Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY81F6E7STC7AH6PC5S6G2J

The Raven’s Nest’s green neon sign bleeded into the Soho dusk as Aurora Carter pushed through its creaking oak door. She brushed rain from her straight shoulder-length black hair, her delivery bag—emblazoned with the Golden Empress restaurant’s red dragon logo—slipping a fraction down her left arm to expose the small crescent scar on her wrist, a memento from the childhood bike crash that had left her crying on a Cardiff sidewalk for an hour before her mum found her, Welsh teacher voice soft as she wiped mud from her daughter’s cheeks. The bar’s dim light gilded the old maps plastered to its walls, each crease a story she couldn’t read—maps of Prague, Berlin, Cardiff’s waterfront—and the black-and-white photographs pinned between them caught her bright blue eyes for a split second: a man in a MI6 uniform, a woman laughing on a Cardiff bench, a kid with black hair riding a bike. She scanned for an empty stool, her legs aching from the last delivery to a Mayfair penthouse where the doorman had refused her lift access, forcing her to carry three large takeout containers up six flights of stairs. A man with grey-streaked auburn hair and a neatly trimmed matching beard leaned against the bar’s polished mahogany edge, his left leg shifting slightly to ease the weight of his slight limp. He twisted a silver signet ring on his right hand, his hazel eyes locked on the scar on her wrist—he’d seen that scar a hundred times before, when she’d shown it to him after the crash, when she’d picked at it during their coffee shop talks in Cardiff, when she’d hidden it under her sleeve after her dad yelled at her for stealing his wig. He pushed off the bar, his boot thudding softly on the worn wooden floor—scratched from decades of customers’ shoes, from his own limping steps—and moved toward her. You still pick at the scar when you’re nervous. She tugs her sleeve over the scar, her shoulders tensing, her delivery bag digging into her hip. I don’t know you. Cardiff, 2010. You snuck into your dad’s office and stole his barrister’s wig to use as a ghost costume for Halloween. I caught you hiding in the broom closet, covered in dust, and lied to Brendan when he asked where it went—told him I’d borrowed it for a work presentation. She freezes, her breath catching in her throat. She studies his face, the way his auburn hair now held threads of grey that hadn’t been there when he’d laughed at her ghost costume all those years ago, the neat beard she didn’t remember, the slight hunch to his shoulders that hadn’t been there when he’d helped her fix her bike after that crash, his hands steady as he tightened the brakes. Silas. He gestures to the empty stool beside her, his left leg dragging a fraction as he shifts his weight, his boot scuffing a scratch into the floor. Sit. I’ll get you a cup of tea. You always hated beer—said it tasted like burnt bread. She sits, her delivery bag thudding to the floor, the Golden Empress logo glinting in the bar’s light. She watches him move to the bar, his hands steady as he pours boiling water into a chipped ceramic mug—its side painted with a Welsh dragon, a memento from his last trip to Cardiff before he vanished. He sets the mug before her, the heat seeping into the cold wood of the bar. Why did you leave? His ring clinks against the mug’s edge as he leans against the bar, his gaze fixing on a map of Prague taped to the wall—its center marked with a silver pin, a memento from the botched operation that had left him with his limp. A job went wrong. I couldn’t go back to Cardiff. Couldn’t risk anyone getting hurt. My contacts were compromised. Any line to Brendan—any line to you—would have led them straight to the people who wanted to kill me. She curls her fingers around the mug, the Welsh dragon pressing into her palm. She thinks about the years between then and now: her Pre-Law degree she quit after her dad told her she’d never be as good as him, her abusive ex Evan who’d slapped her across the face when she tried to leave him, her flight to London at Eva’s behest, her part-time delivery job at Golden Empress that barely paid the rent for her tiny flat above a downtown bar. She hasn’t thought about Silas since he vanished from her dad’s life one day, no note, no explanation—just an empty coffee cup on the kitchen table, the Welsh dragon mug he’d left behind. I thought you’d abandoned me. I waited for you at the coffee shop for three weeks. You never showed up. He turns back, his hazel eyes softening—an expression she hasn’t seen since he’d helped her fix her bike after that crash, his hands steady as he tightened the brakes. I thought I was protecting you. I thought if I stayed away, you’d be safe. She nods at his left leg, her gaze sharp—her cool-headed, quick-thinking self kicking in, the same self that had hidden from Evan in a Cardiff alley for two hours until the police arrived. What happened to you? He shifts his weight again, his boot scuffing the same scratch into the floor. Prague. I was undercover, trying to get a list of compromised agents. The target found me. I ran. My knee gave out mid-escape. I fell down a flight of stairs. Retired from MI6 after that. Opened this bar as a front for my old contacts—clandestine meetings in the back room, accessible through that bookshelf tucked in the corner. The shelves are lined with leather-bound books; pull the one with the dragon on its spine, and the shelf swings open. She scans the bookshelf, its shelves lined with leather-bound books—one of them has a small Welsh dragon embossed on its spine. She’s always known he was involved in something secret—her dad had never talked about it, but she’d seen the coded notes he’d left on the kitchen table, the maps of foreign cities tucked in his briefcase. You’re still playing spy games. He taps the signet ring on his right hand, a habit he’d had even when she was a kid—tapping the ring when he was nervous, when he was thinking, when he was hiding something. Old habits die hard. Unlike some things. That line hangs in the air, thick with regret—regret that he lost touch, regret that he couldn’t protect her, regret that the kid he’d known is now a woman with a delivery bag and a scar and a past she’s trying to run from. Rory thinks about her own regrets: quitting Pre-Law, leaving her parents, not standing up to Evan sooner, not calling Eva back after she’d helped her move to London. I quit Pre-Law. Fled Cardiff. Evan—my ex—he was abusive. He’d hit me when he was drunk, when he was angry, when he thought I was hiding something from him. I left him after he broke my phone so I couldn’t call for help. Eva got me a ticket to London. I’ve been here for six months. His posture stiffens, his hands curling into fists on the bar—his knuckles white, his signet ring glinting in the dim light. I would have stopped him. If I’d known. I would have tracked him down. I would have made him pay for hurting you. She shakes her head, her hair falling in front of her eyes. She brushes it away, her bright blue eyes locking with his hazel ones. You weren’t there. No one was, except Eva. You vanished. You left me alone. He pours another cup of tea, his hands steady now, his gaze fixing on the scar peeking out from her sleeve—she’d tugged it down earlier, but it slipped again when she brushed her hair away. You still haven’t stopped picking at it. She tugs her sleeve over the scar again, her cheeks flushing. She’s always picked at it when she’s nervous—when she’s thinking about Evan, when she’s thinking about her dad, when she’s thinking about Silas. Old habits die hard. A customer pushes through the door, rain dripping from his coat. He orders a whiskey, his voice loud enough to cut through the silence between Rory and Silas. Silas turns to serve him, his limp more noticeable as he moves to the bar’s whiskey shelf. Rory watches him, her mind racing—she’s found an old friend, a friend she thought she’d lost forever, but he’s not the same man he was in Cardiff. He’s got a limp, grey streaks in his hair, a bar that’s a front for spy games. She’s not the same kid she was either—she’s got a scar, a delivery bag, a past she’s trying to forget. You’re living above a bar downtown. He turns back, his hazel eyes locking with hers. He’s heard about her—his contacts have told him about the delivery person from Golden Empress who lives above a downtown bar. My contacts told me. I’ve been trying to find you. She blinks, surprised. She didn’t think he’d care enough to look for her. Why? He taps the Welsh dragon mug on the bar, his signet ring clinking against the ceramic. I owe you an apology. I owe you a chance to know the truth. I owe you the friend I used to be. She takes a sip of tea, the warmth spreading through her chest. She thinks about the years they’ve lost, the things they can’t undo. She thinks about the secret back room, the spy games, the delivery bag. She thinks about the possibility of being friends again—of having someone who understands her, someone who can help her. I’m working a double shift tomorrow. I can stop by after my last delivery. He smirks, a faint lift of his beard—an echo of the man he’d been in Cardiff. I’ll have the Welsh dragon mug ready. I’ll show you the back room. I’ll tell you everything.