AI Rory pushed through the heavy wooden door of The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign flickering like a hesitant beacon above her head. Rain slicked the streets of Soho, and she'd ducked in on impulse, her delivery bag slung over one shoulder, still warm from the last order of dumplings she'd dropped off three blocks away. The air inside hit her like a memory—peat smoke and polished oak, undercut by the faint tang of spilled ale. Dim lights cast long shadows over walls papered with faded maps and black-and-white photographs of forgotten cities. She shook the water from her black hair, shoulder-length strands clinging to her damp jacket, and scanned the room for an empty stool.
The bar wasn't crowded, just a few regulars nursing pints in the corners, their conversations murmuring like distant thunder. Behind the counter, a tall man with grey-streaked auburn hair poured a whiskey with practiced ease . He moved with a slight limp, favoring his left leg as he turned to slide the glass to a patron. Something about the way he held himself—quiet authority, like he owned the space without needing to declare it—tugged at the edges of her mind. She froze midway to the bar, her bright blue eyes narrowing.
"Silas?" The name slipped out before she could stop it, soft but sharp enough to cut through the low hum.
The man looked up, hazel eyes meeting hers. For a split second, his face was a blank mask, the kind honed from years of hiding tells. Then recognition dawned, slow and warm, cracking the facade . "Rory? Aurora Carter?"
She laughed, a short, disbelieving sound that echoed off the maps on the walls. "God, it's been... what, fifteen years? More?" She closed the distance, sliding onto a stool as he set down the bottle with a thud. Up close, the changes hit her harder. The auburn hair she'd remembered as vibrant was threaded with grey, matching the neatly trimmed beard that framed his jaw. A silver signet ring glinted on his right hand, unchanged, but the limp—that was new, a hitch in his step as he came around the bar to embrace her.
He pulled her into a hug, brief but firm, his frame still solid at six-one, towering over her five-six. "Look at you," he said, stepping back to appraise her. "Last I saw, you were a scrawny kid in pigtails, arguing with your dad over case law at that godforsaken dinner in Cardiff." His voice carried the faint lilt of someone who'd spent too long in shadowed corners, accents blurred by necessity.
Rory grinned, but it didn't quite reach her eyes . "Yeah, well, Dad's still arguing with everyone. Mom sends her love, or she would if she knew I was here." She glanced around the bar, taking in the details—the hidden bookshelf in the back that looked too perfectly placed, the photographs of Prague spires and Berlin streets. "This is yours? The Raven's Nest? I just ducked in from the rain. Didn't expect to find you playing barkeep."
Silas chuckled, a low rumble, and limped back behind the counter. "Retired life suits me. What'll you have? On the house, for old times' sake."
"Whiskey, neat. Whatever you're pouring." She watched him pour, his movements deliberate, the signet ring catching the light. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched under her sleeve, a phantom reminder of childhood falls and scraped knees. Silas had been there for one of those dinners, a rare guest her father had invited—a colleague from some murky legal consultation, or so Brendan Carter had claimed. Rory had been ten , maybe eleven, eavesdropping on their hushed talks about operations and assets. Silas Blackwood, the enigmatic family friend who'd vanish for months, only to reappear with stories sanitized for young ears.
He slid the glass across, settling onto a stool opposite her. "So, what brings you to London? Last I heard from your father, you were buried in pre-law at Cardiff. Brilliant mind like yours, I figured you'd be barrister by now, tearing apart witnesses like Brendan does."
Rory sipped the whiskey, the burn steadying her. She traced the rim of the glass with her finger, avoiding his gaze. "Plans change. I... needed a fresh start." The words hung there, heavy with omission. Evan. The bruises she'd hidden, the nights she'd stared at the ceiling, plotting escape. Eva's urgent texts: Come to London. Leave him. She'd fled, backpack and all, landing a gig delivering for Yu-Fei Cheung's Golden Empress. Part-time, flexible, anonymous. "I'm working deliveries now. Nothing glamorous. Pays the bills."
Silas nodded, his hazel eyes sharp, reading the gaps. He didn't push—never had. Instead, he leaned back, the limp evident as he adjusted his leg. "Fair enough. Life has a way of rerouting us." He tapped his knee absently . "Prague, '08. Botched op. Knee's never been the same. MI6 pensioned me off, and here I am, slinging drinks instead of secrets."
She raised an eyebrow . "The Spymaster, reduced to this? Dad always said you were invincible."
A shadow crossed his face, fleeting but unmistakable. "Invincible gets people killed. I lost good agents that night. Should've seen the double-cross coming." He swirled his own drink, the ice clinking softly . Unspoken regret thickened the air between them, like the smoke from a patron's cigarette in the corner. Silas had always been the one with the plan, the quiet authority who'd slip her extra dessert at those dinners, whispering tales of far-off places to distract from her parents' arguments. Now, he looked worn, the grey in his hair a testament to years she'd missed.
Rory felt it too—the weight of time. She'd changed, hardened by Evan's temper, the way he'd isolate her, chip away at her confidence until she barely recognized the quick-thinking girl she'd been. "Remember that time in Cardiff, when you taught me that card trick? The one with the hidden ace?" She smiled faintly, pulling at the scar on her wrist. "I used it to impress Evan once. My ex. Thought it was clever."
Silas's eyes softened. "Did it work?"
"For a while." She looked away, staring at a photograph on the wall—a grainy shot of a raven in flight over misty hills. "He wasn't who I thought. Got... controlling. I left. Eva dragged me here." The confession spilled out, quieter than intended. Regret clawed at her—why hadn't she seen the signs sooner? Why had she wasted years on someone who dimmed her light?
He reached across, his hand covering hers briefly, the signet ring cool against her skin. "Smart move. You're tougher than you know, Rory. Always were." But his voice carried its own undercurrent, the limp a constant reminder of his own failures. He'd retired not just from injury, but from the ghosts of Prague —friends buried, reports redacted. The bar was his sanctuary , a front for whatever network he still maintained, but it couldn't erase the what-ifs.
They sat in companionable silence for a moment, the bar's dim light softening the edges of their faces. A regular called for a refill, and Silas rose with a wince, limping to pour it. Rory watched him, noting how he'd aged into this role, the quiet authority now laced with weariness. She felt it mirror her own transformation—from the wide-eyed girl debating law with her father to this version, delivery bag at her feet, scars hidden under sleeves.
When he returned, she asked, "Do you ever regret it? The life you chose?"
Silas paused, beard twitching as he considered. "Every day. But regret's a lousy drinking partner. What about you? Cardiff calling you back?"
She shook her head. "Not yet. London's... freeing. But sometimes I wonder if I ran too far." The unspoken hung there—regret for the paths not taken, the versions of themselves left behind. Evan had stolen her confidence, but time had given her resilience. Silas's career had forged him, then broken him, leaving this bar as his quiet atonement.
He raised his glass. "To reroutes, then. And old friends."
She clinked hers against it, the sound sharp in the muted bar. "To whatever comes next." But as they drank, the tension lingered, a bridge between who they'd been and who they'd become—two souls marked by time, regrets whispering in the spaces between words.
The rain outside picked up, drumming against the windows like insistent fingers. Rory finished her whiskey, the warmth spreading through her, chasing away the chill . Silas busied himself wiping down the counter, but his eyes kept flicking back to her, as if assessing an asset he hadn't seen in too long . "You know, your father mentioned you once, years back. Said you had that out-of-the-box thinking. Like me in my prime."
She snorted. "Prime? You're not done yet, old man."
He grinned, but it didn't mask the flicker of pain as he shifted his weight . "Maybe not. But the game's changed. No more chasing shadows in the dark." His words carried layers—regret for the adrenaline, the purpose he'd lost. Prague had taken more than his knee; it had stolen his invincibility, left him here in this dimly lit haven, surrounded by maps of places he'd never return to.
Rory felt a pang , mirroring her own losses. Evan had been her shadow, controlling, possessive, until she'd broken free. But freedom came with its own ghosts—nights alone in cheap flats, questioning every choice. "I get it," she said softly . "Sometimes I miss the girl I was. The one who believed in happy endings."
Silas nodded, pouring them another round without asking. "We all do. But that girl's still in there. Smarter now. Scarred, but stronger." He glanced at her wrist, where the crescent scar peeked from her cuff. "Like that mark from the bike fall. Remember? I bandaged it while your parents argued about dinner."
She laughed, genuine this time. "You did. Told me scars tell stories."
"And they do." He tapped his knee. "This one's a novel."
Their conversation flowed easier then, dipping into lighter memories—Cardiff winters, her father's endless case files, Silas's cryptic visits with gifts from abroad. But beneath it, the tension simmered: the years apart had carved them into new shapes. Rory, once reluctant pre-law student, now navigated London's underbelly with quick wits and a delivery bike. Silas, the spymaster, reduced to clandestine meetings in a hidden back room she hadn't yet noticed behind the bookshelf.
As the evening wore on, a patron stumbled out, leaving the bar quieter. Rory checked her phone—another delivery pinged, but she ignored it. "I should go," she said, reluctant .
"Stay dry out there." Silas walked her to the door, limp more pronounced in the quiet. "Don't be a stranger, Rory. Flat above is empty if you need it."
She paused, hand on the door. "Really? I might take you up on that." The offer felt like a lifeline, bridging the gap time had wrought.
He squeezed her shoulder. "Anytime. We've got catching up to do."
She stepped into the rain, the green neon sign blurring in the downpour. Glancing back, she saw him watching from the doorway, hazel eyes reflecting unspoken sorrows. Time had changed them, yes—etched regrets into their bones—but in that unexpected reunion, it had also offered a thread of redemption, fragile but real.