Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQKNS9S8F31KY0HRP5QFYZ

The green glow of *The Raven’s Nest* cut through Soho’s damp evening like a secret signal, pulsing faintly against the wet pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged whiskey, cedarwood polish, and the faintest trace of cigarette smoke clinging to old velvet curtains. Aurora sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a glass of ginger beer with lime—no alcohol tonight, not after the long ride across town on her delivery moped. She’d pulled her black hair back into a loose low ponytail, but a few strands had escaped, trailing along her cheek like spilled ink. Her jacket was still damp from the drizzle outside, and she kept running her thumb over the small crescent scar on her left wrist, a nervous habit she’d carried since childhood. Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a tumbler with deliberate care, his movements economical, precise. He paused when the door opened, the bell above jangling softly, and looked up. And froze. Not much made Silas flinch—years in the field had stripped reflexes of theatrics—but something about the woman who stepped inside, shaking water from her coat, stopped him mid-motion. She had her head down, wiping her face with the back of her hand, but when she looked up and their eyes met, the room seemed to contract. “Aurora,” he said, and his voice, usually so controlled, cracked like dry timber. “Silas,” she replied, her voice steady, but her fingers tightened around the strap of her bag. “Didn’t think you’d remember my real name.” He set the glass down slowly, the soft *clink* echoing in the sudden quiet. The few patrons—a couple in the corner booth, a man reading by the fireplace—were absorbed in their own worlds. It was nearly closing time, the hour when the Nest belonged more to ghosts than people. “You didn’t look like you were in a rush,” he said, recovering. “Thought I’d find you here eventually. Just not like this.” She took a seat three stools down from where she’d been. A buffer. A test. “Eva said you were running the bar. Didn’t tell me it was *this* bar.” Silas limped around the end of the counter, his left leg betraying the old injury with a subtle hitch. He stopped a few feet from her, studying her like he was reading a classified file he wasn’t supposed to have. The signet ring on his right hand caught the low light, glinting silver. “You look different,” he said. “You too,” she said. “The auburn’s gone mostly grey.” “A privilege of age. You’ve got that same sharp look in your eyes, though. Like you’re always five steps ahead.” She gave a small, humorless smile. “Survival instinct.” He gestured to the stool beside him. “Sit. Or are we doing this like soldiers across a trench?” She moved, but slowly. Took her time. When she sat, she kept her back straight, hands in her lap. “I don’t know what there is to say, Silas. It’s been… what? Seven years?” “Eight,” he said. “Since Prague.” The word landed like a stone in water. Aurora didn’t react outwardly, but her jaw tightened, just a fraction. Prague. The botch. The fallout. The night Silas disappeared from the agency—and from her life—after the op went sideways. He’d pulled her out, dragged her bleeding through the tunnels beneath the castle district, and then vanished without a word. She’d spent months wondering if he’d died. “You left,” she said quietly. “So did you,” he replied. “Six months later. Dropped off the grid. No warning. Just… gone.” “I had my reasons.” “I heard about Evan.” Aurora looked away, toward the wall of old photographs—faces half-forgotten, missions buried under layers of red tape and denial. One showed her, younger, barely twenty, standing beside Silas in Istanbul, both of them laughing into the sun. She hadn’t known the photo was even taken. “You never called,” she said. “After Prague. After the debrief. After *everything*.” “And you think I wanted to cut ties?” He leaned against the bar, his voice low. “They were watching you, Aurora. MI5, internal review, half of Six—they wanted you as a scapegoat. I pulled you out because I knew what they’d do. And the safest thing for you was to disappear. So I let them think you were compromised. Let them write you off.” Her eyes snapped to his. “You *sacrificed* me?” “I *saved* you,” he said, firm. “And I disappeared because if they couldn’t find me, they couldn’t force me to testify. The fewer connections, the safer we both were.” Silence stretched between them, thick with years and choices made in shadows. “You could’ve told me,” she said at last. “And say what? ‘Sorry, Rory, your career’s over, but hey, at least you’re alive’? You were twenty-two. You had plans. Law school. A future that didn’t involve dodging bullet reports in Eastern Europe.” “I *chose* that work,” she said, voice rising slightly. “I wasn’t some recruit you could just—” “I know what you chose,” he interrupted. “But choices change when someone holds a knife to your throat. And I wasn’t going to let them turn you into a warning.” She exhaled, long and slow. Then, softer: “I thought you were dead.” “I thought the same about you, when you vanished.” They looked at each other, and for the first time, something cracked—not anger, not blame, but grief. The quiet, aching kind that comes from loving someone who was never really gone but might as well have been. Aurora reached for her glass, took a sip. “I deliver food now. For a Chinese place in Hackney.” Silas raised an eyebrow. “You hate spicy food.” “I don’t deliver the noodles. I deliver the invoices. And the threats, when clients don’t pay. Yu-Fei says I’ve got a ‘convincing aura.’” He almost smiled. “She’s not wrong.” “And you? Running a bar? Playing bartender to drunk tourists and bad poets?” “This bar is clean. Legit. But it’s also a listening post. A relay. I don’t field anymore, but I still move information. Still keep an eye on the game.” “Still playing spymaster.” “Someone has to.” Another silence. But different now—lighter, edged with the familiar rhythm of old trust. “You could’ve reached out,” she said again, not accusing, just weary. “I did,” he said. “Once. A year ago. Sent a message through Eva. She said you weren’t ready.” Aurora looked down at her scarred wrist. “Maybe I wasn’t.” Silas reached into his jacket, pulled out an envelope—thin, unmarked, sealed with wax stamped with a raven. He set it on the bar between them. “This isn’t a recruitment,” he said. “It’s an acknowledgement. Your file was expunged six months ago. No blame. No record. You’re clean.” She didn’t touch the envelope. “I don’t want back in.” “I know. But you should know the truth. About what happened. About why I left. About why I stayed away.” She looked up, her bright blue eyes searching his face. “And now?” “Now,” he said quietly, “you’re here. And I’m here. And the Nest’s still open. For you, always.” Outside, the neon sign flickered, then steadied, casting its green glow over the wet street. Inside, two ghosts from the same war sat across from each other, not whole, not healed—but present. And for the first time in years, Aurora let her shoulders relax, just a little. She picked up the envelope. Didn’t open it. Just held it. “Keep the change,” she said, pushing a few coins across the bar. Silas nodded. “Always do.”