Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTRA3W33T7JC9F4Z40FJ88T

The green neon above the door pulsed, casting ripples of jade light across Aurora’s collar as she slipped into the Nest. The door thunked shut behind her, muffling the Soho clatter. Smoke drifted in low ribbons beneath exposed beams. Walls bore brittle maps of Prague, Cairo, Seoul—wherever Silas had once slipped in and out of shadow. Black-and-white photographs hung edge to edge: young agents grinning behind cover stories, safe houses, sudden lateness of flight manifestos. The bar’s hush folded around her like an old coat. Aurora paused at the threshold. The stool at the far corner, beneath a slanted lamp, held a lone drink. Glass sweating on polished wood. A woman’s back. Curly dark hair cut to her jaw. She recognized that dry curve of shoulder blades anywhere. Aurora tightened the strap of her satchel and moved forward. The bar hummed on either side: low voices, the clink of ice against glass. Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a tumbler with slow precision. Grey streaks in his auburn hair caught the neon. He glanced up, paused on Aurora’s face, then slid behind the shelf that hid the secret room. No questions. No greeting. Not yet. Aurora cleared her throat. Her boots scuffed the floorboards. The woman didn’t turn. “Rory?” A name from another life. Soft—but it cut the distance in half. The woman’s hand froze at the lip of her glass. Then she turned. Eyebrows lifted. Recognition flickered. A breath of surprise. “Aurora?” Her voice landed unevenly. She stood so fast the stool scraped. She smoothed her skirt and reached out. Aurora closed the gap. There was a moment when neither spoke. Sunken light in Carys’s eyes glinted—like seeing the wrong side of a mirror. “You came.” That was all Carys said. Aurora swallowed. “I needed…water.” Inhale. “And something stronger.” They settled onto stools side by side. Carys angled her glass toward Aurora. “Whisky?” Fingers tapped the rim. “Not the usual water.” Aurora nodded. Silas set down the tumbler in front of her without a word. Creased labrum of his lip. He limped back to the row of bottles. Carys jutted a chin at the maps. “You ever think you’d be back here?” Aurora lifted the glass and looked into the amber. She traced tiny whirlpools in the whisky. “Never thought I’d leave Cardiff, let alone end up at Spymaster Central.” Carys smiled, half crooked. “You always were drawn to chaos.” Aurora let her gaze drift to the photos—Silas in Prague, flanked by operatives with dead-eyes. “I’ve seen worse.” Carys’s smile faded. She wrapped both hands around her glass. Knuckles blanched. “You...you shut me out.” Aurora set her whisky down, straightened. Long hair brushed her collarbone. “I thought you’d stop calling.” “I called every month for two years.” Carys’s words came fast. She bent forward. “You moved, and the line went dead. I left messages. E-mails. Got no reply.” “I had to go.” Aurora’s voice lost its edge. She glanced at her wrist. The scar peeped from beneath her sleeve—a pale crescent, silent witness. “I had to disappear.” Carys’s eyes flickered to that curve. “‘Disappearing’ doesn’t mean ‘never cared.’” She shook her head. “You were my best friend. I thought—” “Thought what?” “That you were angry at me. I let you go.” Aurora pinched the bridge of her nose. A flicker of pain. “It wasn’t you.” Carys leaned back. Her hair caught the lamplight, bronze in the haze. “Then what was it?” Silence filled the space between them. A loose conversation flittered elsewhere in the bar. Aurora stared at the maps. Prague again. She remembered the operation Silas had mentioned once: the one that ended with him limping and them all scattering. She turned back to Carys. “I got scared.” Voice low. “Scared you’d judge me.” “Judge you for what?” Aurora’s nails went white on the glass. “My ex. Evan. The things he said. The things he did. You know how someone can squeeze your voice until it snaps?” Carys’s mouth flattened. She stared at Aurora as if seeing the scar for the first time. “I didn’t know.” Aurora’s head dipped. “I never told you.” “You ran instead.” Carys’s tone softened. “I left messages. I worried every minute. Thought you’d ended up in hospital or prison.” “I was in neither.” Aurora eased an arm out of her sleeve. Showed the mark. Clean and stitched by time. “I just…ran in circles for a while.” Carys reached out, moved a stray curl away from Aurora’s face. A gentle gesture that carried a thousand anchors. “You could have told me.” Aurora closed her eyes. When she opened them, they shone with years. “I was ashamed. I blamed myself.” “You’re not to blame.” Carys’s voice brushed against the rim of Aurora’s heart. “Not ever.” Aurora leaned forward. The bar’s green glow bent around her. She felt small for a moment. “You got married.” The words trembled in her throat. She pictured the wedding announcement Carys had posted online. A man in a dark suit, Carys’s hand in his. Carys half turned away. She blinked twice. “Two years ago.” Aurora’s heart thudded. “I didn’t know.” Carys wrapped her arms around herself. “You never asked.” Aurora’s mouth went dry. “As if I had the right.” Something broke in Carys’s expression. “You always had the right.” Silas reappeared behind the bar, set a fresh glass in front of Carys, then absently slid a bottle of water to Aurora. He tapped the counter once. His way of clearing the air. Aurora lifted the water, brought it to her lips. She stared at her reflection in the bottle. No illusions left. Carys picked up her new glass. Drained it. Set it down hard. “I’m sorry.” Carys’s words stopped the bar’s low murmur. “For everything.” Aurora blinked. The apology had edges—a blade sharpened on regret. “I’m sorry too.” They sat in the hush that followed, two ghosts of the past sharing the same light. Aurora traced the scar again. It felt like a promise written in flesh. To move on or to remember. Carys met her gaze. “Why here? Why tonight?” Aurora studied the maps behind Carys’s shoulder. “Because Silas’s place feels safe. And because tonight I ran out of excuses.” Carys’s lips curved. “No more excuses.” Aurora held that. Let the silence press down. She lifted her water. Carys mirrored her, whisky halfway gone. “In case you need to hear it again,” Aurora said, “I never stopped caring.” Carys raised her glass. “To not letting go.” They tapped rims. The sound cracked like old bones. Aurora watched the liquid inside shiver. A bar patron laughed at a joke over the counter. Silas leaned in, wiping his hands. He caught Aurora’s eye and inclined his head. No words needed. Aurora turned back to Carys. A slow breath emptied her lungs. “Tell me about him. Your husband.” Carys’s eyes flicked down to her glass. She ran a fingertip along the condensation. “He’s patient. Kind. Doesn’t mind my scatterbrain. Works in publishing.” Aurora nodded. “Sounds good.” “It is.” Carys lifted her chin. “And you? What’s next for you?” Aurora set her water on the bar. She folded her hands around the glass’s curve. “I deliver food by day. I’m thinking of law school again. Maybe finish what I started.” Carys smiled—real this time. “You’ll be brilliant.” Aurora’s lips twitched. “I want to try.” Carys placed a hand over Aurora’s. Warmth bloomed where skin met wood. “I’m glad you’re back.” Aurora let the words rest on her tongue. Then she said, “Maybe this time, I’ll stay.” Outside, the neon blinked in emerald pulses. Inside, two friends found each other again. Words hung between them, lighter now. They sat, glass in hand, facing the maps on the wall, ready to chart a new course.