Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYCDHGKSXDK1NQZB215A37

The Raven’s Nest’s green neon sign blinked a weary pulse against the Soho drizzle, casting long, distorted shadows across the wet pavement. Inside, the air hung thick with the scent of stale beer, damp wool, and something faintly metallic—like old coins. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as her friends still called her, pushed through the heavy oak door, her shoulders hunched against the chill. She’d taken the night shift at Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress, delivering steaming boxes of dim sum to the city’s insomniacs, and the damp had seeped into her bones. She’d been avoiding this place for months, but Eva’s insistent texts—“You *have* to come down, Rory! Just one drink, promise?”—had worn her down. Now, blinking against the low, amber light, she scanned the familiar, slightly grimy interior. There, near the scarred oak bar, sat Silas Blackwood. Not the sharp-suited, impeccably groomed man she remembered from university, but a figure draped in a worn tweed jacket, his grey-streaked auburn hair neatly combed but thinning at the crown. A faint limp marked his stride as he leaned on the bar, his hazel eyes, sharp as ever, tracking her approach. The signet ring on his right hand glinted dully in the bar’s glow. Time had etched lines around his eyes and mouth, deepening the shadows beneath them. He wasn’t old, but he carried the weight of years like a familiar coat. “Rory,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble that cut through the muted chatter and clinking glasses. “Long time, no see.” He pushed himself upright, the movement stiff, and slid off his bar stool with a quiet scrape. He didn’t offer a hand, just held her gaze, his expression unreadable. She blinked, the name rolling off her tongue like a relic. “Silas.” The word felt strange, distant. “You look… different.” The truth was, he looked older, more weathered, but also somehow more solid, less like the restless intelligence officer she’d known. The limp was new, a subtle shift in his posture. “And you,” he replied, his eyes flicking down to the faded delivery uniform she wore, the name badge clipped to her lapel. “Still delivering hope in a box, I see.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Or is that just the ex?” The mention of Evan, her abusive ex, hung in the air, thick and unwelcome. She’d fled London, changed her name, buried her past under a new identity. “I deliver food,” she said flatly, forcing a lightness into her voice that sounded brittle even to her own ears. “Not hope. Just… sustenance.” She gestured vaguely towards the door. “I was just passing through. Thought I’d grab a quick drink before heading home.” Silas nodded slowly, his gaze lingering on her face. The bright blue eyes she’d inherited from her Irish father were still there, but they held a new depth, a wariness she hadn’t seen before. “Home,” he echoed. “Above the bar, I think? Silas’s place?” His tone wasn’t accusatory, just observational, but it pinned her down. “I remember.” She flinched slightly, the memory of the cramped flat above the bar, the constant hum of the city below, flooding back. “Yeah,” she managed. “Above the bar.” The lie felt heavy. “Silas’s place.” She didn’t add that it was hers now, a small victory bought with hard-earned cash and a fresh start. “So, what brings you here, Silas? The Spymaster? Or just a quiet pint?” He chuckled, a low, gravelly sound. “Spymaster’s retired. Just a quiet pint, and the occasional clandestine meeting in the back room.” He gestured vaguely towards the shadows near the bookshelves. “The Raven’s Nest still serves its purpose, even if the cloak and dagger’s gone a bit rusty.” He paused, studying her. “You’ve changed, Rory. More than just the name.” The accusation, veiled though it was, stung. “I had to,” she said, her voice tight. “I had to leave. Evan… he wasn’t safe.” The scar on her wrist, a crescent moon of pale skin against her tanned forearm, seemed to burn. She instinctively pulled her sleeve down. “I changed everything. My name, my life. I became someone else.” Silas leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar, his gaze intense. “And who is that someone else?” His voice dropped, becoming a confidential whisper. “The cool-headed, quick-thinking Rory I knew wouldn’t just… disappear. She’d fight. She’d find a way.” He paused, his hazel eyes searching hers. “What did you fight for, Rory? What did you run towards?” The question hung between them, heavy with unspoken regret. She saw it then, the flicker of something in his eyes—not just curiosity, but a profound sadness, a sense of loss. The man who’d once been her mentor, her confidant, now looked at her with the eyes of someone who’d lost a piece of himself. The weight of time pressed down, not just on her shoulders, but on the space between them. The bar’s low hum, the distant clink of glasses, seemed to amplify the silence that stretched out, thick and unyielding. The past wasn’t just behind them; it was a living, breathing presence in the dim light of The Raven’s Nest.