Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY95N5W5FVQQ14EDZSWQVG5

The rain in Soho was a greasy, insistent thing, clinging to the slick cobblestones and reflecting the neon glow of the sign above Silas’ bar – a defiant green raven against the bruised twilight. Aurora, clutching a lukewarm beer, watched it fall, the rhythm a dull echo of the one in her own chest. She’d been nursing this drink for nearly an hour, a futile attempt to ward off the chill that had nothing to do with the weather. She’d come to The Raven’s Nest on a whim, a desperate need to be somewhere that smelled of old wood and whiskey, a place that didn’t pulse with the sterile energy of her deliveries. Then he walked in. The door swung inward with a groan, a little puff of rain and a silhouette framed against the grey. It was Silas Blackwood. Not the Silas she remembered from university, the one with the perpetually rumpled corduroy jacket and the infuriatingly calm demeanor. This Silas was… different. He moved with a slight limp, a subtle hitch in his stride that spoke of old injuries and a life lived just a little too close to the edge. His grey-streaked auburn hair was neatly trimmed, the grey a denser, more pronounced shade than she recalled, and his face, weathered and etched with lines that hadn’t been there before, held a quiet intensity. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored coat that suggested a world away from the mismatched sweaters and jeans of their past. He scanned the bar, a slow, deliberate sweep, before his eyes landed on her. A flicker of something – recognition? – crossed his face. He paused, then moved towards her, the limp a persistent, almost mournful beat. “Aurora?” he asked, his voice a low rumble, edged with a gravelly quality she hadn't anticipated. She straightened, setting down her beer with a thud. “Silas. Wow. I… I didn't expect to see you here.” It felt clumsy, inadequate, like trying to describe the vastness of the ocean with a single pebble. He slid onto the stool beside her, the movement fluid despite the limp. “Neither did I,” he admitted, his hazel eyes, the same shade she remembered, holding a depth she couldn’t quite decipher. “It’s been… a while.” “Fifteen years,” she said, the words hanging in the damp air. Fifteen years since they’d shared a pint at a dive in Cardiff, fifteen years since she’d last seen the flicker of genuine amusement in his eyes. “You look… different.” He gave a short, humorless laugh. “So do you. Less… frantic.” He gestured vaguely at her worn delivery uniform, a shadow of a smile touching his lips. “Life’s been busy,” she replied, a defensive edge creeping into her voice. “Delivery work doesn’t exactly lend itself to leisurely evenings.” “I imagine not,” he said, his gaze drifting to the rain-streaked windows. “I’ve been busy too, in my own way.” He tapped the silver signet ring on his right hand, a simple, elegant piece that looked out of place in the rough-hewn bar. “Mostly keeping ghosts at bay.” The words hung heavy between them, unspoken anxieties swirling in the dim light. She knew, without him needing to elaborate, that 'ghosts' weren't just metaphorical. She’d heard snippets, rumors whispered in the darker corners of London’s underworld – whispers of a retired MI6 agent running a bar, handling discreet requests, cultivating a network of contacts. “Eva told me you opened a bar,” she said, stating the obvious. “The Raven’s Nest,” he confirmed. “A front, mostly. A place to observe, to listen. And to serve a decent whiskey.” He paused, then added, almost to himself, “It’s not quite the same as Prague.” The mention of Prague – a place she knew little about but instinctively grasped was the source of his pain – felt like a crack in the carefully constructed facade of their conversation. She took a sip of her beer, the cold liquid doing little to soothe the sudden tightness in her chest. “I didn’t know about…” she began, then trailed off, unable to articulate the unspoken questions that clawed at her. “About what happened.” He looked at her then, his gaze direct and unsettlingly perceptive. "Some things are best left buried, Aurora. And some memories… they cling like the rain.” There was a sadness in his eyes that cut through her carefully cultivated indifference. She knew, instinctively, that he wasn’t just referring to Prague. He was talking about everything. About the botched operation, the lost colleagues, the weight of secrets and regret. “I left,” she said, the words coming out sharper than she intended. “I left Evan. I left Cardiff. I didn’t want to be tied down.” “And you found a way to be tied down, didn’t you?” he countered, his voice low and laced with a hint of accusation. “Wrapped yourself up in deliveries, in anonymity. Running from something.” She flinched. He always had a way of seeing through her carefully constructed defenses. “It was a fresh start,” she mumbled. “A temporary reprieve,” he corrected gently. “Running doesn't erase the past, Aurora. It simply postpones the reckoning.” He signaled to the bartender for another whiskey. "This is a good one. Glenfiddich 18. You want one?" "No, thank you.” She watched him take a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving her. "What are you doing here, Silas? After all this time?” "Checking in," he said finally, placing the glass back on the counter. "To see if the girl who used to argue with me about philosophy was still… breathing. I’ve missed you, Aurora. Not the girl who fled, but the one I knew.” A sharp, unexpected pang shot through her. She hadn't realized how much she had missed him, how much she'd actively pushed him away. The years hadn’t erased the shared laughter, the late-night debates, the comfortable silence they’d once shared. They’d simply become ghosts of their own making. “It’s… complicated,” she said, the familiar excuse feeling hollow even to her own ears. "I have a life now. A routine.” “A carefully constructed cage,” he observed, his voice dry. "And what do you tell yourself it’s for?" She looked away, out at the relentless rain. “Protection,” she whispered. “From… everything.” The tiny crescent-shaped scar on her wrist, a memento of a childhood accident, seemed to pulse with a sudden, painful awareness. Silas was silent for a moment, studying her. Then, he said, quietly, “You’re still running, Aurora. Just to a different destination.” The rain intensified, drumming against the windows of The Raven’s Nest. The scent of whiskey and old wood mingled with the dampness, creating a claustrophobic atmosphere. She looked at Silas, at the lines etched on his face, at the quiet devastation that lingered in his eyes, and realized he wasn’t just a retired spy. He was a witness. A keeper of secrets. And perhaps, just perhaps, he was offering her a reluctant invitation to finally face the ghosts she’d been so desperately trying to outrun.