Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX1T9R6Q5YQ8NEWBEG93DC

Rain battered the pavement of Soho, a relentless, rhythmic drumming that seeped through the brickwork of The Raven’s Nest. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of beeswax polish and stale tobacco, a preservation of a London that ceased to exist past the threshold. Silas Blackwood leaned against the mahogany bar, the damp weather settling into his left knee like a rusted hinge. He rubbed the joint absently, his thumb tracing the fabric of his trousers, while his hazel eyes scanned the empty room. Tuesday nights offered a sanctuary of silence. No university students seeking cheap thrills, no tourists stumbling in from the West End looking for a quaint authentic experience. Just the hum of the cooling compressors and the hiss of tires on the wet tarmac outside. The green neon sign above the entrance flickered, casting an intermittent emerald pulse across the black-and-white photographs pinned to the far wall. Captured moments of men in trench coats and women with sharp eyes, froze alongside maps of cities that had since changed names and borders. The brass bell above the door chimed, a sharp intrusion. A gust of wind folded a stranger into the room, followed by the clatter of a dripping umbrella shoved into the stand. Silas didn't straighten up immediately. He polished a highball glass with a lint-free cloth, watching the reflection in the mirror behind the rows of bottles. The man shook off a coat that cost more than the yearly lease of the building. Cashmere, tailored, dry-clean only. He turned. Silas stopped polishing. The glass commanded his grip, threatening to shatter under the sudden pressure of his fingers. "I thought you were dead." The newcomer smiled. It was a practiced expression, flashing porcelain veneers that caught the low light. The eyes, however, remained flat—grey stones in a riverbed. "Gossip, Silas. It always was the agency's primary currency." Victor Sterling walked to the bar. He moved with a feline grace that defied the decades, absent of the stiffness that plagued Silas. He placed a manicured hand on the wood surface. No calluses. No ink stains. Just smooth, pale skin and a watch that ticked away seconds in diamonds. "Whiskey," Victor said. "The good stuff. Not what you serve the locals." Silas reached for the bottle of single malt he kept hidden beneath the counter, the label yellowed and peeling. He poured two fingers. Then two more for himself. "You look... prosperous." Silas slid the glass across. Victor picked it up, swirling the amber liquid but not drinking. "Adjusting to the private sector requires certain compromises. Wardrobe included. You, on the other hand, look like you’ve been carved out of the woodwork of this place." "It pays the bills." "Does it?" Victor glanced around the dimly lit room, taking in the peeling wallpaper and the dust motes dancing in the neon glare. "It looks like a mausoleum. A shrine to a game we lost." "We didn't lose. We retired." Victor laughed, a dry sound like unexpected friction. "You retired. I evolved. There is a difference." Silas took a sip, the burn familiar and grounding. He twisted the silver signet ring on his right hand, the metal cold against his skin. "Is that what they call it now? Evolution? I heard rumors. People said you went to Dubai. Or was it distinctively more eastern?" "Contracts took me where the interests aligned. Borders are just lines on those maps you keep hoarding." Victor gestured to the wall of cartography behind them. Deep creases lined his forehead, but his cheeks were pulled tight, injected and filled to erase the worry lines Silas remembered from nights spent huddled in safe houses in Berlin. The Victor who had pulled him out of the wreckage in Prague had dirt under his fingernails and fear in his sweat. This man smelled of sandalwood and indifference. "I keep the maps so I remember where not to go," Silas said. "Or where you failed to go." Victor finally drank. He swallowed without flinching. "How is the leg?" "Operative." "Does it hurt?" "Only when it rains. Or when I’m reminded of mistakes." Victor set the glass down with a sharp *clack*. He leaned in, the expensive suit jacket straining slightly across broad shoulders. "We did what was necessary in Prague, Silas. You took a bullet to the knee; I took the exit strategy. It wasn't personal." "Leaving the asset behind was the strategy. Leaving me was a choice." "You were compromised. You couldn't run." "I could have walked. If you hadn't taken the car." Note the lack of volume in Silas' voice. He didn't shout. He placed the cloth on the counter and flattened it with his palm. "But you’re not here to reminisce about Czech architecture. Men like you don't walk into bars in Soho fast emerging from a storm just to catch up with old ghosts." Victor reached into his inner pocket. Silas’s hand drifted inches toward the hidden compartment under the bar—a reflex, old and reliable as the ache in his bone. But Victor only produced a slim, metal case. He extracted a cigarette, tapping it on the wood. He didn't light it. "I’m looking for a girl." Silas let out a breath through his nose. "Aren't we all." "Not that kind. A specific one. Young. Twenty-five. Dark hair, blue eyes. goes by Aurora, or Rory. Carter." The air in the room grew thin. The hum of the fridge sounded like a roar. Silas picked up his glass again, examining the play of light through the whiskey. He didn't look at the ceiling, towards the floorboards of the flat above where Aurora was likely sleeping, or perhaps reading law textbooks she pretended to hate. "Name doesn't ring a bell." "Don't play the fool, Si. It doesn't suit your demographic. She works for the noodle shop down the street. We know she lives nearby." "It's a big city. People deliver food. People eat food. I pour drinks." Victor lit the cigarette now, ignoring the ‘No Smoking’ sign peeling above the register. The smoke curled up, acrid and blue. "She’s a person of interest. Her father—" "Is a barrister in Cardiff," Silas interrupted. "Brendan. Good man. Loud when he drinks." Victor froze, the lighter flame hovering for a second before snapping shut. "So you do know her." "I know her father. Drank with him once when he came to visit his daughter. Why does a private contractor with a five-thousand-pound suit care about a part-time delivery girl?" "It’s not the girl. It’s what she might have inadvertently intercepted. A courier packet was mixed up. A digital drive. Mundane to her, vital to my employers." "Employers." Silas tasted the word like it was spoiled milk. "mercenaries." "Consultants. She has something that belongs to us. I just want to retrieve it. I’m doing you a courtesy, Silas, coming here first. I saw the address on her file. 'Above The Raven's Nest'. I laughed. I truly did. It seemed too poetic. The old Raven shielding the chick." "She’s not a chick. And this is my bar." "It’s a front. It always was." Victor turned, looking at the door to the back room, the one hidden behind the bookshelf. "You never really left the game, did you? You just stopped getting paid for it. You sit here, hoarding secrets and playing house with strays." Silas moved. He came around the bar, the limp pronounced, the heavy thud of his left foot hitting the floorboards echoing in the quiet. He stopped a few feet from Victor. He was shorter, older, and broken in places that didn't show on x-rays, but the authority that had once commanded clean-up teams in the Balkans flared in his eyes. "You’ve changed, Victor. And I don't mean the teeth." "I grew up." "You got hollowed out. You used to believe in the mission. Now you believe in the margin." Victor flicked ash onto the floor. "The mission was a lie. We were pawns. Now, I’m the player. I have resources, Silas. I can make things very difficult for a washed-up spook and his tenant. Give me the girl. Or let me talk to her. I’ll pay her for the trouble. Generously." "She doesn't have your drive." "How would you know?" "Because she’s smart. If she found something odd, she wouldn't keep it. She’d bin it or hand it in. She’s not like us. She has a life. A future." Victor stared at him, analyzing the micro-expressions, the twitch of the jaw, the position of the hands. He took a long drag of the cigarette. "You’re protecting her. That’s adorable. Is she the daughter you never had? Or something more pathetic?" Silas stepped into Victor’s personal space. The smell of expensive cologne was overpowering, masking the scent of rain. "Get out." "I can have this place condemned by morning. Health and safety violations alone." "And I can make a phone call that drops your name in an inbox at Vauxhall Cross. Do you think they stopped looking for the leak from the Budapest operation? The funds that went missing?" Victor’s face tightened. The mask slipped, just for a fraction of a second, revealing a jagged edge of genuine fear. He dropped the cigarette and ground it out with the heel of his Italian leather shoe. "You have no proof." "I have a memory. And unlike you, I kept my files." Silas gestured to the back room, a bluff, or perhaps not. "The Nest isn't a mausoleum, Victor. It’s a library. And I know exactly which book to pull to bring the shelf down on your head." The silence stretched, taut as a piano wire. Victor smoothed the lapels of his jacket. The veneer returned, sealing the cracks. He reached into his pocket again, pulling out a crisp fifty-pound note. He dropped it on the bar. "For the drink. It was mediocre." "Take your change." "Keep it. Buy some paint. Cover up the rot." Victor turned toward the door. He paused with his hand on the brass handle. "I’ll find the drive, Silas. With or without your permission. Don't make me burn the nest down to get to the eggs." "If you come back," Silas said, his voice dropping to a low rumble, "wear something waterproof. It’s going to get very wet." Victor opened the door. The wind howled, snatching at his coat, eager to drag him back into the storm. He didn't look back. The door slammed shut, cutting off the silhouette against the streetlights. Silas stood in the center of the room for a long minute. The scent of the cigarette lingered, a toxic ribbon in the air. He walked to the door and engaged the deadbolt, the steel sliding home with a heavy thud. He flipped the sign to 'Closed'. Pain flared in his knee, sharp and electric. He ignored it, limping back behind the bar to the sink. He picked up Victor’s glass, holding it by the rim. Lipstick couldn't have stained it more than the man's presence had. He didn't wash it. He threw it into the trash bin, hearing it shatter against the bottom. Above him, the floorboards creaked. Rory was awake. Silas poured himself another drink, neat. He looked at the map on the wall, specifically at the winding streets of Prague. He took a pen from the jar and drew a thick, black X over the city, pressing down until the nib tore through the paper. "Welcome back, old friend," he whispered to the empty room.