Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7K3DPBXDYWR070CT0SSM7

Rory shoved open the door to The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign buzzing overhead like a trapped wasp. Soho's evening chill clung to her jacket, the scent of rain and fried batter from her delivery shift trailing behind. Dim light spilled across scarred wooden tables, old maps peeling at the edges on the walls. A handful of patrons hunched over pints, their murmurs blending with the low crackle of a jukebox spinning some forgotten blues track. She slid onto a stool at the bar, black hair falling across her face as she dug out a crumpled tenner. The bartender turned, rag slung over his shoulder, and poured a Guinness without asking. Steam rose from the tap, catching the amber glow of hanging lamps. "Rough night?" His voice cut through the haze, gravelly, laced with a faint Irish lilt she hadn't heard in over a decade. Rory froze, pint halfway to her lips. Hazel eyes locked on hers, framed by grey-streaked auburn hair. That silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he wiped the counter. The slight hitch in his stance when he shifted weight—left leg stiff, like it remembered Prague's cobblestones too well. "Silas." The name slipped out, sharp as the crescent scar on her wrist. She set the glass down, foam sloshing. "Christ, it's you." He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, beard trimmed neat but eyes carrying shadows no razor touched. "Aurora Carter. Last I saw you, braces and a schoolbag. Cardiff Uni patching you up for big things." She traced the pint's rim with her thumb. "Rory now. And you—running a dive in Soho. The Spymaster slings pints?" A chuckle rumbled from him, low, but his gaze sharpened. "Spymaster's retired. Knee says so every morning." He tapped his left leg, the limp evident as he grabbed a stool and eased onto it across from her. "What brings you to my corner of hell? Brendan still arguing cases in Cardiff?" "Dad's fine. Mum too." She sipped, bitter foam grounding her. Ten years blurred—her at fifteen, Silas dropping by the house after some "consulting" gig for her father's firm. Stories of shadows in Berlin, coded messages on napkins. He sparked her law dreams, showed her files blurred just enough to tease the thrill. Then he vanished into ops, and she buried herself in books until Evan twisted everything sour. Silas nodded at her wrist, the scar catching light. "Still got that from the treehouse tumble? Jennifer stitched it herself." "Stings in the cold." Rory flexed her hand. "You look... settled. No more ghosts chasing you?" He poured himself a whiskey, neat, glass clinking against oak. "Ghosts own the place now. Bought this after Prague. Botched drop—bullet grazed a knee cap. MI6 pension doesn't stretch far." His fingers drummed the ring. "You? Pre-Law star, top of your class. What dragged you east?" She shrugged, jacket zipper biting her palm. "Life. Evan happened. Charming till he wasn't. Bruises heal, but Cardiff choked me." Lies edged truth—she bolted after Eva's call, flat above this very bar waiting like a lifeline Silas arranged through old channels. But he didn't know that yet. "Deliveries for Golden Empress. Pays rent." Silas's eyes narrowed, scanning her like a dossier. "Evan. Sounds like a prick. Brendan mention him?" "Didn't tell them. Too proud." She drained half the pint, warmth spreading. "You disappeared after that last visit. Promised to show me London codes. Left me with textbooks instead." He swirled his whiskey, ice clinking protest. "Ops pulled me. Prague was the end. Mate died covering my exit. Carved this limp as souvenir." His voice dropped, bar noise fading. "Regret that night most. Could've pulled him out." Rory leaned in, elbows mirroring his. "You taught me regret young. Dad's cases—innocents twisted by suits like yours. Thought you'd fix it." "Fixed nothing." He glanced at the bookshelf in the corner, innocent shelves hiding the back room's latch. "Opened this to watch strings still. Contacts filter in. You living rough?" "Flat upstairs. Silas, you set it up?" The pieces clicked—Eva's vague "friend in London" with a spare key. He tapped the bar once. "Eva called. Said you needed out. Childhood debt." His beard hid a tight jaw. "You're not the girl who decoded my puzzles on napkins. Eyes harder now." "Young Rory chased spies. This one's dodging bills." She laughed, brittle, and signaled for another pint. Foam crested again as he poured. "Missed the Nest's sign on deliveries. Figured I'd claim a drink." Silas slid the glass over, fingers brushing hers—callused, steady. "Nest collects strays. Walls hold stories." He nodded at a black-and-white photo behind bottles: him younger, auburn hair full, arm around a man in shadows. "That was Prague partner. Laughed like thunder." She studied it, faces blurred by time and smoke. "He'd hate this place?" "Love it. Pints over parachutes." Silas downed his whiskey, throat working. "You regret law? Brendan's proud as hell in letters." "Letters?" Rory arched a brow. "Keeps tabs." He grinned faint. "You bailed mid-term. Evan the shove?" She nodded, scar itching under sleeve. "Punched first, apologised with flowers. I packed while he slept. Eva smuggled me here." Silence stretched, jukebox flipping to a slow sax wail. "You changed too. Limp suits you—slows the bullshit." "Age does that." He stood, fetched a bowl of nuts, limped back with purpose. "Ran shadows once. Now shadows run to me. Girl I knew dreamed bigger than takeaways." "Dreams bruise." Rory cracked a nut, shell splintering. "Saw your ring tonight first. Dad's stories—silver fox with secrets." "Secrets bury people." His hazel eyes held hers, unflinching. "Prague taught me. Hesitated on a call. Mate paid." She popped the nut, salt sharp. "Hesitated with Evan too. Stayed six months past the first slap." Silas poured another whiskey, slower this time. "Time carves channels. You here now—channel or dead end?" "Channel." She clinked her pint to his glass. "Nest feels right. Maps on walls? Your ops?" "Bits. Safe houses marked vague." He pointed to a faded Prague corner. "That bend—where it went wrong." Rory traced the line with her finger. "Decode it for me now. Old times." He leaned close, breath whiskey-warm. "River runs east, bridge shadows west. Drop point mid-span. I signalled late." "River betrayed you." She pulled back, blue eyes steady. "Like Evan. Flowed sweet till it drowned." Silence again, patrons' laughter puncturing it. A drunk stumbled out, bell jangling. Silas rubbed his knee absently. "Brendan called last month. Worried. Said you vanished quality." "Quality?" Rory snorted. "Delivery vest's no gown." "You're Rory Carter. Quick mind slices bullshit." His voice roughened. "Don't rot here." She finished the pint, glass thunking empty. "Rot's for spies with limps. I'm rebuilding." He signalled the empty—another round materialised. "Rebuild wrong, regrets stack. Mine fill this bar." "Yours?" She sipped fresh foam. "Spill one." "Left you puzzles half-done. Promised London, delivered silence." His ring tapped rhythm. "Kid looked at me like I held keys." "You did." Rory's voice softened edges. "Evan stole mine. Fists on walls first, then skin." Silas's jaw clenched, beard twitching. "Should've vetted him." "Dad's barrister blind spot." She cracked more nuts, shells piling. "You vetted worse in Berlin tales." "Worse pays." He glanced at the door, habit. "Time weighs. See you now—scarred but sharp. Proud." "Proud?" Heat rose in her chest. "Twenty-five, slinging chow mein." "Alive." He raised his glass. "Evan's regret, not yours." She clinked hard, foam spilling. "Prague yours?" "Every limp step." Laughter barked from a corner table, but they held the bubble. Rory wiped her mouth. "Decode more maps. Stay tonight?" Silas nodded at the bookshelf. "Back room. Real stories." She slid off the stool, pint in hand. Tension hummed—who they were: puzzle kid and shadow man. Now: survivor and barkeep, regrets unspoken but heavy as the neon hum. He limped ahead, hand on the shelf latch. "Follow." Door clicked open to shadows beyond, maps' secrets waiting. Rory stepped through, blue eyes catching his hazel in the threshold light. Time's weight pressed, but conversation carved paths forward. (Word count: 1247)