Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQQ7HCCNGC1A8JYRKXXJ9X

The familiar scent of stale beer and fried onions hit Aurora the moment she pushed open the door to The Raven’s Nest. The neon green sign outside, a beacon in the London drizzle, had lured her in, a whisper of familiarity in the chaotic heart of Soho. She hadn't been back in years, not since the move to the flat above. Tonight, a peculiar restlessness had driven her down the creaking stairs, the ache in her knees a dull counterpoint to the city's thrum. The bar was a study in shadows, punctuated by the amber glow of low-hanging lamps. Maps, faded and brittle, clung to the walls like decaying skin, interspersed with the phantom smiles of forgotten patrons in sepia photographs. Silas was behind the bar, as he always was, polishing a glass with the methodical rhythm that always soothed her. His auburn hair, now generously streaked with grey, caught the light. The faint limp as he moved to snag a new bottle from the shelf was as familiar as the sound of her own heartbeat. He looked up, his hazel eyes widening slightly in recognition, a slow smile spreading across his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. "Aurora. It's been too long." "Silas," she managed, her voice catching a little. She hadn't expected to see him, or anyone, really. The idea had been to blend into the background, to nurse a solitary pint and let the anonymity of the city wash over her. He gestured with the polishing cloth. "The usual?" She nodded, moving to her usual stool at the far end of the bar, the one that offered a discreet view of the door. The crescent scar on her left wrist itched faintly, a phantom limb of memory. "The usual," she repeated, trying to sound casual. Silas had a knack for seeing through her carefully constructed composure. He’d seen her at her worst, and then, somehow, had offered her a roof over her head and a steady, if unconventional, employment. He poured a pint of what she suspected was the same dark ale she’d always favoured, the foam precisely sculpted. When he placed it before her, he leaned in, his gaze surprisingly intense. "You look… different." Aurora took a slow sip, the bitter hops a welcome jolt. "It's been…" she trailed off, the years stretching out, a vast, unnavigable ocean. "A while." "Indeed." He wiped his hands on his apron. "What brings you out tonight? Not tending to the Golden Empress, I assume?" "Just a walk," she deflected, tracing the condensation on her glass. "Needed some air." Silas chuckled, a warm, rumbling sound. "Rare for you, Rory. You usually prefer your air pre-packaged with your deliveries." She managed a weak smile. "Felt nostalgic." He didn’t press. Instead, he picked up a stray coaster, turning it over and over in his scarred hands, his silver signet ring catching the dim light. "I heard about Eva, you know. Saw it in the papers. The gallery opening." Aurora’s breath hitched. Eva. The name was a sharp, unwelcome echo from a life she’d worked so hard to outrun. Eva, with her bright laughter and even brighter ambitions. "Oh," was all she could say. “Sad business,” Silas continued, his voice low, almost contemplative. “Such a waste of talent.” Talent. Eva had had it in spades, or so everyone had said. Aurora had always felt… lesser. A shadow trailing in Eva's luminous wake. She remembered snippets of conversations, overheard whispers in crowded rooms, the way Eva’s name had always been spoken with a certain reverence while Aurora's was merely acknowledged. "She always was one for the limelight," Aurora said, the words tasting like ash. Silas met her gaze, his eyes unreadable. "And you always preferred the quiet corners, didn't you?" The truth of it landed like a physical blow. Yes. She did. She’d always found solace in the edges, in the invisibility of the forgotten. It was a survival mechanism, honed with years of practice. But Eva had thrived in the centre, basking in the applause, her confidence a blinding supernova. A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things. The clatter of glasses from the other side of the bar, the murmur of distant conversations, the relentless hum of the city outside – it all seemed to fade, leaving them in their own small bubble of shared history. "You know," Silas said, his voice softer now, "I always wondered what happened to you after you left London." Aurora’s stomach clenched. She hadn't left London, not really. Not in the way he meant. She'd merely… changed postal codes. Changed her name, for a while. Shed skins like a snake, each one scuffed and worn but offering a brief respite before the next cycle of shedding began. She'd spent years building walls, brick by painstaking brick, around the raw, exposed core of herself. Eva’s meteoric rise and equally spectacular fall had felt like a cruel jibe, a reminder of everything Aurora had tried to escape. “I… I’ve been around,” she said vaguely, her gaze fixed on the condensation ring her glass was leaving on the dark wood. “Working. Living.” "Always the pragmatist," Silas murmured, a hint of something that might have been fondness in his tone. He moved with that familiar grace, despite the slight hitch in his gait, clearing empty glasses and arranging bottles. He was a master of observation, Silas. He saw everything, catalogued it, filed it away. And he rarely offered commentary, which was why his observations, when they came, carried such weight. "Someone has to be," she replied, her voice tight. Pragmatism had kept her alive. It had kept her from crumbling entirely under the weight of betrayal and loss. "Eva was… vibrant," Silas said, his tone neutral, yet Aurora detected a current of something else beneath the surface. Regret? Disappointment? A professional assessment, perhaps, given his peculiar line of work. "She had a way of making people feel seen." Aurora flinched inwardly. Seen. She’d spent so long feeling utterly invisible, even to herself. Eva had always been the one who shone, drawing the eye, captivating the room. Aurora had been the quiet observer, the one who noticed the details others missed. It was a skill that had served her well in her current… profession. Though Silas didn't know the full extent of it. He knew she delivered for Yu-Fei, and he knew she lived above his bar. He also knew she had a certain knack for ‘information gathering,’ as he euphemistically put it. "She got what she wanted," Aurora said, a little too harshly. Silas paused, his hand hovering over a rag. He turned his full attention back to her, his hazel eyes sharp. "And what is it you want, Rory?" The question hung in the air, heavy and profound. Aurora opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. What *did* she want? Forgiveness? Peace? To disappear entirely? The life she led now was a precarious balancing act, a tightrope walk over an abyss of her own making. She’d traded the safety of the shadows for the thrill of the precipice, a desperate gamble for control. "I want… a quiet life," she finally managed, the lie tasting as bitter as the ale. Silas studied her for a long moment, his expression unreadable behind the years of accrued wisdom. He finally gave a slow nod. "A quiet life can be a complicated thing to find." He pushed a coaster towards her. "A refill?" She shook her head. "No, thank you, Silas. I should… get back." She slid off the stool, the movement feeling stiff and unfamiliar. The brief encounter had stirred up more than she’d anticipated, a potent cocktail of nostalgia and unease. "Rory," Silas said, his voice stopping her at the edge of the bar. She turned, her hand on the cool, polished wood. "Some things don't stay buried forever. And some people… well, they have a way of finding their way back." His gaze held hers, and for a fleeting moment, she saw the ghost of the younger man she’d known, the one who’d once been a protege, before a life of shadows and secrets had etched themselves onto his face. She offered a small, tight smile. "I know." The crescent scar on her wrist pulsed, a silent reminder that some wounds never truly healed, and some ghosts, no matter how fast you ran, always managed to keep pace. She turned and walked towards the door, leaving Silas standing sentinel behind his bar, a guardian of secrets in the heart of the city. The neon green sign outside flickered, casting a familiar, melancholic glow on the rain-slicked pavement. The night air, when she stepped into it, felt colder, sharper, than it had moments before.