AI rain hammered against the pavement of Soho, a relentless rhythm that usually drove patrons into The Raven’s Nest seeking warmth and gin. Tonight, however, the bar was nearly empty, save for a couple in the corner murmuring over a shared bottle of red wine and the low hum of the refrigerator motors.
Silas Blackwood stood behind the mahogany counter, a linen cloth in his hand, polishing a highball glass until it caught the gleam of the overhead lights. His left knee throbbed —a deep, dull ache that always flared when the barometric pressure dropped. It was a physical receipt from a night in Prague he had spent the last decade trying to forget, a reminder that the past was never truly a foreign country; it was a tenant that refused to be evicted.
The bell above the door chimed, cutting through the jazz playing softly on the speakers.
Silas didn’t look up immediately. He finished the rotation of the cloth, set the glass down with a deliberate click, and then lifted his hazel eyes. The distinctive green neon sign mounted above the entrance cast a sickly, emerald wash over the newcomer.
The man standing in the doorway was shaking off a dripping umbrella. He wore a charcoal wool coat that cost more than the annual lease on the bar, tailored to hide the shoulder holster Silas knew would be beneath the left arm. He was older now, the hair silvering at the temples, but the posture was unchanged —spine rigid, eyes sweeping the room in a single, practiced arc to assess threats and exits.
"You need to fix that sign ," the man said. His voice was smooth, cultured, and laced with a familiarity that made the hair on Silas’s arms stand up. "Green makes everyone look seasick."
Silas felt the weight of the silver signet ring on his right hand as he gripped the edge of the bar. "It scares off the tourists, Arthur. Keeps the place quiet."
Arthur Thorne walked toward the bar, his footsteps muffled by the damp runners. He didn't sit immediately. He stood looking at the wall behind Silas, where framed, yellowing maps of Europe and black-and-white photographs of indiscriminate street scenes were hung . He was studying a grainy photo of a bridge in Budapest.
"Quiet," Arthur repeated, testing the word as if it were a coin he suspected was counterfeit. "I never took you for a man who enjoyed quiet, Silas. You used to say silence was just the fuse burning down."
"People change."
"Do they?" Arthur finally took the stool directly across from the taps. He placed his hands on the wood, fingers manicured, devoid of scars. "I’ll have a Laphroaig. Neat. If you have anything that isn’t watered down."
Silas reached for the bottle without looking, the muscle memory of the barman overtaking the reflexes of the operative. He poured a generous measure and slid it across. "On the house. For the novelty of seeing a ghost."
Arthur picked up the glass, swirled the amber liquid, and took a sip. "I’m not the ghost, Silas. You are. You vanished. Poof. One bad night in the Czech Republic and the Spymaster dissolves into the London fog."
"I retired," Silas corrected, his voice dropping an octave. He shifted his weight to his right leg, easing the pressure on the bad knee. "There's a difference."
"Is there?" Arthur’s eyes locked onto Silas’s. They were grey, cold, and assessing. "You’re running a pub in Soho. A front, we assumed. A safe house. But I’ve been watching for twenty minutes from the cafe across the street. You’re actually cleaning glasses. You’re actually... this."
"It’s an honest living."
"It’s a waste," Arthur snapped, the veneer of politeness cracking. "We have a situation in Beirut. The network is fractured . We need someone who knows how to pull the strings without getting tangled in them. I didn't come here for the whisky."
Silas picked up another glass, if only to have something to do with his hands. "I’m done, Arthur. I have a mortgage. I have VAT receipts to file."
"You have a limp," Arthur pointed out, gesturing with his glass toward the hidden side of the bar. "And you have a history. You think you can just play landlord? Pretend the things we did, the decisions you made, don't weigh more than these kegs you haul?"
The door opened again, a violent shove that sent the bell jangling wildly.
A young woman burst in, bringing a gust of wet wind with her. She was soaked , her straight, shoulder-length black hair plastered to her cheeks. She wore a bright yellow waterproof jacket with a stylized dragon logo on the breast, contrasting sharply with the dim, moody aesthetic of the bar.
"I swear to god, Silas," she announced, breathless and shaking water from her sleeves. "If that lift breaks down one more time, I’m deducting it from the rent. I just walked up four flights with a backpack full of textbooks."
Silas’s expression, previously made of granite, softened instantly. "Hello, Rory. Rough shift?"
Aurora Carter, "Rory" to anyone who mattered within a three-mile radius, leaned against the end of the bar, wiping rain from her bright blue eyes. She didn't seem to notice the tension radiating from the two men, or perhaps she just didn't care. "Golden Empress got slammed. Tips were rubbish. And I think I failed my Tort Law mid-term." She finally looked at Arthur, offering a polite, tired nod. "Evening."
Arthur stared at her, then looked back at Silas. The transition in Silas’s face—from the guarded operative to the weary, paternal figure—was jarring .
"Arthur, this is Rory," Silas said, his voice firm, drawing a line in the sand. "She lives in the flat upstairs."
"Tenant?" Arthur asked, his eyebrow arching.
"Friend," Silas said. "Rory, there’s a shepherds pie in the warm oven back there if you haven't eaten."
Rory’s face lit up. She pushed up her wet sleeve to check a cheap watch, revealing a small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. "You’re a lifesaver, Si. Seriously. I might actually pay you on time this month." She grabbed a napkin, dried her face, and vanished through the door behind the bar that led to the private kitchen and the back stairs, oblivious to the fact that she had just walked through a field of tripwires.
Silence reclaimed the room, but the texture of it had changed. It wasn't empty anymore; it was full of the life Rory had just dragged in.
Arthur finished his drink in one long swallow and set the glass down hard. "She has no idea, does she?"
"About what?"
"About who you are."
"She knows exactly who I are," Silas said, leaning forward, his hazel eyes hardening into flint. "I’m the guy who fixes the radiator and makes sure the front door locks properly. That’s the only identity that matters now."
Arthur laughed, a dry, humorless sound. "You’re keeping a pet. Trying to simulate a normal life to make up for the red ink in your ledger. It’s sentimental, Silas. It’s dangerous. Civilians are liabilities."
"She’s not a liability," Silas said quietly. "She’s the reason I get up. You wouldn’t understand, Arthur. You’re still in the game. You think the game is the world. It isn't."
Arthur stood up, buttoning his expensive coat. He looked diminished somehow, despite the tailoring. The neon light caught the hollows under his eyes, revealing the exhaustion the adrenaline usually hid.
"We were kings, Silas," Arthur whispered.
"We were mechanics," Silas corrected. "And we broke more than we fixed."
Arthur reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. It was blank, save for a single phone number embossed in black. He slid it across the polished wood.
"If the radiator gets boring," Arthur said. "If the knee starts hurting too much and you need to feel useful again."
Silas didn't touch the card. He let it sit there, a small white rectangle on the dark mahogany.
"Goodbye, Arthur. Don't come back."
Arthur hesitated, looking at the door where Rory had disappeared, then back at his old friend. He nodded once, a sharp military gesture, and turned away.
Silas watched him go. The door opened and closed, the bell chimed, and the green light swallowed Arthur Thorne back into the London night.
Silas stood alone in the dim quiet. His knee throbbed with a vengeance. He looked at the card for a long time, his thumb brushing the silver signet ring on his other hand. Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he picked up the card, tore it in half, and dropped the pieces into the bin beneath the sink.
From the back room, the smell of heated shepherds pie began to drift out, savory and warm, overpowering the scent of stale rain and old regrets. Silas picked up the linen cloth and went back to polishing the glass.