Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF4Z7XGSFEEFEGG329G8D8

The green neon signoutside Silas’s bar blinked a sluggish, familiar rhythm against the Soho drizzle, casting a sickly glow on the wet pavement. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of aged oak and something sharper, like ozone and old secrets. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as her friends still called her, pushed through the heavy oak door, the weight of her own shadow stretching long behind her. She’d been avoiding this place, avoiding him, for months. The scar on her left wrist, a faint crescent moon, itched beneath her sleeve cuff, a constant reminder of the accident that had nearly ended her childhood, and the choices that had followed. Silas Blackwood, leaning against the polished mahogany bar, watched her enter. His hazel eyes, sharp as ever beneath the grey-streaked auburn hair, narrowed slightly. The slight limp in his left leg was more pronounced today, a ghost of the Prague operation that had cost him his career and his freedom. He straightened, the movement fluid despite the injury, and pushed off the bar. “Rory. Didn’t expect to see you here. Or anywhere, really.” His voice was low, gravelly, the timbre of a man who had spent decades listening to whispers in dark corners. Rory’s breath hitched. The years hadn’t been kind to her either. The sharp intelligence that had once made her a force to be reckoned with was now tempered by a wariness that made her eyes dart around the room. She saw the signet ring on his right hand, the silver glinting in the bar’s dim light, a relic of a life she’d only ever glimpsed from afar. “Silas. Long time.” Her voice was cool, practiced. “I heard the bar’s still standing. Good for you.” She didn’t mention the part-time job she’d taken at Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress, delivering dumplings to Soho’s late-night crowd, the flat above his bar a constant reminder of the life she’d fled. He chuckled, a dry sound. “Still standing, still serving secrets. Though the dumplings are better at the Empress, I’ll grant you that.” He gestured to a stool. “Sit. Have a drink. It’s been… years.” The unspoken question hung heavy: *What are you doing here?* Rory slid onto the stool, the worn leather creaking. She ordered a whiskey, neat, her fingers steady as she held the glass. “Just passing through. London’s changed. So have you.” She looked at him, really looked. The grey in his hair was more pronounced, the lines around his eyes deeper, etched by time and perhaps regret. The limp was a constant companion now. “You look… older.” “Age happens,” he said, pouring himself a scotch. “You look… different. More… guarded.” He studied her, noting the straight black hair now pulled back severely, the bright blue eyes that held a world of calculation. The scar on her wrist was more visible beneath the rolled sleeve. “You’ve changed, Rory. More than just the years.” She took a slow sip of her whiskey, the burn a familiar comfort. “I had to.” The words were simple, but the weight behind them was immense. The abusive ex, Evan. The flight to London. The life she’d left behind, the person she’d been, felt like a ghost. “I needed to disappear. To become someone else.” Silas nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes. “I know that feeling.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a confidential murmur. “Prague. It changed me too. Cost me everything.” He tapped the signet ring. “This is a reminder. Of what I lost. And what I can never get back.” The conversation drifted, touching on old haunts, shared memories that now felt like echoes in a canyon. The hidden back room behind the bookshelf, a sanctuary for their clandestine meetings, felt like a lifetime away. Rory spoke of her work, her flat, the quiet desperation of her new life. Silas spoke of the bar, the network of contacts, the shadows he still moved in. The unspoken regret hung between them like a thick fog: the regret of paths not taken, of opportunities missed, of a friendship that had frayed at the edges under the weight of time and secrets. As the night deepened, the bar’s green neon sign pulsed a final, fading glow. Rory drained her glass, the ice clinking softly. “I should go.” Her voice was final, leaving no room for argument. “Thanks for… seeing me.” The words felt hollow, even to her. Silas watched her rise, the limp more noticeable as she moved towards the door. He saw the scar, the guarded eyes, the woman she had become. “Take care, Rory.” His voice was softer now, devoid of its usual authority. “Be careful who you become.” She paused at the threshold, looking back at him. The bar’s dim light caught the silver signet ring on his hand, a stark contrast to the grey in his hair. “I am careful, Silas. Every single day.” And with that, she was gone, the door closing softly behind her, leaving the green neon sign to blink its lonely vigil over the Soho night, and the weight of unspoken regret settling once more over the Raven’s Nest.