AI Rory pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign outside buzzing faintly against the Soho drizzle. Rain slicked her black hair, plastering it to her neck in straight, dark strands. She shook off her jacket, the delivery bag from Golden Empress slung over one shoulder, empty now after a long shift dodging tourists and cabs. The bar's dim light wrapped around her like smoke, walls lined with faded maps of forgotten cities and photographs of stern faces from another era. A few patrons hunched over their pints at the scarred wooden tables, but the place felt quieter than usual, the jukebox silent for once.
She scanned the room out of habit, her bright blue eyes sharp despite the fatigue pulling at her lids. That's when she spotted him at the far end of the bar, polishing a glass with a rag that had seen better days. Silas Blackwood. His grey-streaked auburn hair caught the low glow from the pendant lamps, and that neatly trimmed beard framed a face etched deeper than she remembered. He moved with the same deliberate grace, but the slight hitch in his left leg as he shifted weight betrayed the old injury. The silver signet ring glinted on his right hand, catching her eye like a signal flare.
Her stomach twisted. Last time they'd crossed paths, she was nineteen, fresh out of Cardiff, wide-eyed and trailing her father's shadow in legal texts she hated. Silas had been the family friend, the one her dad called in for "advice" during late-night drinks—back when Brendan Carter still believed in straight paths and clean deals. That was six years ago, before Evan, before the flat above this very bar became her reluctant anchor. She'd avoided coming down here most nights, slipping in through the back stairs like a ghost. But tonight, the fridge hummed empty, and her wallet begged for mercy.
Silas looked up, hazel eyes locking onto hers across the haze. His rag paused mid-swipe. For a beat, the bar's murmur faded—the clink of glasses, the low rumble of conversation from the corner booth.
"Rory Carter," he said, voice gravelly, carrying over the distance without raising it. He set the glass down with a soft thud, leaning forward on the polished oak counter. "Didn't think ghosts favored the Nest these days."
She froze mid-step, then forced her legs to move, crossing the worn floorboards that creaked under her boots. Up close, the lines around his eyes cut deeper, like rivers carving stone. The limp might hide in the dimness, but she saw the way he favored his right side, the knee that ended his field days. "Silas. Been a while."
He nodded, once, sharp. Grabbed a lowball glass from under the bar and poured a measure of whiskey—her father's brand, neat, without asking. The amber liquid swirled as he slid it toward her. "Sit. You look like you could use it."
Rory dropped her bag by the stool and slid onto it, the leather creaking. She wrapped her fingers around the glass, the coolness grounding her. The scar on her left wrist itched under the cuff of her sleeve, that old crescent from tumbling off her bike as a kid. Silas had been there that day, too, patching her up with a story about spies and secret codes to distract her from the sting. "Shift ran long. Yu-Fei's got half of London craving dim sum tonight."
"Yu-Fei." He chuckled, low and dry, wiping his hands on his apron. The sound didn't reach his eyes. "Still slinging chow mein? Good man. Keeps the streets honest."
She took a sip, the burn cutting through the chill in her bones. "Pays the rent. Speaking of, how's the upstairs holding? Pipes didn't burst again?"
"Fair enough." He turned away, busying himself with restocking bottles on the shelf behind him. His back straightened a fraction, the authority in his frame undimmed by age. "Pipes are solid. Eva checked last month. Said you were burying yourself in books again, dodging the world."
Eva. The name landed like a stone in still water. Her childhood friend, the one who'd dragged her to London after Evan’s fists left bruises she couldn’t hide. Rory’s grip tightened on the glass. "Eva talks too much. I'm fine. Just... busy."
Silas faced her again, arms crossing over his broad chest. The signet ring tapped against the wood as he leaned in. "Busy. That's what Brendan used to say when he meant drowning. You call him lately?"
The question hung, sharp as a blade. Rory’s gaze dropped to the whiskey, swirling it. Brendan, buried in his Cardiff office, chasing cases that never ended. Their last call had been clipped, her dodging questions about London, about the ex she’d left in pieces. "Not since Christmas. He's got his plate full. Mum's baking enough scones to feed the courts."
He watched her, unblinking, hazel eyes probing like they used to when she'd sneak into his old flat as a teen, begging for stories of Prague shadows and coded messages. Back then, Silas was the uncle who wasn't, the one who slipped her a fiver and warned her about boys with too many secrets. Now, those eyes held ghosts of their own—operations gone sour, a knee shattered on cobblestones. "Plate full or not, time slips, Rory. Saw it chew up better men than him."
She met his stare, the blue in her eyes flickering with the bar's amber light. "And you? Nest treating you right? No more trips to the back room for... meetings?" She nodded toward the bookshelf in the corner, the one that swung open on hidden hinges. Whispers around Soho said Silas still played the spymaster, even retired.
His mouth quirked, not quite a smile . Grabbed a bottle of his own—gin, from the looks—and poured a finger into a tumbler. "Back room's for storage now. Maps and dust. Knee's got opinions about running anymore." He raised the glass in a half-toast, the limp evident as he shifted to sip. "But the Nest? She's steady. Patrons come for the pour, stay for the quiet."
Rory traced the rim of her glass, the silence stretching. The bar's door swung open behind her, letting in a gust of wet air and two men in trench coats, laughing about a deal gone wet. They claimed a booth, voices low, but Silas's attention stayed on her. "Steady. That's more than most get."
"You haven't." He set his tumbler down, the clink punctuating. "Changed your hair. Shorter. And that look—Cardiff girl’s gone hard."
She laughed, short and brittle, running a hand through the damp strands. "Life does that. Yours too. Beard suits you. Hides the scars, maybe?"
His fingers drummed once on the bar, the ring flashing. "Scars don't hide. They mark the miles." He paused, eyes narrowing . "Heard about Evan. Eva mentioned. You never said."
The name hit like rain on pavement. Rory's jaw tightened, her free hand balling in her lap. She’d buried that chapter —fists and fractured mirrors, the flight north with nothing but a duffel and Eva's spare key. Silas had offered the flat above the Nest without a word, back when she first arrived, shaking and silent. But she hadn't seen him since, holing up like a wounded animal. "Nothing to say. Past is past."
"Is it?" He leaned closer, voice dropping to that operative's timbre, all edges. "You live over my roof, Rory, but vanish like smoke. Thought we were friends once. The kind that don't let rot fester."
She pushed the glass away, half-empty. The whiskey sat heavy now. "Friends. Right. You were Dad's shadow, Silas. The man with secrets who fixed my bike and spun tales. Then you disappeared to your ops, and I chased law books I hated. We all change."
He straightened, the limp pulling as he rounded the bar, grabbing a stool to sit across from her. Up close, the grey in his hair threaded thicker, the beard flecked with silver. "Disappeared? Prague took a chunk, yeah. Knee gave out on a bridge—chased a ghost who turned out real enough to shoot back. Retired to this." He gestured at the bar, the maps curling at edges. "But you? Fled Cardiff like it burned. Brendan calls sometimes, asks if you're eating. Says you sound hollow."
Hollow. The word clawed at her chest. Rory glanced at the door, half-tempted to bolt, but the rain pounded harder outside, trapping her. "Hollow's better than broken. Evan... he twisted things. Made me doubt the straight paths Dad pushed. Law? Felt like chains. So I cut loose. Deliveries, the flat—it's mine now."
Silas's gaze softened a fraction, but regret shadowed it, unspoken . He rubbed his knee absently, the old wound a constant reminder . "Chains or no, you were sharpest out of the box. Remember that summer? You cracked my cipher puzzle in ten minutes flat. Said you'd run the world, not chase it."
She remembered. Fifteen, sprawled on his flat's rug, decoding symbols while he watched with that quiet pride. Before the agency pulled him deeper, before her world narrowed to lectures and Evan's grip. "World's messier than puzzles. You taught me that, with your stories. Then you limped home, and I broke apart."
His hand hovered near hers, then dropped. "Broke? Or remade? Nest sees all sorts, Rory. Men like me, chasing regrets across borders. You walk in here tonight, eyes clear but carrying weight . Unspoken, yeah. Like the calls I didn't make after Prague—thought your dad needed space, not my failures."
The tension coiled, thick as the bar's haze. Rory leaned forward, voices from the booth fading to buzz. "Regrets. You dripping with them, Silas? Pouring drinks instead of cracking codes?"
He snorted, grabbing his gin again. "Dripping? Nah. Soaked. Left the game, but it follows—contacts slink in that back room, whispering about old ops. Makes a man wonder what he traded." His eyes bored into hers. "You wonder too? About Cardiff, Brendan, the girl who dreamed big?"
Her scar itched fiercer, a pull to the past. "Every delivery route. Pedal past courts, think of Dad's office. Mum's voice on the line, soft Welsh lilt asking when home." She swallowed, the words tumbling now . "Evan made me small, Silas. Fists and lies. Eva hauled me here, you gave the flat, but I hid. From you, from it all. Afraid you'd see the mess."
He nodded, slow, the beard shifting with his jaw. "Messes mend. Prague taught me that—botched it all, limped back, opened this hole. Regret's the limp that sticks." He tapped the ring, silver catching light. "Family heirloom. Reminder: Blackwoods endure, but don't always choose right."
Rory's fingers brushed the glass again, warmth seeping back. The door creaked open once more, but she ignored it. "Endure. That's us. Dad endures cases, you the bar, me the streets. But the weight —time piles it on, doesn't it? Unsaid words, paths not taken."
Silas poured her another finger of whiskey, the bottle glugging soft. "Piles heavy. Saw a mate in Berlin once, years after. Changed—hard edges where curiosity burned. We talked circles, regrets circling too. Never fixed it." He slid the glass over. "Don't let that be us, Rory. You're no ghost."
She took it, clinking his tumbler. The sound echoed , small against the bar's hum. "No ghosts. Just catching up. Tell me about Prague. The real bits, not the kid stories."
He settled back, the limp forgotten in the telling. "Prague. Rain like tonight, bridges slick. Chased a defector, thought him a myth..."
The words flowed, pulling her in, the tension easing into rhythm. Patrons came and went, glasses filled, but the bar shrank to their corner, time's weight shared in glances and half-truths. Rory listened, her blue eyes steady, the scar on her wrist a faint line under the light. Silas spoke on, voice weaving shadows, the unspoken regrets hovering like the neon buzz outside—present, but not defining.
Outside, the drizzle thickened, Soho's pulse thrumming unaware. Inside, the maps on the walls whispered of distances crossed and those left behind. Rory sipped slow, Silas's tale unfolding, layer by layer, the years between them bridging in the dim glow.
He paused mid-sentence, hazel eyes flicking to the door as it swung wide again. A figure stepped in, coat dripping, eyes scanning the room with purpose. Silas's posture shifted, the old operative surfacing. "Hold that thought."
Rory followed his gaze, the whiskey warming her veins. The man approached the bar, voice low as he leaned in toward Silas. "Spymaster. Word from the shadows—old contact's stirring."
Silas's ring tapped once, sharp. He glanced at Rory, a flicker of the past in his nod. "Stories wait. Trouble doesn't."
She watched, the conversation pulling taut again, the weight of time now laced with the bar's hidden currents.