Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY93KD1A1Y71BFSGCEN3PG2

Rain hammered the Soho pavements outside The Raven's Nest, turning gutters into rushing veins. Aurora Carter shoved the door open, shoulder-length black hair plastered to her neck. She shook droplets from her jacket, the chill clinging like a bad memory. Dim light spilled across scarred wooden tables, old maps peeling at the edges on the walls—yellowed charts of forgotten coasts, black-and-white photographs of stern faces staring from another era. The air hung thick with peat smoke and spilled ale. Few patrons dotted the stools tonight. A couple hunched in the corner, murmuring over pints. Rory scanned the bar, bright blue eyes cutting through the haze. Her fingers brushed the crescent scar on her left wrist, habit from tense moments. She needed a drink, something to blunt the day's deliveries—endless boxes from Yu-Fei's Golden Empress, dodging traffic and ghosts. Behind the counter, Silas Blackwood wiped a glass with a rag, grey-streaked auburn hair catching the low lamp's glow. His neatly trimmed beard framed a jaw set in quiet focus. Silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he moved. A slight hitch marked his left leg when he shifted weight—echo of Prague, though no one here knew that tale. He looked up. Their eyes locked. Hazel met blue. The glass paused mid-circle. Rory froze mid-step. Silas set the tumbler down, deliberate. His fingers drummed once on the oak. "Rory Carter." She blinked, pulse kicking. Last time those hazel eyes fixed on her—God, fifteen years? Cardiff summers, her da's old mate dropping by with stories that made her ten-year-old world spin. Spymaster tales disguised as pub yarns. He promised her the stars once, or London at least. "Silas." Her voice cut flat, edged with rust. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar. The limp stayed hidden for now, but she clocked it—the subtle brace of his stance. "Christ. Sit. Pint?" She slid onto the stool, leather creaking under her. The bar top bore knife scars and ring stains, a map of nights long past. Her jacket dripped a puddle. "Whiskey. Neat." He poured, amber liquid sloshing precise. No ice clink. Pushed it over. She wrapped fingers around the glass, scar whitening under pressure. Sipped. Fire bloomed down her throat. "You look..." He trailed, eyes tracing her face—sharper cheekbones, shadows under those blue eyes. No girl anymore. "Older." She finished it, smirk faint. Set the glass down. "You too. Beard suits." He chuckled low, poured himself a finger. Raised it. "To ghosts." They clinked. Drank. Silence stretched, broken by rain lashing the window. A map behind him showed Istanbul, pins marking spots she imagined held secrets. "Been a while." His voice gravelled soft. "Last I heard, Cardiff Uni. Law books and all." She stared into the whiskey swirl. Da pushed that path—Brendan Carter, barrister sharp as a blade. Mum's Welsh lilt cheering from the sidelines. Until Evan. Fists and lies. She fled, Eva's call dragging her to London. "Dropped out." Flat. "Da still on about it?" Silas nodded once. "Saw him last year. Court function. Asked after you." Her gut twisted. Brendan never forgave the quit. "Tell him I'm grand." He eyed her wrist, scar peeking from sleeve cuff. She tugged the fabric down. "Delivery gig now?" He nodded at her jacket—Golden Empress logo faded on the pocket. "Yu-Fei's place. Pays rent upstairs." She jerked thumb ceilingward. Her flat above, cramped but hers. His brow arched. Signet ring tapped wood. "Upstairs? Since when?" "Month back. Didn't know it was yours till the sign buzzed green last night." He straightened, poured refills without asking. Steam rose faint from fresh glasses. "Opened this hole fifteen years ago. After the knee." He flexed left leg under counter, wince ghosting his face. "Prague. Botched drop. Bullet grazed bone." She leaned in, blue eyes narrowing. Kid-Silas ran marathons in her memory—da's fishing pal turned legend, MI6 whispers over tea. No limp then. "Spymaster Blackwood, hobbled." She raised glass. "World's cruel." He drank deep. "World's patient. You? Not the girl chasing my stories round the garden." Rain drummed harder. A patron laughed sharp from the corner. She traced glass rim. "Evan happened. Uni boyfriend. Turned sour." Silas's jaw tightened, beard shadowing the clench. "Heard fragments. Eva rang your da once." "Fragments." She snorted. "Fists first. Words later. Packed a bag, bolted." He reached across, stopped short of her hand. Ring caught light. "Should've called me." "You vanished." Her voice sharpened. "Da said you retired, went dark. No number, no Nest till now." "Needed quiet." His hazel eyes dropped to the bar. "Knee ended field work. Contacts dried. This—" Wave at walls, maps, photos. "Keeps the network humming. Front for old debts." She sipped, warmth spreading. Photos showed younger Silas—clean-shaven, auburn full, arm round strangers in trench coats. Istanbul pins, Prague shadows. "Debts." She echoed. "Like me?" He met her gaze, steady. "Promised your da. Watch the kid if trouble hit. Trouble hit." Regret hung unspoken, thick as smoke. Fifteen years. She pictured calling then—huddled in Eva's spare room, bruises blooming. His voice, gravel anchor. Instead, silence. "You changed." She tilted head. "No more shadows. Just pints." He limped around the bar end, fetched a stool. Sat opposite, knee protesting faint creak. "Shadows chew you hollow." Poured from bottle on shelf—label worn, single malt. "You changed more. Eyes harder. Scar new?" "Wrist." She extended arm, sleeve up. Crescent moon, faded white. "Evan's parting gift. Glass shard." Silas's fingers hovered, then dropped. "Bastard." "Past." She pulled back. "London suits. Deliveries dodge the hours. Upstairs flat—views of nothing, rent fair." He leaned back, beard twitching smile. "Stay. Proper." Patron called for tab. Silas rose, limped over, settled it cash-quick. Returned. "Network hears things." Voice low. "Evan surfaced. Cardiff outskirts." Her glass paused mid-air. Blue eyes flashed. "Stalking?" "Whispers. Bar talk." She drained whiskey, slammed glass. "Let him." Silence again. Maps rustled in a draft. Green neon hummed outside. "You were fire then." Silas murmured. "Outsmarted my riddles at ten. Quick head." "Still am." She met his eyes. "Just singed." He nodded slow. Signet ring spun on finger—habit. "Regret that?" "Uni. Da's face." She shrugged. "You? Spymaster to barkeep." "Every op." His voice roughened. "Prague mates gone. One bullet, my fault." Rain eased to drizzle. Couple left, bell tinkling. She slid cash across. "Another round." He poured. Glasses touched. "To what was." Drank. Conversation flowed jagged—Cardiff rains, da's cases, mum's Welsh songs. Her deliveries: dodging cabbies, Yu-Fei's sharp nods. His bar: hidden room through bookshelf, meetings in smoke. "You live above unfinished business." He said finally. Leg ached; he shifted. "Like you." She countered. Hazel eyes crinkled. "Touché." Door swung. New face, coat dripping. Silas rose, limped to serve. Rory watched. Time carved them—her from dreamer to survivor, him from hunter to watcher. Unspoken: roads not taken. His promise half-kept. Her call unsent. He returned, fresh pours. "Stick around, Rory. Nest needs fire." She smirked, scar itching. "Maybe." Rain picked up. Maps whispered secrets. Glasses gleamed. "Tell me a real one." She leaned elbows down. "Prague. Full." He settled, voice dropping to thread. "Checkpoint. Informant double-crossed..." Words wove night onward, regrets buried in tales, changes etched in silences. Bar emptied slow. Green sign buzzed sentinel. She listened, blue eyes alive flicker. Old friends, remade. Time's weight pressed, heavy, unmoving.