Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQRHQYF4S48K09PTSX3Z3S

Aurora stepped inside The Raven’s Nest and the green neon glow washed over her face. She paused under the sign, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior. The bar’s walls were lined with maps and black-and-white photographs, every dusty picture a fragment of some clandestine past. She tugged her satchel strap, remembered the night air outside, crisp and promising. Here, she’d dropped off dozens of deliveries. Tonight, she lingered. A cluster of patrons huddled around a low table in the corner, voices muted. Bar stools creaked in rhythm with the barmaid’s footsteps. The scent of old whiskey and wood polish wrapped around her like a familiar coat. She struck out for the counter, scanning faces she half-recognised—regulars who nodded in greeting, and newcomers who kept their heads down. A soft click of his boot against the hardwood floor stopped her. He stood behind the bar, sleeves rolled up, exposing lean forearms. Hazel eyes caught hers. Silver hair streaked through auburn where it framed a face both lined and strong. A neatly trimmed beard gave him the air of authority he’d never lost. He wore his signet ring on the right hand, its crest catching the faint light. One shoulder was slightly higher where he favoured his injured leg. She swallowed. “Silas?” He straightened. A sharp exhale. His limp sounded as he crossed to meet her. “Aurora.” He tilting his head, assessing her. His eyes traced her straight black hair, her bright blue eyes. The small crescent scar on her left wrist peeked from under the cuff of her jacket. Familiar, yet distant. She pressed her lips together, remembered the years. Remembered nights of frantic essays in his living room. Remembered him raising a brow at her pre-law jargon. Remembered laughter. And the silence that swallowed them after she ran away to reach London. “I wasn’t expecting—” She cleared her throat. “I was here to pick up a late supper.” He dipped his chin. “Yu-Fei’s still serving until midnight. Lucky for you.” She offered a half-smile, sliding onto a stool. The bar surface felt cold beneath her palms. She glanced at his limp. The slight hitch in his gait looked as old as the maps behind him. “That knee?” “Doesn’t stop me.” He leaned forward, fingers brushing the bar. “Someone needs to keep the Nest standing.” She nodded, though her eyes flicked to the bottles behind him. Rows of amber mason jars, each one labelled with a different corner of the world. Prague. Moscow. Riyadh. Memories she hadn’t known she stored in those glass walls. “Your hair.” She touched a lock as if she could summon the past. “Grey now.” He offered a crooked grin. “Fifty-eight. You expected me twenty-five?” She sighed. “You were always too young to grow old.” Silas’s face softened. He set a tumbler before her. It held nothing but ice and a twisting curl of orange. “No charge. Call it an old friend’s treat.” His hand hovered over it then retreated. “You want something stronger?” She shook her head, lifted the glass. The ice caught the light. “I’ll stick to this. I’m off the clock.” She turned the glass, studied the droplets sliding down the side. “You?” He leaned back. His foot tapped once, twice, then settled. “Nothing. I’ve got a plan to keep everyone talking.” He swallowed. “But that’s for later.” A lull fell between them. Aurora’s throat tightened without warning. She wanted to ask how he’d come to run a bar. She’d pictured him in some MI6 safe house, passport in hand. Not here, folding napkins behind a counter. “Why did you leave Cardiff?” he asked, voice soft enough not to draw attention. Steel gathered in her chest. “Doesn’t matter anymore.” He flipped the signet ring between his fingers. “It matters to me.” She drew a breath, nearly regretted it. “I had to. I… things happened.” She glanced at the scar on her wrist. “I wasn’t safe there.” He knuckled his jaw. “I wish you’d told me.” She set the glass down. It made a hollow sound. “And have you come bail me out? Send me back? I didn’t want pity.” He studied the maps on the wall. “I would’ve come for you.” Anger pricked her veins. “You didn’t.” Silas closed his eyes, leaned into the bar. The neon green flickered across his face. “I was afraid I’d lose you if I tried.” She exhaled. Long. “You lost me anyway.” He opened his eyes, raw regret shining there. “I couldn’t break protocol. I was moving pieces across Europe. You were small compared to an operation in Prague.” She let that go. “We’re not talking about Prague.” His jaw tightened. Lines appeared at the corners of his eyes. “I know.” A pause. The bar quieted. A barmaid dropped a tray in the kitchen, tin clattering against iron. Aurora swallowed again. She pushed off the stool, ran a hand through her hair. “You’ve changed.” His eyes danced. “So have you.” She glanced at her reflection in a mirror behind the bottles. The black hair, the blue eyes—still hers. Yet something in her posture, the way she held her shoulders, had shifted. “I used to be a lot less guarded.” He nodded. “I saw you… You were different before Evan.” He let the name hang between them. “He hurt you.” Her jaw set. “That’s over.” He traced the rim of her glass. “It never quite goes away.” She pushed the glass aside. “Enough about him.” Her gaze locked on a photo pinned behind the counter: him with two field agents, rifles slung across their backs. He wore a youthful grin, lighter hair. She reached out, fingertips ghosting across the frame. “You were happy then.” He closed his hand over hers, stilling her. “I was. And then…” He hesitated, pressed his palm tighter. “I lost control of the mission. The rest of my team.” She felt it then—the weight of unspoken things filling the space between them. Regret like smoke pressing at her lungs. She opened her mouth. Closed it again. At last, she said, voice low, “I never thanked you. For all the late nights, for helping me with essays. You believed I’d get somewhere.” He smiled, slow, weathered. “You did.” She laughed, unexpected and brittle. “Barely.” She pulled away, paced a step. “I’m living above your bar now. Delivering food. Not exactly making barrister.” He slid a file folder across the counter. She froze. He didn’t reach for it. “What’s this?” she asked. He curled his lip. “Contacts. A few names. People you might want to meet.” She stared, then shook her head. “You’re not going back to intel work.” He glanced at the bookshelf concealing the secret room. “I never left.” She swallowed hard. The implication sat heavy. “I can’t—” Her breath hitched. “I’m not who I was.” He pressed a finger to her lips, quiet. “Neither am I.” Silence pressed in. She traced his ring again. “Why help me? After everything.” He exhaled, eyes unwavering. “Because I owe you. And I’ve been waiting a long time to settle that debt.” She stared at him, heart thunderous. Images flickered in her mind: him guiding her through logic puzzles, pulling her back from panic attacks when deadlines loomed, patching her up after she burned her hand on the oven at home. Moments small and large. Moments where he’d been steady. Now, standing here, he still held that steadiness. Her hand dropped. She folded her arms. “I have my life now, Silas. I’m not jumping back into shadow work.” He studied her. “I’m not asking you to.” He tapped the folder. “Just look. Then decide.” Her eyes flicked from folder to his face. Time blurred. The bar’s hum slowed, sharpened. Past and present colliding. Across the room, the barmaid placed a bottle of sake on a high shelf. A dull clatter. Patrons shifted, unaware of the silent reckoning unfolding at the counter. Aurora inhaled. She slid her satchel off her shoulder, set it on the floor. She reached for the folder. Fingers trembled. She flicked it open. “Names, dates,” she whispered. “What is this?” His hand rose, ready to explain. He opened his mouth—then paused. Eyebrows drawn together as though searching her face. He closed the space between them so suddenly she felt his breath on her cheek. “You’ll know soon enough,” he said, voice steady. “I won’t hold your hand. But I’ll be here.” Her heart thudded in her chest, catching on old regrets and new possibilities. She looked up at him, saw the man he’d become: strong, cautious, carrying his scars in every measured movement. She touched the edge of the folder again, as if measuring whether to fold it closed or peel back its layers. He gave her a small nod. That gesture held all the years they hadn’t spoken, all the apologies left unvoiced. He leaned back, resting on his good leg first, then the other. Aurora folded the folder and slipped it inside her satchel. The bar’s lights blurred at the edges. Her fingers tightened around the strap. “I’ll read it,” she said, voice flat. He nodded. “That’s all I ask.” She slid off the stool before he could offer another drink or protest. As she turned, she paused in the doorway. The neon green sign flared outside. She looked back at him one last time. His silhouette stood firm behind the bar, maps and photographs spilling secrets in the light behind him. She stepped out. The door swung shut on the muted music and low murmur of voices. Outside, the night air grabbed her lungs. She paused on the pavement, hand on her satchel, fingers lingering over the scar on her wrist. The folder rested against her hip, a promise or a trap she had yet to decide. Inside, through the frosted glass, the green neon still shone. A beacon, or a warning. The door clicked again as someone new entered The Raven’s Nest. Silence fell between Aurora’s heartbeat and her next breath.