AI Rain slicked the Soho streets, turning the pavements into mirrors that shattered under Rory's boots. She hunched against the drizzle, the cardboard box from her last Golden Empress delivery sodden and useless now, abandoned in an alley behind the theater district. Her shoulder-length black hair clung to her neck like wet ink, and her jacket—cheap nylon from a market stall—did little to fend off the chill seeping into her bones. It was past midnight, the kind of hour when London felt like a conspiracy against the living, all neon haze and echoing footsteps .
The green neon sign of The Raven's Nest flickered above the door, casting its sickly glow on the wet cobbles. Rory hadn't set foot inside in over two years, not since the day she'd hauled her duffel up the creaky stairs to the flat above, courtesy of Eva's frantic call: "Si's got a place for you, Rory. Just go. Don't think." She'd nodded, signed the sublet papers with trembling hands, and then vanished into her routine—deliveries by day, silence by night. The bar below had pulsed on without her, a distant heartbeat she ignored.
Tonight, though, the pull was magnetic . Her flat's boiler had sputtered its last, leaving her shivering in damp clothes with no hot shower in sight. And whiskey called louder than pride. She shoved the door open, the brass handle cold and gritty under her palm.
The Nest enveloped her like an old coat: dim amber light from pendant lamps swaying gently , walls papered in faded maps of forgotten empires and sepia photographs of stern-faced men in trench coats. The air hung thick with peat smoke, spilled stout, and the faint metallic tang of polished brass. A handful of patrons hunched at the scarred oak bar—two suits nursing pints, a woman in a red coat scrolling her phone—or clustered in booths, murmuring over half-empty glasses. Jazz crackled from hidden speakers, Miles Davis weaving melancholy through the haze.
Rory slid onto a stool at the far end, away from the light. Her bright blue eyes scanned the bottles behind the bar, landing on the amber glow of Jameson. She traced the small crescent scar on her left wrist with her thumb, a habit when nerves frayed. "Whiskey, neat," she said to the empty stretch of bar top, voice rough from the cold.
A shadow shifted, and then he was there—silas Blackwood, materializing like smoke. Taller than she remembered, though time had etched lines around his hazel eyes and streaked his auburn hair with grey. His beard was neatly trimmed, framing a jaw that still held the cut of authority. He moved with a slight hitch in his left leg, the limp subtle but unmistakable, like a clock with a jammed gear. On his right hand, the silver signet ring caught the light, engraved with some crest she couldn't quite place .
He poured the whiskey without a word, the bottle glugging golden liquid into a heavy tumbler. Then he slid it across, his gaze locking on her face. Recognition dawned slow, like dawn over the Thames fog. "Aurora Carter," he said, voice low and gravelly, laced with Welsh valleys she'd almost forgotten. "Christ. Rory."
She froze, fingers midway to the glass. The name hit like a slap—Rory, not Laila the delivery ghost, not Carter the runaway. She looked up, really looked, and saw the man beneath the barman: the Spymaster, her father's old shadow. "Silas." It came out sharper than intended, a blade unsheathed. "Didn't think you'd remember."
He leaned on the bar, forearms corded with muscle that spoke of old disciplines, not bar towels. "Remember? You were fourteen, trailing Brendan into that pub in Cardiff like a feral cat. Blue eyes sharp as scalpels, asking me about Prague before I could sip my pint." A ghost of a smile tugged his lips. "Your da said you were Pre-Law material already. Outfoxed him in arguments over breakfast."
Heat flushed her cheeks, not from the whiskey she'd yet to taste. That summer, fifteen years gone, her father had dragged her to The Mermaid Inn, boasting to his barrister mates about his clever girl. Silas had been there, fresh from some classified hellhole, all quiet command and stories veiled in half-truths. He'd sketched maps on napkins, shown her tricks with lockpicks disguised as keys. "Stay sharp, Rory," he'd said, pressing a coin into her palm—a fake sovereign that later bought her first leather jacket. "World's full of locks."
She lifted the glass, the liquor burning a path to her gut. "That was a lifetime ago. Da's stories made you sound like James Bond. Turns out you're slinging pints in Soho."
His laugh was dry, like rustling leaves. He straightened, wincing as his knee protested, and poured himself a finger of the same. "Bond got the girl and the gadgets. I got this." He tapped his left leg, the limp's culprit. "Prague, '09. Botched op. Knee shattered like glass. Retired with a pension and a pat on the back." His eyes darkened, hazel flecked with old storms. "Opened this place as a... hobby. Keeps the ghosts at bay."
Rory sipped again, the warmth spreading, loosening the knot in her chest. He hadn't changed entirely—the authority lingered, in the way he scanned the room without seeming to, noting the suits' whispered deal, the red-coat woman's furtive glance at her watch. But the fire had banked. No more field agent swagger; now it was measured pours and a ring that clinked against glass.
"You've changed more," he said, nodding at her wrist. "Scar's new. Or did I miss it?"
"Childhood," she said, too quick. Tumble from a tree at ten, chasing her brother. But it felt like a lie by omission . "And the rest? Life." She shrugged, but her shoulders ached from the bike courier grind, parcels strapped tight against rain and rush-hour snarl .
He didn't buy it. Silas never had. "Eva called me two years back. Said you'd bolted from Cardiff. Abusive prick named Evan. Dropped uni. Said you needed a bolt-hole." He glanced up at the ceiling, toward her flat. "Gave you the keys. Figured you'd come down eventually."
Regret twisted in her gut, sharp as the whiskey's bite. Two years under his roof, dodging his gaze through the floorboards, deliveries her shield. "I meant to. But..." Evan’s fists, the bruises blooming like ink under her skin. The Pre-Law dreams shattered on a Cardiff pavement. "Didn't want pity. Or questions."
Silas's jaw tightened, beard shadowing the clench. "Pity? From me?" He set his glass down harder than needed, the thud echoing . "Brendan trusted me with you, Rory. Showed you my tricks because he knew I'd keep you safe. Then I ghosted—ops took me dark. Prague happened, and I washed up here. Should've checked in after he passed."
Her father. Cancer, three years prior, quick and merciless. She'd been neck-deep in Evan then, arguments masking screams. Silas at the funeral? She couldn't recall faces through the haze. "Da spoke of you till the end. 'Silas'll set you straight, girl.' Thought you'd be off saving the world."
"World saved itself." He rubbed his knee absently. "Missed the small stuff. Like watching you argue circles round those profs." His voice softened, regret threading through. "Heard you were top of your class. What happened?"
The question hung, heavy as the maps on the walls—uncharted territories of what-ifs. Rory traced the bar's grain, scarred from a thousand elbows. "Evan happened. Started sweet, ended with me dodging punches. Uni felt like another cage. Fled to Eva, ended up here." She met his eyes, unflinching. "Delivery gig pays rent. Out-of-the-box thinking: pedal faster than the posties."
He shook his head, grey streaks catching light. "That's not you, Rory. You're sharper than that. Remember the safe? Cardiff safe, your da's office. Cracked it in ten minutes with a paperclip and spite."
Laughter bubbled up, surprising her—real, not the polite bark she faked at Yu-Fei's. "Spite was key. Da locked my essays away to make me study." She leaned in, voice dropping . "You showed me the tension trick. Wire against pin. Click."
Silas mirrored her, elbows on the bar, the space between them shrinking. "Tension's everything. In locks, ops... life." His signet ring tapped rhythmically. "I lost mine in Prague. Chased a ghost down an alley, knee gave out. Bullet missed me by inches, but the fall? That lingered." Pause, eyes distant. "Regret it every rainy night. Should've pulled back sooner. Seen you more. Brendan asked me once, after a pint too many: 'Keep an eye, Si. She's got fire, but fires need tending.'"
Unspoken weight settled, thick as the smoke. Rory felt it—the years stolen, regrets unspoken . She'd idolized him as the uncle she never had, the spy who made law seem tame. Now? He was mortal, limping through shadows. And she? No longer the girl with scalpels for eyes, but a survivor pedaling through drizzle, scar a reminder of falls taken.
"You could've knocked," she said softly . "Upstairs. Tea, even. I heard you sometimes, late nights. Limping around."
"Figured you needed space." His hazel gaze held hers, unflinching. "Spymaster's habit: watch from afar. But yeah. Regret that too."
The jazz swelled, trumpet crying loss. Rory drained her glass, the burn familiar now. "Time's a thief, Si. Locks us out of our own lives."
He poured refills, hands steady. "Not irreversible. Pick's still there." He slid hers over, ring glinting promise. "Stay. Talk. No ghosts tonight."
She nodded, the tension easing—not snapped, but loosened . Outside, rain drummed on, but here, in the Nest's amber heart, two old friends bridged the chasm. Changed, scarred, regretting—but reaching.
The suits left, coats flapping. Red-coat lingered, eyes on Silas. He nodded her way, subtle authority rekindling. Rory watched, seeing the Spymaster flicker beneath the barman. Her own fire stirred, blue eyes sharpening.
"Tell me about Prague," she said, leaning closer. "Proper story. No veils."
His smile returned, crooked and real. "Alright, Rory. But tension first." He twisted his ring, and for the first time in years, the lock between them clicked open.
They talked till the jazz looped back, whiskey warming regrets into resolve . Maps on the walls whispered of paths untaken, but tonight, time bent. Rory traced her scar, Silas rubbed his knee, and Soho slept on, oblivious to the quiet mending below its neon skin.
Hours blurred. He spoke of Prague's cobbles slick with betrayal, the alley's ambush, the shatter of bone. She confessed Evan's grip tightening like a vice, the uni dropout note crumpled in her fist. Laughter punctuated—her outfoxing Yu-Fei with a shortcut through back alleys, his bar brawls diffused with a stare. Regrets surfaced raw: his for vanishing into shadows, leaving Brendan to fade alone; hers for silence , letting the flat's floorboards be their only dialogue.
Dawn crept, grey light filtering through grimed windows. Rory stood, steadier now. "Won't ghost anymore."
Silas clasped her hand, ring cool against her scar. "Nor I. Locks, Rory. We crack 'em together."
She stepped into the dying rain, flat waiting warm above. Changed? Yes. But the weight lifted, time's theft paused. In The Raven's Nest, old friends reclaimed their keys.
(Word count: 1428)