, balled it up. The trash can sat behind him, just out of reach. He didn’t move to take it. Neither did she. Outside, a siren wailed, echoing off the buildings like a dying animal. Rory glanced at the door, then back at Silas. “It’s good to see you, Rory.” The name hit her like a punch—sudden, unexpected. He hadn’t called her that in… how long? Cardiff, maybe. Before everything. Before Evan’s grip bruised her wrists. Before she learned to sleep with a knife under her pillow. “You too, Silas.” The lie tasted bitter. She crushed the empty bag into a tighter ball, tossed it into the bin. Then she turned toward the door. Silas didn’t call her back. Didn’t try to stop her. But as she pushed through the door into the neon-lit street, she felt his eyes on her back. Burning hotter than any debt.