Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTQSQP03KFKTKGE3FQ0DQ37

Rain pelted the narrow streets of Soho, slick with grime and neon reflections, as Aurora stepped into the dim glow of The Raven’s Nest. The green neon sign buzzed overhead, casting an eerie shimmer over the puddled pavement. She shook off her soaked hood and glanced up at the bar’s familiar, battered door. It was the sort of place one stumbled into when the night had curled too tightly, full of secrets half-whispered beneath clinking glasses. The air inside was thick with tobacco and old wood. Maps strewn across the walls framed black-and-white photographs that seemed to watch with tired patience. Aurora’s eyes adjusted quickly, scanning the low hum of conversation and the rustle of card games from the far corner. She hadn’t been here in years. Unexpected warmth rolled off the mahogany bar, punctuated by the clink of ice in glasses. A figure stood behind the counter—a tall man with a silver-streaked auburn beard and a limp hinted in every step. Silas. Her old friend. The Spymaster. For a moment, time fractured, and she saw him as he’d been—young, sharp-eyed, and impossibly confident, running errands in foreign cities with a sly smile. Now he bore the weight of decades like a folded map, weary edges and faded lines. He noticed her before she spoke, eyebrows lifting ever so slightly, a guarded pause hinging on the edge of recognition. “Rory.” His voice was dry, the timbre of secrets long kept. “Didn’t expect to see you here.” She shrugged off her damp jacket, setting it beside the stool. “Thought I’d check on the Nest. Figured it hadn’t changed much.” “It hasn’t.” He wiped a glass with a threadbare cloth, eyes narrowing. “Neither have you, in some ways. Still look like you carry those bright blue eyes just as stubbornly.” Aurora laughed, a short, sharp sound, her gaze darting away. “Stubborn’s one word for it. What about you? You’re... different.” Silas shifted, the limp catching briefly at the edge of a movement, then passed. “Different’s a given after as many years as we’ve got under our belts. The question is, what’s changed the most?” She hesitated, fingers tapping on the bar’s scarred surface. “You. You don’t move the way you used to. Not just the limp. You used to be quicker, sharper. Now there’s... caution.” “Survival calls for caution,” he said softly. “And some wounds don’t heal all the way.” “The Prague operation,” she said, the name falling between them like a chill wind. “You never told me what happened.” Silas’s jaw clenched, eyes drifting to a shadowed corner. “Not many do.” He shook his head slowly. “I lost more than just a knee that night.” The weight in his voice unsettled Aurora more than the gruff tone. She remembered their last real conversation—a hurried goodbye, tangled with hope and unspoken fears before she fled Cardiff. So much had passed since then, fractures widened by distance and silence. “Did you ever think about chasing me down?” Silas asked suddenly, as if reading her thoughts. A ghost of a grin tugged at her lips. “More than you know. But chasing shadows gets you nowhere.” Silas studied her then, the blue eyes once so full of fire now carrying a tempered resolve. “You did alright for yourself. Part-time at that restaurant? Always figured you’d be doing something bigger.” “Big doesn’t always mean better,” she said quietly. “I got out. That counts.” The bar’s low murmurs wavered as a few patrons glanced over, sensing the tension—two old ghosts crossing paths in a place that never forgot them. “Do you miss it?” he asked, voice dropping. “Miss what?” Her gaze lifted to meet his. “Everything. The danger. The stakes. The people you trusted and lost.” Aurora’s fingers curled around the edge of the bar. “I miss who I was before I knew what the world could do to you.” Silas nodded sagely. “That girl wore life like a shield. I hoped you’d kept some of that.” She gave a bitter laugh. “It cracks. Maybe even breaks.” The silence stretched, filled only by the soft clatter of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter elsewhere. “So, what’s next for Malphora?” Silas called her by her old codename, the spark of shared history igniting briefly between them. “Back for revenge? Regrets?” “Neither,” she replied. “Just looking. Trying to figure out if I still have a place to belong.” “That place,” he said, tapping the bar space beside her, “might be harder to find than you think.” Aurora’s gaze dropped to her scarred wrist, tracing the faint crescent-shaped mark almost out of habit. “Maybe. But I’m done running. I want to stand my ground.” Silas leaned forward, the familiar fire returning to his hazel eyes. “Good. Because the world isn’t waiting to forgive anyone.” A shard of something unspoken passed between them—a mixture of apology, longing, and the raw unravelling of time’s relentless pull. “So,” Aurora said, straightening, “How long’ve you owned this place again?” “Nearly a decade,” he answered, voice rough. “A safe harbour, or so I tell myself.” “For someone who saw too much, it sounds like exactly where you belong.” Silas smiled, a flash of old mischief mingled with sorrow. “Suppose we both found unexpected refuges.” Outside, the rain eased, drumming softer against the window. Inside, two figures sat on the edge of who they had been, caught between what was lost and what still flickered in the dark. Aurora glanced at her watch. “I should go. But maybe... I could stop by again.” Silas nodded slowly. “Don’t be a stranger, Rory.” She hesitated, then smiled with quiet determination. “No more running.” He took up a glass, raising it gently. “No more running.” They drank then—not to celebrate, but to acknowledge the miles across years and silence, the unspoken tethers pulling them back to the moment. The door creaked as another figure stepped in, the spell broken, but the ripple they left lingered like smoke in the air.