Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8AT2GQX653410MZY7BYH8

Aurora pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign above buzzing like a trapped hornet. Soho's evening chill clung to her coat, but inside, woodsmoke and spilled ale wrapped around her. Walls sagged under pinned maps—faded routes from forgotten wars—and black-and-white photos of stern faces stared down. The place hummed low: a couple murmured in a corner booth, glasses clinked behind the bar, jazz scratched from a corner speaker. She scanned the room out of habit, bright blue eyes cutting through the dim. Shoulder-length black hair swung as she shrugged off her coat, revealing the faded Golden Empress polo beneath. Delivery shift done, flat upstairs calling, but tonight she craved the bar's hush before bed. Her wrist itched under the sleeve, crescent scar a ghost reminder. The bartender limped into view, pouring a pint with steady hands. Grey-streaked auburn hair caught the low light, beard trimmed sharp. Silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he slid the glass forward. Taller than she remembered, broader maybe, but the hazel eyes locked on hers and time cracked open. "Rory Carter." His voice gravelled low, no question in it. Pint paused mid-slide. She froze, stool leg scraping as she pulled it out. Six years. Last time, he'd been sharp-suited, no limp, slipping her an envelope of cash after Evan’s fists left bruises blooming. "Silas Blackwood. You own this now?" He nodded once, eyes narrowing as he wiped foam from the bar top. "Poured the first pint myself. What'll it be? On the house." "Whiskey. Neat." She slid onto the stool, elbows planting firm. The bar's edge dug into her forearms. Changed. The man who'd ghosted her through London's underbelly, pulling strings from shadows, now polished glasses with a rag. Limp from Prague, he'd said back then, but never detailed. Now it defined him—left leg dragging faint as he reached for the bottle. He poured, amber liquid glugging slow. Glass thunked down. "Heard you vanished after that mess with the ex. Eva rang me once. Said you bolted back to Cardiff." "Cardiff bolted me." She lifted the glass, sipped sharp burn. "Mum's lessons dried up, Dad's cases stacked endless. Needed London again. Flat upstairs still empty?" "Was." He leaned on the bar, weight shifting to his good leg. Ring tapped wood once. "Eva mentioned deliveries for Yu-Fei. Golden Empress treating you square?" "Fair." Smoke curled from his cigarette pack nearby; he didn't light one. Her eyes flicked to the photos behind him—one caught her: younger Silas, clean-shaven, arm slung over a man in desert fatigues. "You look... settled. No more shadows?" Laughter barked short, hazel eyes flicking away. "Shadows own the dark. I own the light now." He straightened, poured himself a finger of the same whiskey. "MI6 pension buys wood polish, not jets. You? Pre-Law star, top of Cardiff U. What dragged you to bikes and takeaways?" She swirled the glass, ice absent, liquid catching light like trapped fire. "Evan dragged first. Law chased after." Silence stretched, bar noise fading. A patron coughed, ordered gin. Silas served without breaking gaze. "You wrote once," he said, voice dropping. "Postcard from the valleys. Said you'd finish the degree. Fight like your old man." "Brendan fights courtrooms. I fight traffic." She traced the scar on her wrist, sleeve riding up accidental. His eyes followed, lingered. "Still got that mark from the treehouse fall. Ten years old, you swore you'd sue gravity." "Eleven. And I climbed higher next day." Memories flooded: Cardiff summers, Silas visiting her father's firm on "consults." He'd taught her card tricks, lock picks with hairpins. Uncle Si, before the limp, before Prague. "You vanished too, after you pulled me out. No calls, no drops. Thought the ex got you." He sipped, throat working. "Prague got me first. Knee shattered on a rooftop. Brass cut the cord." Ring twisted on his finger, silver biting skin. "Opened this to keep busy. Contacts filter in. You needed space." "Space." Word hung bitter. She downed the whiskey, heat blooming chest. "Six years, Si. Eva said you asked after me. Why not find me?" Bar stool creaked as he shifted, limp more pronounced in the lean. "You fled for a reason. Evan’s type don't forget addresses." Hazel eyes hardened. "I handled him. Quiet. No cops, no trails." Her pulse jumped. Glass clinked down hard. "Handled?" "Left town. Canada-bound, last I heard." He met her stare square. "Regret that? Every dawn." She exhaled slow, bar's maps blurring. Old Silas would've grinned wolfish, spun a tale of shadows dancing. This one carried weight in his shoulders, grey streaks mapping losses. "I regret the postcard. Should've said thanks. You were the only one who saw." "Saw what?" Voice pitched low, patrons oblivious. "The bruises under sleeves. The calls I dodged." Fingers drummed the bar. "Thought law would fix me. Fix Dad's endless briefs, Mum's quiet tears. Ran instead." He reached across, stopped short of her hand. Ring gleamed. "Cardiff bred fighters. You climbed trees, picked locks. London's just another branch." "Not the same." Voice cracked faint; she straightened. "Delivery bags over briefs. Flat above a bar over lectures. Evan's ghost lingers. Yours does too." Jazz swelled, trumpet wailing loss. A couple laughed sharp nearby. Silas poured refills unasked, whiskey flowing like confessions. "Ghosts pay rent here," he said. "That back room? Bookshelf hides meetings. Old network trickles in. You upstairs again—helps." She glanced at the wall, maps whispering routes she'd never trace. "Helps you spy from a stool?" "Helps me watch doors." Limp dragged as he rounded the bar, vanished through swinging door to storeroom. Returned with a key, silver like his ring. "Flat's yours. No rent first month. Pay in stories." Key cold in her palm. Crescent scar itched twin. "Stories like Prague?" "Prague was rain and betrayal. Friend turned, bullet grazed. Limp's the souvenir." He tapped knee. "Regret pulling the trigger too late." She pocketed the key, eyes tracing his beard's new lines. "I regret not pulling mine on Evan. Law said wait for proof." "Proof lies bleeding." Words landed heavy. Bar emptied slow, last patrons stumbling out. Neon buzzed louder alone. Outside, rain pattered Soho streets. Inside, time pooled thick. "You changed," she said finally. "No more ghost. Just... this." "You changed." Counter-lean, hazel steady. "Eyes sharper. Hair shorter. But that scar—same daredevil." Daredevil. Word stung sweet. She stood, coat slung over arm. "Upstairs calls. Tomorrow's deliveries wait." He nodded, limped to the door, held it. Chill rushed in. "Rory. Time's thief, but thieves return." She paused threshold, rain misting face. "Some do." Door swung shut behind her. Stairs creaked underfoot to the flat above, key turning smooth. Whiskey warmed veins, but regret sat colder—unspoken bridges burned, rebuilt in glances. Silas wiped the bar below, ring catching light, maps watching silent. She dropped coat, sank onto bed. Window framed the Nest's sign, green glow pulsing. Six years gone, but Silas remained—limp and all, bar his anchor. Changed, yes. Steadier. She traced wrist scar, smiled thin. Tomorrow, she'd deliver, climb again. Ghosts paid rent, but fighters collected. Downstairs, Silas poured last whiskey, stared at her empty stool. Postcard yellowed in drawer, words faded: "Thanks, Uncle Si. Law next." Regret twisted like old knee. Time weighed pints heavy, but her return lightened the pour. Rain drummed roof. Jazz faded. Nest settled into night. Aurora woke to dawn grey, bag slung for Golden Empress runs. Stairs down, bar empty save Silas polishing glasses. Limp slower morning-stiff. "Coffee black," she said, sliding stool home. He poured, steam rising. "Shift starts?" "Yu-Fei waits." Mug warm in hands. Conversation flowed easy now—routes dodged, old locks picked in talk. "You ever miss the field?" she asked mid-sip. "Miss the run. Not the fall." Ring tapped mug. "You miss court?" "Miss the fight. Not the chains." Eyes met, blue on hazel. Tension eased, regret shared in silences. Patrons trickled in, day breaking. She rose, bag zipped. "See you tonight." "Count on it." Door chimed shut. Silas watched her bike vanish into Soho bustle. Changed, both. Time's weight lifted fraction—old friends reclaimed. But evenings brought depth. That night, bar fuller, she returned coat damp. "Busy roads?" He slid whiskey unasked. "Ghosts in traffic." Sat taller. "Tell me Prague full." He leaned close, voice for her ears. Rain lashed windows. "Budapest first, trail to Prague. Partner—Jakub—sold coords. Rooftop chase, knee buckled mid-leap. Bullet for him, limp for me." She nodded slow. "Evan sold trust. Fists for proof." Mirrors held truths. "Regret not ending it cleaner?" "Regret believing." Glass empty. "You?" "Believing brass." Laughter shared, low. Hidden room called later. Bookshelf swung on her nudge—key from pocket. Inside, maps newer, files stacked. "Network?" she asked. "Threads." He limped in, shut door. "Join?" Scar itched. "Deliveries first." Threads wove night. Regret unspoken faded in action—plans sketched, stories traded. Weeks blurred. Flat filled her touch: books law-tossed, bike parked. Bar wove them tight. One night, storm raged. Patrons fled early. They sat alone, whiskey halved. "You saved me twice," she said. "Cardiff visits, London pullout." "Family owes." Hazel softened. "Brendan asked once—keep eye." "Dad knew?" "Guessed." Ring spun. "Regret not sooner." She covered his hand brief. "Time thieves back." Storm broke dawn. Nest stood firm. Change settled: spy to owner, student to rider. Friends bridged years, regrets voiced in pours. She climbed bikes daily, but evenings Nest-bound. Silas limped less in rhythm. Unspoken lifted—weight shared, time reclaimed. Soho pulsed on.