Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY95BSPXEK6NBBMBDPNDZBR

The rain hadn’t let up. It hammered against the windows of The Raven’s Nest, a relentless, grey drumming that seemed to mirror the anxiety knotting in Aurora’s stomach. She’d ordered a scotch, neat, and was nursing it slowly, watching the flickering gas lamps cast elongated shadows across the crowded bar. Silas’s place was always a little unsettling, a repository of hushed conversations and unsettlingly knowing glances. It smelled of aged wood, spilled beer, and something vaguely metallic – the ghost of a thousand secrets. Then she saw him. He was standing near the bar, nursing a whiskey, his back to her. Tall, still – a solid six-one, just like she remembered – but… different. The easy, careless confidence of Evan had been replaced with a guarded stillness. He wore a charcoal grey suit, impeccably tailored, and a silver signet ring flashed briefly as he shifted his weight. It was the ring she remembered from countless photographs, the one her father had insisted on photographing for a family album. It was Liam. Time seemed to compress, the sounds of the bar fading into a dull hum. Aurora set down her glass, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. She hadn't spoken to him in nearly seven years, not since she’d fled London with Eva, abandoning a life she hadn't truly wanted and, she now suspected, a friendship he hadn’t understood. He turned then, his hazel eyes scanning the room, lingering on her for a moment before registering recognition. A flicker of something – surprise? Regret? – crossed his face before he straightened, offering a curt nod. “Aurora,” he said, the voice deeper than she recalled, roughened by years of something she couldn’t quite guess. “Liam,” she replied, her own voice sounding flat, unfamiliar even to her. “It’s… been a while.” “Quite,” he said, pulling up a stool beside her. The movement caused a slight hitch in his left leg, a small, almost imperceptible limp that confirmed the old injury Silas had alluded to. “You look… well.” “Trying to,” she said, taking a sip of her scotch. It burned a welcome path down her throat. "You too. The suit's a bit… formal, isn't it?" He chuckled, a dry, brittle sound. “Business calls. I’ve moved on from casual Fridays.” He paused, studying her. “You haven’t changed much. Still got that bright blue stare.” It was a backhanded compliment, she realized, and she didn’t bother to hide her own flicker of defensiveness. “And you’re still devastatingly handsome, even with the grey creeping in.” The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken history. The rain continued its insistent argument with the windows. Finally, Liam broke it. “So,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the room. “What do you do these days?” “Delivery,” she answered, the words feeling inadequate, a pale echo of her life. “Yu-Fei Cheung’s Golden Empress. It’s honest work. Keeps me busy.” He raised an eyebrow. “Delivery? Really?” “Someone’s got to get the dumplings to the people,” she said, a touch of irony in her voice. “It pays the rent.” “Evan always said you were… resourceful,” he commented, the words laced with a subtle disapproval that stung more than she’d expected. The name hung in the air, a loaded trigger. She’d deliberately avoided thinking about him, about the wreckage he’d left behind. “Evan is… a distant memory,” she said, her voice clipped. “Some memories don’t fade, Aurora,” he said quietly. “They just… get buried. Like things in a dustbin.” He had a way of looking at her, a penetrating gaze that seemed to strip away layers of pretense. She looked away, focusing on the swirling amber liquid in her glass. “I left,” she said, the words a hesitant plea for justification. “You were… difficult.” “Difficult is a polite way of putting it,” he acknowledged. “You walked away without a word. Without a goodbye.” “I had to,” she said, the irritation rising. “It wasn’t safe.” “Safe isn’t always what’s important,” he said, his voice low. “Sometimes, the bravest thing you can do is face the storm.” “I was seventeen,” she countered, the frustration bubbling over. “I didn’t know what I was doing.” “No one does at seventeen,” he agreed, his eyes holding a trace of something she couldn't quite name – sadness, perhaps, or regret. “I should have been the one to tell you. I should have… done something.” “You didn’t,” she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended. He didn’t argue. “I was… compromised,” he offered, a vague explanation that didn’t quite satisfy. “Let’s just say I had my own problems.” He took a long swallow of his whiskey. The neon green sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed overhead, casting an eerie glow on his face. “I’ve been… busy,” he said. "Working. Some things don't get better with time, Aurora. They just… harden." She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the lines etched around his eyes, the weariness in his posture. She saw the ghost of the boy she’d known, the one who’d shared secrets and dreams in a thousand smoky rooms. But beneath it all, there was something else – a profound sense of disillusionment, a quiet acceptance of a life lived in the shadows. "What kind of work?" she asked, the question deliberately neutral. He hesitated, then said, “Let’s just say I deal in information. Discreetly. The kind people prefer to keep hidden. I retired from MI6 a few years back. The Prague operation... it left its mark." The words hung in the air, confirming rumors she’d long dismissed as the fanciful exaggerations of late-night bar conversations. Silas had mentioned a botched operation, a shattered knee – but she’d never connected it to Liam. “Silas knows about that,” she said, a sudden chill running through her. He nodded, a grim acknowledgement. “He’s a good man, Silas. A very good man. He offered me a place here, at The Raven’s Nest. A quiet corner to observe, to listen.” He gestured around the bar, at the worn faces and hushed tones. “A place to forget.” “You haven’t forgotten,” she said, stating the obvious. “Some things… you can’t quite erase,” he admitted. “Like the feeling of rain on your face after a long silence.” He paused, then added, almost as an afterthought, “I often wondered if you were happy, Aurora. If you’d found a life that suited you.” She considered her answer carefully. The life she had was… a refuge. A simple, solitary existence that shielded her from the wreckage of the past. It wasn’t glamorous, it wasn’t exciting, but it was safe. “I’m content,” she said finally, the word a small, fragile offering. Liam studied her face, his hazel eyes searching for any hint of deception. He didn’t press her. Instead, he lifted his glass in a silent toast. “To contentment,” he said, his voice barely audible above the drumming rain. “And to the ghosts we leave behind.” She raised her own glass in return, the ice clinking softly against the crystal. The rain kept falling, washing the grime from the streets of London, and blurring the edges of their shared history. She knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that this was the last time they would see each other. And perhaps, she realized, it was for the best.