Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNFP5GMFQECRNZXSAX4G24X

The green neon sign blinked sluggishly abovethe door of The Raven’s Nest, casting a sickly, artificial glow onto the wet pavement outside. Inside, the air hung thick with the smell of stale beer, fried onions, and something faintly metallic that might have been old wood or something worse. The low hum of the jukebox, playing a scratchy blues tune, was the only sound besides the occasional clink of glasses and the muffled murmur of voices from the back. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as her friends still called her, pushed open the heavy door, the scent hitting her like a physical wave. She’d been delivering for Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress for three years now, but the memory of this place, of Silas, felt like a ghost she’d thought she’d laid to rest. She’d been scanning the familiar, slightly grimy booths and the worn leather stools at the polished mahogany bar, looking for any sign of the man who’d been her anchor in a world that had suddenly gone sideways. Her own life had become a series of deliveries, a flat above Silas’s bar, a quiet existence far removed from the pre-law lectures she’d fled Cardiff for. She’d changed, yes, but the core, the sharp, quick mind that had once plotted escape routes and legal loopholes, was still there, buried under the routine. She’d thought she’d left the past behind, but here it was, sitting at the bar, nursing a glass of something amber, his grey-streaked auburn hair neatly combed, the faint limp in his step as he turned to face her. “Rory?” His voice, low and gravelly, cut through the blues. “Is that you? Looks like you’ve traded the courtroom for the delivery van.” She blinked, the name rolling off her tongue like a foreign word. “Silas.” The word felt heavy, laden with years. She pushed her straight, shoulder-length black hair back from her forehead, the crescent scar on her left wrist catching the dim light. “Long time, no see.” Her voice was cool, practiced, the same quick-thinking edge she’d always had, but it sounded hollow even to her own ears. She took a seat on the stool beside him, the worn leather creaking under her weight. The bar smelled of him still, of old wood and something sharp beneath it. He turned fully, his hazel eyes, sharp and assessing, taking her in. The years were etched deeper now, around his eyes and mouth, but the quiet authority was still there, radiating from him like heat. He nodded slowly, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “You look… different. Less like the girl who’d argue with me about the ethics of surveillance until two in the morning, more like someone who’s learned to blend in.” He gestured to the glass in front of her. “Another delivery run? Or just stopping by to see the old man?” “Just stopping by,” she said, her gaze drifting to the worn maps on the wall, the black-and-white photos of faces she didn’t recognize. “I was passing, thought I’d see if the legend still lived.” The lie tasted bitter. She hadn’t come for him; she’d come for the ghost of who she’d been, for the weight of the life she’d left behind. Silas Blackwood, the Spymaster, the man who’d taught her to read people like open books, to see the lies beneath the surface, watched her carefully. The limp in his left leg was more pronounced now, a subtle shift in his weight as he shifted on the stool. He knew the score; he’d seen the change in her, the way she moved, the guarded look in her eyes. “You’ve changed, Rory. Not just the hair, not just the job. You’ve become… quieter. More careful.” He took a slow sip of his drink, the amber liquid catching the neon light. “What happened? Cardiff to London, then what? Running from something?” The question hung in the air, thick and unspoken. She’d left Cardiff because of Evan, the abusive ex, but the truth was more tangled, more painful. She’d left because she’d realized the life she’d been building, the life Silas had tried to warn her about, wasn’t the life she wanted. She’d fled to London, to Silas’s bar, to disappear into the background, to become someone else. “I… found something else to fight for,” she said finally, her voice low. “Something more immediate.” She gestured vaguely towards the door, towards the deliveries, the quiet flat above. “It’s… different, but it’s mine.” Silas nodded, understanding flickering in his eyes. He knew the weight of responsibility, the burden of choices made. “Different, yes. But is it… better?” His voice was gentle, but the question cut deep. He saw the ghost of the sharp, ambitious Rory in her eyes, the one who’d once dreamed of changing the world from the inside. Now she was just… delivering. “You used to talk about changing things, about making a difference. Now you’re just… moving boxes.” The accusation, soft as it was, struck a nerve. The unspoken regret, the life she’d walked away from, the potential she’d buried beneath the routine, surged up. “I am making a difference,” she insisted, her voice rising slightly. “Every delivery I make, every person I help get their food, it’s… it’s something. It’s real.” She looked away, staring at the bar’s worn surface, the green neon sign pulsing like a heartbeat. “It’s quieter. Less… messy.” Silas leaned forward slightly, his grey-streaked hair catching the light. “Messy is sometimes necessary, Rory. Running from Evan, running from Cardiff… that was messy. But this?” He tapped the bar in front of her. “This quiet? This hiding? That’s a different kind of mess. A mess you’re making for yourself.” He saw the flicker of pain in her eyes, the ghost of the girl who’d once been unafraid. “You’re not just delivering food, are you? You’re delivering yourself, piece by piece, to a life you don’t recognize anymore.” The words hung between them, charged with the years and the choices. The blues song ended, replaced by the scratchy sound of a new record starting. Outside, the rain began to fall again, a soft, persistent patter against the window. Inside, the silence was thick, filled with the weight of who they’d been and who they’d become, the unspoken regret a tangible presence in the dim light of The Raven’s Nest.