Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8Y5P1XAR6FYK0H4XDH86J

Rory pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign above buzzing faintly like a trapped hornet against the Soho drizzle. The air inside hit her first—thick with the scent of aged whiskey, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of rain-soaked coats piled on hooks by the entrance. Dim light pooled from brass lamps hung low over scarred tabletops, casting long shadows across walls papered in faded maps of forgotten empires and sepia-toned photographs of stern-faced men in trench coats. It was the kind of place that swallowed secrets whole, and tonight, after sixteen hours zigzagging London on her battered scooter for Yu-Fei's Golden Empress, Rory needed it to swallow hers. She hadn't set foot in here since the night she'd hauled her duffel up the back stairs three months ago, courtesy of Eva's frantic call: "Get out of Cardiff, Rory. Now." Silas had grunted assent from behind his bar then, sliding her a key without a word, his hazel eyes appraising her like a smuggled artifact. But that was it—no questions, no welcome drink. She'd glimpsed him since, limping between kegs in the alley or silhouetted in his window above the storeroom, but they'd danced around each other like ghosts in the same haunted house. Years had piled up before that, though. Eight, to be precise, since Prague—or what she'd pieced together of it from whispers and a teenage girl's half-formed intuitions. Time had a way of calcifying distance, turning acquaintances into strangers. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, the leather creaking under her damp jeans. Her straight black hair clung to her neck, and she tugged at the frayed cuff of her jacket, exposing the small crescent scar on her left wrist—a relic from tumbling off her bike at twelve, chasing Brendan across the Cardiff docks. The bar was half-empty: a cluster of suits nursing pints in a booth, murmuring about City deals; a lone woman in a red scarf scribbling in a notebook by the window. Rory traced the grain of the bar top with her thumb, debating gin or just water, when a shadow loomed. "Evening, Laila." The voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, unchanged. Rory's head snapped up. Silas Blackwood stood there, towel slung over one shoulder, his grey-streaked auburn hair swept back from a forehead etched with new lines. The neatly trimmed beard framed a jaw that had hardened since she'd last seen him up close, and that silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he polished a glass with mechanical precision. His hazel eyes locked on hers, steady as a sniper's scope. But the limp—god, the limp was worse. He favored his left leg openly now, the knee injury from that botched op in '15 claiming its toll. She blinked, the old alias jarring her like a skipped heartbeat. Laila. The name he'd given her back when she was seventeen, shadowing her father on a barrister's trip to London, and Silas had been the shadowy uncle type Brendan trusted with "discreet inquiries." "Not Rory tonight?" she said, forcing a half-smile to mask the jolt. Her bright blue eyes met his, unflinching, but inside, her mind raced: calculate, adapt. He looked... diminished. The quiet authority still clung to him, but the broad shoulders stooped slightly, as if carrying invisible ledgers of the dead. Silas set the glass down with a soft clink, his gaze flicking to her scar, then back. "Haven't heard Rory in years. Thought it stuck after Cardiff." He poured her a gin without asking—Tanqueray, two olives— and slid it across. His own tumbler appeared from nowhere, amber liquid swirling. "Yu-Fei working you ragged?" She wrapped her fingers around the cool glass, the condensation slick against her palm. "Pays the rent. And the stairs don't creak as much as my old flat." A sip burned clean down her throat, loosening the knot there. Up close, the years carved him raw: crow's feet deepening around those eyes, the auburn threads in his beard more silver than before. The man who'd once vanished operatives from Eastern Bloc prisons now poured pints for tourists. Changed. Profoundly. He leaned on the bar, right elbow planted, ring catching the light. The slight shift masked the limp, but she saw it—the hitch, the compensation. "Heard from Brendan lately?" His tone was casual, but the maps on the wall seemed to lean in. Rory's laugh came out sharp, unintended. "Last Easter. Sent a tie. Told me to finish Pre-Law." She rolled the glass between her palms, watching the olives bob. The bar's hush amplified the rain pattering the windowpanes. "As if." Silas nodded once, slow. "Stubborn bastard. Always was." He sipped, eyes distant, drifting to a black-and-white photo behind the spirits shelf: him, younger, arm slung around a man with Rory's father's jawline—Brendan, mid-'90s, before the barrister polish. "You look like your mum. The eyes." The compliment landed like a stone in still water. Jennifer's eyes, bright blue and unyielding. Rory traced her scar again, the raised moon a tactile anchor. "Flattery from the Spymaster. What's the angle?" She meant it light, but it hung heavy. Eight years since that rainy afternoon in his old MI6-adjacent flat off Baker Street, when he'd caught her eavesdropping on a call about Prague. "Go home, Laila," he'd said then, pressing a tenner into her hand for the Tube. "This world's not for little girls with big ideas." She'd bolted, heart pounding, only to find Brendan waiting with lectures about curiosity killing more than cats. No angle now. Silas straightened, wincing as his knee protested. "No angle. Just noting facts." He glanced at the empty stools between them, the bar's green glow flickering across his beard. "You vanished after uni started. Eva rang me last autumn—panicked. Said Evan was..." He trailed off, letting the name fester. Rory's grip tightened, knuckles whitening. Evan. The ex with fists like accusations, the one who'd turned Pre-Law dreams into nightmares of locked doors and whispered apologies. "A mistake," she said flatly, meeting his gaze. Cool-headed Rory, always the quick thinker—except then. "Fixed it. London swallows mistakes." He studied her, the way a handler sizes up an asset gone rogue. "Does it? You ride that scooter like you're fleeing ghosts. Live upstairs like a tenant in your own life." The words cut, precise as a scalpel. His signet ring tapped the bar once, rhythmic. "Prague changed me, Laila. Botched drop—team gone. Knee's a souvenir. This?" A gesture encompassed the Nest, the maps yellowing at edges. "Front for contacts. But it's no life." The tension coiled between them, electric in the dimness. Rory felt it in her chest—the pull of who they'd been. She, the prodigy daughter Brendan boasted about; he, the mentor figure who'd slipped her dossiers to read under torchlight, fueling her out-of-the-box schemes. Regret slithered in unbidden: for dropping uni, for Evan, for not calling Silas sooner when Eva suggested his flat. For seeing him reduced to this limping barkeep, his network fraying like the photos on the walls. "You could've called," she said quietly, the gin emboldening her. "After Prague. Brendan said you ghosted everyone." Silas's laugh was a low rumble, devoid of mirth. "Ghosting's what I do best. Saved your da a few times—discreet inquiries into bent judges. Thought you'd follow him into chambers." His eyes sharpened, hazel piercing. "Not deliveries and bruises." She flinched, the scar itching under her sleeve. "And you? MI6 legend slinging drinks? The limp's new. Or did you hide it before?" Petty, but the years demanded settling. He poured another finger into his glass, the whiskey glugging softly. "Hide everything. That's the job." A pause, heavy as the rain. "Saw you once, two years back. King's Cross, hauling boxes. Looked lost. Didn't stop." The admission hung, a noose of unspoken roads not taken. Rory's mind flashed: her, post-Evan, cardboard fortresses in Eva's spare room; him, nursing grudges in the Nest's secret room behind the bookshelf, maps plotting ghosts. Time's weight pressed down—the divergence. She could've been barrister Rory, arguing precedents; he, perhaps, pulled her into the shadows instead of pushing away. "Why not?" Her voice cracked, blue eyes fierce. Silas met it, unflinching. "You were Brendan's light. Didn't want to dim it." His hand flexed, ring glinting. "Regret's a bastard. Keeps you up, tracing what-ifs on ceilings." The suits in the booth laughed raucously, shattering the bubble. Rory slid cash across—exact change, always precise. "No what-ifs tonight." She stood, gin warm in her veins, but the regret lingered, a shadow twin. "Thanks for the drink, Si." He nodded, the old nickname unlocking something soft in his eyes. "Key still works. Door's always open, Rory." She paused at the threshold, rain sheeting the glass, the green neon humming farewell. Changed. Both of them—scars deepened, paths forked irreparably. The door swung shut behind her, sealing the Nest's secrets, but the weight clung, heavy as the Soho night. Upstairs, in the flat's cramped kitchen, Rory shrugged off her jacket, the scar stark under fluorescent light. Silas's words echoed: regret's a bastard. She poured water, stared at the ceiling cracks mapping like his bar walls. Eight years, and one drink cracked it open. Tomorrow, deliveries again—Yu-Fei's orders scorching her phone. But tonight, the unspoken pulsed: what if she'd stayed that curious girl? What if he'd pulled her in? Downstairs, Silas limped to the bookshelf, thumbed the hidden latch. The secret room yawned, lit by a single desk lamp, files whispering of old ops. He sank into the chair, knee throbbing, poured another. Rory Carter—Laila—no longer the girl, but carrying the same fire. Time hadn't erased; it had forged. Regret? Aye. But perhaps, in the Nest's dim heart, a bridge remained. She texted Eva: *Ran into Silas. Drink led to ghosts.* No reply yet. Rory curled on the sagging sofa, the city's hum vibrating through floorboards. Changed, yes. But not broken. Quick thinking—that was her edge. Tomorrow, she'd descend again. Test the waters. Time's weight lifted, fractionally, in the promise of words unsaid no longer. The rain drummed on, indifferent, as Soho slumbered.