Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYKHTNWQ6WFCWYFWPA955T

The Raven’s Nest smelled like old wood, stale beer, and something faintly metallic beneath it all. Aurora Carter, or Rory, as her friends still called her, pushed through the heavy oak door, the familiar green neon sign flickering above her head like a tired eye. She’d been here a thousand times, but tonight felt different. The weight of the delivery bag slung over her shoulder, the smell of fried rice and soy sauce clinging to her clothes, made her feel like an intruder in her own past. She scanned the low-ceilinged room, the walls lined with faded black-and-white photographs of faces she didn’t recognize, the air thick with the low murmur of voices and the clink of glasses. And then she saw him. Silas Blackwood, leaning against the bar, his grey-streaked auburn hair neatly combed, the silver signet ring catching the dim light from the neon sign. He looked older, the lines around his eyes sharper, deeper. A slight limp was more pronounced as he shifted his weight. He wasn’t looking at her, just staring into his half-empty glass, the amber liquid swirling slowly. Time had carved its mark on him, just as it had on her. She’d changed too, she realized, the sharp edges of her younger self smoothed by London’s relentless grind. The quick, out-of-the-box thinking that had once defined her felt buried under layers of caution now. She took a step closer, the worn soles of her shoes squeaking on the polished floor. “Silas?” Her voice was low, not quite a whisper, but carrying in the quieting bar. He didn’t turn immediately. She saw the slight tremor in his hand as he raised the glass to his lips. He took a slow sip, then finally, slowly, turned his head. His hazel eyes, once so sharp and observant, held a depth of weariness now. Recognition flickered across his face, followed by a flicker of something else – surprise, perhaps, or a shadow of regret. “Rory.” The name was a rasp in his throat, thick with disuse. “Long time.” He didn’t offer a smile, just pushed himself away from the bar with a grunt, the movement stiff. He walked towards her, the limp more pronounced, and stopped a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest. The signet ring glinted on his right hand. “You look… different.” “Same place, different face,” she replied, the old familiarity in her voice, but her eyes held a guarded intensity. “London does that. Adds a few layers.” She gestured vaguely at the bar, the worn stools, the faded maps. “Still running the Nest?” “Still standing,” he said, his gaze drifting over her, taking in the practical coat, the way she moved with a controlled grace. “Though the clientele’s changed. Fewer spies, more suits.” He paused, the silence stretching between them, thick and charged. “You’re working for Cheung now? Delivery? That’s… unexpected.” “Unexpected is my middle name,” she shot back, a ghost of her old wit surfacing. “Though ‘Rory’ might be closer. Cardiff’s too quiet. London’s noise keeps the ghosts at bay.” She saw the flicker of something in his eyes – a question, a memory. “You look… well. For a man who retired to a bar.” “Retirement’s a relative term,” he countered, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Some days, the bar feels like a prison. Other days, it’s the only place that feels like home.” He shifted, the limp a visible reminder of the past. “Prague still haunts me, Rory. Every time I close my eyes.” She didn’t flinch. “You always were haunted by the things you couldn’t change.” She took a step closer, the space between them charged. “What about you? What haunts you now?” He looked away, staring at the green neon sign, the light casting a sickly glow on his face. “Ghosts, Rory. Old ghosts.” He turned back to her, his eyes meeting hers, the hazel depths holding a storm. “I heard about Evan. The ex. I’m sorry.” The name hung in the air, heavy and cold. “Thanks,” she said, the words flat. “He’s gone. London’s full of them.” She saw the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his knuckles whitened on the bar. “You never came back for me.” The words were a knife, slicing through the carefully constructed distance. He flinched, the signet ring catching the light. “I couldn’t,” he said, his voice raw. “I was… buried. In Prague. In the mess. I thought… I thought you’d be safer without me.” He looked down, unable to meet her eyes. “I failed you, Rory. I failed everyone.” She stared at him, the years of silence, the unspoken regret, crashing down. The quick, out-of-the-box thinking that had once defined her warred with the weariness now. “You failed yourself first,” she said finally, her voice low but steady. “You always did.” She turned to leave, the weight of the past settling around her shoulders like a shroud. “Good to see you, Silas.” She didn’t wait for a response, pushing through the door into the damp London night, the neon sign flickering a final, indifferent green behind her.