AI The air in The Raven’s Nest was its usual mixture of old wood, spilled whiskey, and distant rain. Aurora wiped down the last of the afternoon’s glasses, her movements economical. The crescent scar on her wrist caught the dim light from the green neon sign bleeding through the front window. Silas was in the back, inventory ledgers spread before him, his silver signet ring tapping a silent rhythm on the oak.
The door opened with a soft groan, letting in a slice of damp Soho evening. A man stepped inside, pausing to let his eyes adjust. He was tall, wearing a coat that was too heavy for the London drizzle, his shoulders set with a tension that didn’t belong to a casual drinker. He scanned the room, his gaze passing over the maps on the walls, the empty booths, and landing on her.
Aurora felt the recognition like a skipped heartbeat. It wasn’t instantaneous. The face was older, the lines deeper, the softness of youth pared away to something harder, more defined. But the eyes were the same. A clear, unsettling grey she hadn’t seen in seven years.
“Rory?”
His voice was lower, rougher around the edges. It was the voice of the boy who’d sat next to her in A-level history, who’d shared illicit cigarettes behind the bike sheds, who’d talked about joining the navy while she’d talked about law school. A lifetime ago.
“Leo.”
She didn’t mean to say his name. It just left her lips, flat and toneless. She set the glass down on the polished counter.
He approached the bar, his movements careful, as if navigating a minefield . He shrugged out of the coat, draping it over a stool. Underneath, he wore a simple dark sweater, jeans. Nothing that shouted, but everything about him now seemed to whisper of a different life.
“You look exactly the same,” he said. A faint smile touched his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“I don’t.”
“You do. The hair. The…” He gestured vaguely towards her face, then let his hand drop. “I heard you’d moved to London. Didn’t know you were… working here.”
“It’s a bar. People drink here.” She reached for a clean towel, began polishing a spotless section of counter. “What are you doing in Soho, Leo? Last I heard you were on a frigate somewhere near Gibraltar.”
“That was a while back.”
“Right.”
An awkward silence stretched between them, filled by the hum of the cooler and the distant sound of Silas shifting in the back room. Leo finally slid onto a stool. “Can I get a whiskey? Whatever you’ve got that’s single malt. Neat.”
She turned, selected a bottle from the middle shelf, poured two fingers into a tumbler. She pushed it across to him. Her fingers didn’t brush his.
He took the glass, cradled it in both hands, staring into the amber liquid. “I got out. The navy.”
“I gathered.”
“It wasn’t… it wasn’t what I thought it would be.”
“What is?”
He looked up at her then, and the weight in his grey eyes was a physical thing. “You were always sharp.”
“You were always vague.” She leaned back against the sink, arms crossed. “Out. Meaning what? You’re a civilian now? You sell insurance?”
A flicker of something—annoyance, pain—crossed his face. He took a slow sip of the whiskey. “Something like that.”
“Don’t be cryptic, Leo. It’s been seven years. You either tell me or you don’t, but I’m not playing twenty questions.”
He let out a long, slow breath. “I do consultancy. Security consultancy.”
“For who?”
“Governments. Corporations. People who need things kept quiet, or people who need things found.” He set the glass down with a soft click. “I’m good at finding things.”
She studied him. The boy who’d wanted to see the world from the deck of a ship was gone . In his place was a man whose stillness was absolute, whose gaze missed nothing. He carried himself like Silas did, but where Silas’s authority was worn -in, comfortable , Leo’s was coiled , ready.
“You’re a spy.”
He gave a minute shake of his head. “Not officially. Not anymore. The lines get blurry.”
“And you just happened to wander into this particular bar.”
“I was in the area.”
“Bullshit.”
He smiled, a real one this time, fleeting and familiar . “Still sharp.” He drained the rest of the whiskey. “I heard a rumor. That a guy named Silas ran a place around here. A guy who used to be in the game. A guy who knows people. I came to see if the rumor was true.”
“And is it?”
“The bookshelf by the far wall doesn’t sit flush with the others. The hinges are probably on the inside.” He didn’t even glance towards the secret room. “So, yes. It’s true.” His eyes came back to her. “What I didn’t hear was that you were part of the furniture.”
“I’m not. I live upstairs. I help out.”
“You help out.” He repeated the phrase as if tasting it, finding it bland . “Rory Carter. Top of our year. Debating champion. Your dad had your acceptance to Cardiff Law framed.”
Her cheeks warmed. “Things change.”
“Do they?” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “What happened? You were going to change the world from a courtroom. Now you’re pulling pints in a spymaster’s pub.”
“It’s a bar. And I deliver Chinese food by day. It pays the bills.” The words came out colder than she intended.
“Evan.”
She went very still. “Don’t.”
“I heard about that, too. After I got back. I tried to find you. Your mother said you’d gone to London, changed your number.”
“You tried to find me.” A hollow laugh escaped her. “Seven years later.”
“I was deployed, Rory. For most of it. Communications were… limited.”
“Convenient.”
He flinched. The silence this time was heavier, thick with all the unsaid years. Regret had a texture, she thought. It was like the smoke that used to hang in this bar before the ban, a haze you could almost touch.
“I’m sorry,” he said finally. The words were simple, stripped bare.
“For what? Not calling? Not writing? For walking out of that graduation party and onto a train and never looking back?” She shook her head, turning to refill his glass without him asking. “It’s fine, Leo. We were kids. We all make choices.”
“You didn’t choose this.”
“How do you know what I chose?” She slammed the bottle down a little too hard. “You think I’m some damsel in a tower? That I ended up here because some guy was mean to me and I had to run away?” She held up her left wrist, the small crescent scar pale against her skin. “I got this falling out of a tree trying to rescue a cat you dared me to climb for. I’ve always made my own messes. I’m still making them.”
He stared at her scar, then at her face. The professional detachment he’d walked in with had vanished. He just looked tired, and sad, and like the boy she’d known. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know.” The anger drained out of her, leaving her deflated. “I know you didn’t. It’s just… you show up here. Looking like that. Saying you look for things for a living. And you’re sitting in a bar run by my… by Silas. It’s a lot.”
“I can go.”
“No.” The word surprised her. “Not yet. Finish your drink.”
He obeyed, lifting the fresh glass. They lapsed into a quieter silence . The tension had shifted, the initial shock worn down to a raw, familiar ache.
“You were right, you know,” he said after a while, staring into his whiskey. “It wasn’t an adventure. It was just… a job. A cold, calculated , often ugly job. I got good at it. I lost the taste for it, but I was good.”
“And now you consult.”
“Now I consult. I find missing people. Missing assets. I follow money trails and digital ghosts. It’s cleaner, in a way. Less blood on my hands.” He rubbed a thumb over his knuckle. There were scars there, too. Small, white, precise. “I thought, maybe, if I could find other things… it would balance the scales.”
“Does it?”
“No.”
The honesty of it hung between them. She believed him.
“Why did you really come here, Leo? To see Silas? Or…”
“To see if you were here.” He met her gaze directly. “The rumor about Silas was just the excuse I gave myself. I knew you were in London. I had an address, an old one. I went there. A woman named Eva said you might be here. She was… protective.”
“Eva’s a good friend.”
“She is.” He swirled the whiskey. “I just wanted to see you. To know you were okay.”
“And now you’ve seen me.”
“Now I’ve seen you.” He finished the second drink. “You’re not okay. But you’re alive. You’re smart. You’re surviving. It’s more than a lot of people get.”
He stood, pulling his coat back on. He pulled a card from his inside pocket, a simple white rectangle with just a phone number embossed in black. He placed it on the bar, next to his empty glass.
“If you ever need anything. If you ever need someone found. Or if you just… want to talk about something other than the past.” He gave her that faint, ghostly smile again. “It was good to see you, Rory.”
He turned and walked towards the door, his footsteps quiet on the worn floorboards. He didn’t look back.
Aurora stared at the card. She didn’t pick it up. She listened as the door opened and closed, the bell giving a soft, solitary chime. The space where he had been sitting felt suddenly , profoundly empty.
From the doorway to the back room, Silas cleared his throat. She hadn’t heard him approach. He stood with his weight on his good leg, his hazel eyes watching her, reading the whole scene in her posture.
“An old friend?”
“Something like that.”
“He’s changed.”
“Haven’t we all?”
Silas nodded slowly , his signet ring glinting as he reached up to adjust his collar. “He left his payment on the bar.”
Aurora looked down. Next to the empty whiskey glass and the white card were two crisp twenty-pound notes, folded neatly under the tumbler. Exact change, plus a generous tip. The gesture of a man who paid his debts, who left no loose ends.
She picked up the glass, the money, the card. She pocketed the money, held the card for a moment between her fingers, then slid it into the back of the till. Out of sight, but not gone.
“Yes,” she said to the empty room. “He’s changed.”