AI Rory pushed open the door to The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign flickering like a hesitant heartbeat above her. Rain slicked the streets of Soho, and she shook droplets from her black hair, shoulder-length strands clinging to her damp jacket. The bar smelled of aged whiskey and polished wood, a familiar anchor in the chaos of London nights. She hadn't been back in years—not since that frantic escape from Cardiff, not since she'd sworn off the ghosts that chased her. But Eva's wedding invite had dragged her here, a reluctant pilgrim to old haunts.
The place hadn't changed much. Dim lights cast long shadows over walls papered with yellowed maps and black-and-white photos—grainy shots of forgotten spies, perhaps, or just Silas's idea of decor. A few patrons hunched at the bar, murmuring over pints, while jazz hummed low from hidden speakers. Rory scanned the room, her bright blue eyes narrowing. She needed a drink, something to steady the tremble in her hands, the echo of Evan's voice still lurking in her dreams.
And there he was. Silas Blackwood, behind the counter, polishing a glass with a cloth that looked as worn as his grey-streaked auburn beard. He moved with that slight limp, favoring his left leg, the old knee injury a shadow he carried like a badge. His hazel eyes lifted, met hers, and for a split second, the quiet authority in his posture faltered. The glass slipped from his fingers, shattering against the floor in a spray of shards.
"Rory?" His voice, gravelly from years of secrets and smokes, cut through the murmur. He straightened, the silver signet ring on his right hand glinting as he gripped the bar's edge. "Aurora Carter. Christ, is that really you?"
She froze, the scar on her left wrist itching under her sleeve—a crescent reminder of childhood falls and simpler pains. "Silas." The word came out softer than she'd intended, laced with the weight of five years gone. She'd known him back then, in the blurry edges of her university days, when he'd been a shadowy figure in her father's circle. Brendan Carter, the barrister, had called Silas an "old contact," but Rory had pieced together the rest: the MI6 whispers, the botched op in Prague that left him limping into retirement. He'd offered her a flat above the bar when she'd fled Evan, a safe harbor in the storm. But she'd bolted after a few months, chasing anonymity in Edinburgh, leaving without a proper goodbye.
He rounded the bar, ignoring the broken glass, and pulled her into a hug that smelled of soap and faint tobacco. His frame, still tall at 6'1", enveloped her 5'6" one, but there was a frailty now, a tremor in his grip she didn't remember. "You look... good," he said, pulling back to study her. "Grown. Hell, you were just a kid last time."
"Twenty now wasn't exactly ancient," she replied, forcing a smile . Her cool-headedness, that quick out-of-the-box thinking her friends admired, felt rusty tonight. "And you... the beard suits you. Grey suits you."
He chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Time's a bastard, Rory. Sit. What'll it be? On the house."
She slid onto a stool, the leather creaking under her. "Whiskey, neat. The peaty stuff you used to hide for special occasions."
Silas nodded, pouring with steady hands that belied the limp. He slid the glass over, then poured one for himself, leaning against the bar. The hidden back room lurked behind a bookshelf to his left, a portal to his old life of clandestine meetings, but tonight it felt like just another shadow . "So, what brings you back? Last I heard, you were up north, vanishing like one of my old assets."
Rory sipped, the burn grounding her. "Eva's getting married. Couldn't skip that. And... I don't know. London calls sometimes." Unspoken: the pull of unfinished business, the regret of running. She'd left him a note, terse and grateful, but it hadn't captured the mess of her fear. Evan had found her once, his fists leaving bruises that faded slower than the memories. Silas had offered more than shelter—he'd taught her a few tricks, surveillance basics whispered over late-night drinks. But she'd fled anyway, afraid of dragging him into her chaos.
He watched her, those hazel eyes sharp as ever. "You changed your number. Dropped off the map. I get it—running from that prick ex of yours. But you could've trusted me more."
The tension coiled in her chest, the gap between who she'd been—that wide-eyed pre-law student, reeling from betrayal—and who she was now: a delivery girl for a Chinese restaurant, piecing together a life from scraps. "I did trust you. That's why I left. Didn't want to paint a target on your back." She traced the rim of her glass, avoiding his gaze. "Heard you sold the place once, then bought it back? What happened?"
Silas rubbed his beard, the grey streaks more prominent under the low lights. He'd changed too, significantly so. The quiet authority remained, but there was a hollowness now, etched lines around his eyes from years she'd missed. Retirement hadn't suited him; the bar was a front, sure, but the limp seemed deeper, his movements slower. "Tried to get out for real. Sold to some yuppie chain, thought I'd travel, see the world without a scope. Lasted six months. Bought it back before they turned it into a cocktail lounge with fairy lights." He smirked, but it faded quick. "Truth is, I missed the game. The contacts. Hell, I missed people like you—sharp ones who don't take bullshit."
Rory laughed, a genuine bubble escaping despite the undercurrent of regret. "Flattery from the Spymaster himself. You know, Dad still talks about you. Says you were the best agent he ever bailed out of a jam."
"Brendan always had a way with words." Silas sipped his whiskey, wincing slightly as he shifted weight off his bad leg. "How is he? And your mum—Jennifer, right? The teacher with the Welsh fire."
"Good. Dad's still practicing, Mum's retired to gardening and bossing him around." She paused, the words sticking . Time had carved canyons between them all. She'd barely spoken to her parents since leaving, the shame of her failed relationship a wall she couldn't scale. "They worry about me. Think I threw away a law career for... what? Delivering takeout?"
Silas set his glass down, the clink echoing . "You didn't throw it away. You survived. That's more than most." His voice softened, carrying the weight of his own regrets—the botched op, the knee that ended his field days. "I should've pushed harder to help you with Evan. Tracked him down, made sure he stayed gone."
She shook her head, blue eyes flashing. "No. That was my fight. You gave me the tools—remember those nights you showed me how to spot a tail? Or pick a lock with a bobby pin?" A fond smile tugged at her lips, but it soured with the unspoken : she'd used those skills to disappear from him too.
He leaned closer, the bar's dim light catching the silver ring. "And now? You back for good, or just passing through?"
The question hung, heavy with the years' silence . Rory felt the pull of the flat upstairs, the one she'd abandoned, its empty rooms a metaphor for the voids they'd both accrued. "I don't know. London's changed. I've changed." She glanced at his limp as he moved to grab a broom for the shattered glass. "You have too. You seem... tired, Si. Not the unbreakable operative I remember."
He swept the shards with deliberate strokes, his beard hiding a grimace. "Age catches up. That Prague mess? It wasn't just the knee. Lost a partner there—good man, family back home. I replay it every night. Could've been different if I'd been sharper." Regret laced his words, the first crack in his composed facade . "You leaving... that hit hard too. Felt like failing another one."
Rory's throat tightened. The tension between them thickened, a bridge of what-ifs spanning the bar. Who they'd been: her, the fleeing girl with bright ideas and bruises; him, the mentor with secrets and scars. Who they'd become: her, resilient but rootless; him, anchored to this dim haven but eroded by time. "I regret it, you know. Bolting like that. You were the closest thing to family here."
Silas paused, leaning the broom against the wall. He reached across, his hand covering hers briefly, warm against the cool scar on her wrist. "Regrets are like bad knees—they ache, but you learn to walk with them." He pulled back, pouring them both another round. "Stay awhile. The flat's still there, gathering dust. Could use a tenant with your spark."
She nodded, the whiskey warming the edges of old wounds. They talked then, easing into the rhythm of lost time—stories of her delivery runs for Yu-Fei Cheung's Golden Empress, dodging London traffic on her bike; his tales of bar patrons with shady deals, the hidden room still hosting whispers. Laughter punctuated the regrets, but the undercurrent remained: the unspoken apologies, the paths not taken.
As the night deepened, the bar emptying around them, Rory felt the weight lift, if only a fraction. Silas Blackwood, the Spymaster reduced to a bartender with a limp, and Aurora Carter, the runaway turned survivor—they were different now, shaped by years apart. But in the dim glow of The Raven's Nest, with its maps charting forgotten routes, they found a tentative map back to each other. The rain outside had stopped, leaving puddles that reflected the green neon like fragmented stars. For the first time in years, Rory didn't feel like running.