Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7VDX993Z64W4KVMQ5C584

The rain hammered against the windows of The Raven’s Nest, a steady, insistent drumming that mirrored the unsettled feeling in Aurora’s chest. She’d been nursing a lukewarm pint of bitter, sketching furiously in a small notebook – a habit she hadn’t shaken, even after fleeing Cardiff and landing a soul-crushing job delivering Chinese takeout. The air hung thick with the smell of damp wool, stale beer, and something vaguely medicinal, a scent that clung to Silas Blackwood like a second skin. Silas was behind the bar, polishing a glass with slow, deliberate movements. He wasn’t smiling, hadn’t smiled, really, in the years she’d known him. His grey-streaked auburn hair was pulled back tighter than usual, revealing the sharp angles of his face, the slight limp that betrayed a past she vaguely recalled involving Prague and something significantly less glamorous than a holiday. He looked older, undeniably so, the lines around his hazel eyes deepened, etched by something that wasn’t just time. Then he looked up, and recognition flickered in his gaze, a brief spark of something that might have been joy, quickly masked by a practiced neutrality. “Rory,” he said, his voice a low rumble, gravelly from years of cigarettes and secrets. “Didn’t think I’d see you back in Soho.” She lowered her notebook, the charcoal smudging slightly on the page. “Silas,” she replied, the greeting clipped, almost hesitant. It had been… a long time. Too long. Five years, to be exact. Five years since she’d fled London with Eva, leaving a broken man named Evan and a future she’d already decided wasn’t for her. “You look… good,” he said, a flicker of genuine curiosity in his eyes. It wasn’t a compliment, not really, more an assessment. “Trying,” she said, taking a swallow of her beer. “Delivery work keeps me busy.” The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. It wasn’t just delivery work. It was a buffer, a shield against the sharp edges of her life, a way to avoid having to confront the ghosts she’d left behind. He watched her for a moment, his gaze unnervingly perceptive. “Eva sends her regards,” he stated, simply. “Said she’d be pleased to see you.” The words hung in the air, a fragile, awkward bridge across the years. Eva. The thought of him, of *them*, was a dull ache in her chest, a reminder of the easy laughter and shared dreams that had evaporated like smoke. “She’s doing well,” she managed, the voice thin. “Traveling. Keeps busy.” “Always did,” Silas observed, returning to his polishing. "A restless spirit.” The rain intensified, the neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickering intermittently, casting an unsettling green glow across the room. The bar was sparsely populated – a couple huddled in a booth nursing whiskey, a solitary figure at the far end lost in a paperback. The atmosphere was deliberately muted, a sanctuary from the relentless pulse of London. “You’ve changed,” Aurora said, stating the obvious. It wasn’t meant to be unkind, just an observation, a hesitant attempt to make sense of the man before her. Silas’ hand paused on the glass. He turned, his eyes considering her for a long moment. “So have you,” he said quietly. “You’ve become… contained.” She bristled slightly at the word ‘contained,’ but couldn't deny its truth. The girl who’d left Cardiff had been reckless, impulsive, a whirlwind of tangled hair and defiant stares. Now, she was... careful. She’d learned to build walls, to deflect attention, to bury the sharp edges of her emotions beneath a veneer of practicality. “Life happens,” she offered, the words sounding hollow even to her own ears. “It does,” Silas agreed, his tone measured. “It tends to do that.” He gestured to the hidden back room, visible through a slightly ajar bookshelf. “I've had a few… interesting clients come through here over the years. People with regrets.” The reference to his past, to the clandestine meetings and shadowy deals conducted behind the bar, felt strangely appropriate. A shared understanding, unspoken, passed between them. She’d once been driven by a naïve idealism, a desire to fight for what was right. Now, she mostly just delivered food to people she didn't know, trying to avoid getting involved. “What brought you back?” she asked, the question feeling inadequate, a paltry attempt to probe the depths of his transformation. He took a long sip of his whiskey, his gaze fixed on the rain-streaked windows. “A case,” he said finally, his voice deliberately vague. “A rather persistent one. Involves a former operative. Someone who made a few… mistakes.” “Sounds familiar,” she said, a wry smile touching her lips. It was a sad irony, a recognition of their shared burdens. He was a man haunted by the echoes of his past, just as she was. "I don’t do mistakes, Rory. Just consequences," he said, the words delivered with a chilling precision. The silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the drumming rain and the low murmur of conversation in the bar. She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the weariness in his eyes, the subtle signs of the injuries he’d carried for so long. He wasn’t a hardened spy anymore, not really. Just a man who’d seen too much, done too much, and was trying to find a semblance of peace in a dimly lit bar in Soho. “Evan,” she said, the name a ghost on her tongue. “Have you… have you heard from him?” Silas’ expression darkened, a flicker of something akin to pain crossing his features. “Don’t,” he said, his voice low. “Just… don’t.” She understood. The past was a locked room, and some doors were best left unopened. “I should go,” she said, pushing herself to her feet. “Wait,” he said, his hand briefly closing on her arm. The contact was fleeting, almost gentle, yet it sent a jolt through her. “There’s a… a message for you. From Eva.” He produced a small, sealed envelope from beneath the bar. Inside, a single card bearing Eva's handwriting. She took it, her fingers trembling slightly. The words on the card were simple, heartfelt: *“Thinking of you. Please be well.”* As she turned to leave, Silas spoke again, his voice barely audible above the rain. “Don't bury yourself too deep, Rory. It’s a lonely place to be." She nodded, a single, silent acknowledgment. As she stepped out into the pouring rain, she glanced back at Silas, standing behind the bar, a solitary figure in the green-lit gloom of The Raven’s Nest. He didn’t offer a smile, didn’t attempt to engage. He simply watched her go, a quiet, watchful presence in a world filled with shadows and unspoken regrets. The rain washed over her, cold and relentless, a fitting accompaniment to the weight of the past she couldn’t escape.