Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYJV0FEXHXTE59DSGRVP51

The neon green buzz of the Raven’s Nest sign pulsed rhythmically against the brick wall, the only heartbeat in a city that usually felt like a thunderstorm. Inside, the air hung heavy with the scent of stale smoke, old wood, and the sharp tang of gin. Aurora Carter swiped a damp cloth over the grain of the oak bar, her movements mechanical and precise. Her knuckles brushed against a glass left behind by a careless customer, sending a jolt of irritation through her. She was thirty minutes past her shift at the Golden Empress, but the stacks of delivery slips in her apron pocket demanded attention. The bags of takeout food sat stacked on the floor by the back door, smell of ginger and chilies bleeding into the sticky bar atmosphere. Footsteps echoed on the worn floorboards. Heavy. Deliberate. Aurora paused, her hand hovering over a stain that refused to budge. She didn't turn around. "The usual?" The voice was gravel vibrating over wire, deep and tired. She recognized the cadence. The way the consonants pulled in the back of the throat, the distinct lack of enthusiasm that defined Silas Blackwood. Aurora straightened her spine, dropping the rag into the bucket of soapy water with a splash. She turned, bracing herself. Silas stood in the doorway, the harsh streetlight cutting through his silhouette before spilling him into the dim safety of the bar. The years hadn't just accumulated on him; they had settled into the lines of his face, etching deep maps into a forehead that had once been smooth. His auburn hair was now a stormy mix of silver and grey, trimmed neatly to match his beard. The left leg of his trousers hung slightly lower than the right, the evidence of a knee that had seen better decades. He wore his usual suit, the fabric worn thin at the elbows, but he carried himself with the rigid spine of a man who hadn’t allowed himself to slump in decades. "You're working late," Silas said, limping toward the farthest stool. He signaled to the empty space beside him. "I'm never not late," Aurora replied, picking up the bottle of malt whiskey she kept behind the bar for special guests. "Yu-Fei’s orders were piled up. One of the drivers bailed." She poured two fingers into a crystal tumbler, sliding it across the bar. Silas reached out, his calloused fingers closing around the glass with a practiced ease. He didn't drink it. He just stared at the amber liquid swirling within. "I haven't seen you in what? Four years?" Silas asked, his eyes fixed on the glass. They were a dull hazel now, missing the sharpness of his youth. "About that." Aurora pulled a clean glass for herself, filling it with ginger ale from the tap. She leaned against the counter, studying him. He looked smaller in person, or perhaps it was just the illusion of age tricking her eyes. He used to tower over her, a looming figure of authority who always smelled of sandalwood and rain. Now, he looked like a man carrying a satchel full of rocks. "You look good, Rory," Silas said, finally tipping the glass back. The burn in his throat seemed to wake him up. "I'm a delivery girl, Silas. Not exactly Miss Universe." She twisted the cap off her ginger ale, the plastic cracking with a sharp snap. "I work hard. The scars aren't for show." Silas winced. He reached for the glass again, his movement slowing. "I know about the scars." "I saw you looking at my wrist." "It's a crescent," Silas murmured, not looking at her but at the map of the world taped to the wall behind her. "I remember the day. You were ten. Fell off the swing set." Aurora let out a short, dry laugh. "You were there." "I was visiting Eva." Aurora closed her eyes for a second, the memory slipping back into the black void where it belonged. Eva had been the glue that held their chaotic London lives together. Eva, who had brought Silas into their circle back in Cardiff before the exodus to the capital. Eva, who was likely the only reason Silas knew about the accident at all. "You looked different when I came back," Silas said, changing the subject. "I had to." Aurora opened her eyes, setting her glass down. "Evan didn't like people looking at me." Silas stiffened. The muscle in his jaw worked, a tick that hadn't been there before. The shadows in his eyes darkened. "I didn't know." "The emails stopped after I moved out," Aurora said, her voice flat. "I didn't have your number. I didn't know where you were. I just needed to be gone." Silas set his glass down, the liquid shaking. He picked up the silver signet ring on his right hand, turning it over and over between his fingers. "I was in Prague." "The spy stuff. Eva told me." "Prague was a mess." He rubbed his thumb over the engraving on the ring—a cipher Aurora hadn't learned to read yet. "I was in and out of hospitals, Rory. I didn't have the bandwidth to be a guardian for a runaway friend. I thought you had grown up. I thought Eva was handling the logistics." "That was the mistake, wasn't it? Assuming Eva could handle everything." Silas exhaled a long, rattling breath. He turned fully to face her, the dim bar light catching the grey in his beard. He looked older than sixty. He looked like a man who had sold his soul for survival, piece by piece, trade by trade. "I retired because of Prague," Silas confessed. He tapped the spot above his knee, right where the phantom ache usually lived. "My team didn't make it out. The Agency washed their memories, and the press wrote obituaries. It broke me. I came here to dry out, to disappear. I didn't mean to leave you behind." Aurora looked at her hands. The delivery bag emblazoned with the Golden Empress logo sat on the floor. She was the one who had changed, not him. He was a statue of guilt; she was a hurricane of survival. She had learned to survive by shutting down the parts of herself that felt, by leaving the abusive boyfriend who told her she was a burden, by learning how to navigate the city alone. She had become cool-headed. She had become the "Laila" and the "Malphora" her friends used to joke about when they went out. She was no longer the quiet girl with the crescent-shaped scar; she was a piece of debris floating in a river she didn't understand. "You didn't leave me, Silas. You left me with nothing." "I never thought—I didn't realize how bad it was." "You never called. You never asked." Aurora picked up the glass, the condensation slick against her palm. "I had to file a restraining order. I had to change my name. I didn't know who to turn to. I came to you and you were gone." Silas shook his head, a look of profound sorrow washing over his face. It wasn't pity; it was regret so heavy it seemed to pull at the floorboards of the bar. He stood up, his movement stiff, and reached across the counter. He covered her hand with his large, wrinkled fingers. "I'm sorry." His voice was barely a whisper. Aurora looked at his hand, then up at his hazel eyes. She saw the apology in the tiny crinkles by his nose, in the way he leaned in slightly, seeking forgiveness. She thought about the anger that had fueled her for three years, the fuel that had kept her warm during London winters and scared away the darkness in her apartment. She realized now that the anger had been her shield against the fact that she was alone. She squeezed his hand back. It was warm. It was solid. "Yu-Fei needs that food taken out," Aurora said softly, pulling away. She looked down at the bags, back to the reality of her night. "Are you staying?" "I'm not going anywhere." Aurora turned away to grab the bags of takeout. She pushed through the swing doors into the alley, the cool night air hitting her face, stark and clean compared to the heavy smoke of the bar. She lifted the canvas bags, feeling the weight settle into her shoulders. She looked back at the light spilling from the open door. Silas hadn't moved. He was standing exactly where he was, watching the door like a sentinel guarding a tomb. It was the first time she realized that while she had been surviving the underground, he had been hiding in plain sight, waiting for someone to walk back into the light.