AI Rain pelted the cobbled streets of Soho, turning gutters into shallow rivers that reflected the green neon glow from The Raven's Nest. Aurora Carter shoved through the door, her black hair plastered to her shoulders, water dripping from the hem of her jacket. She needed a drink. Something stiff to chase away the chill of another endless delivery shift at the Golden Empress. The bar smelled of aged wood and spilled whiskey, walls crammed with dusty maps and faded photographs that whispered of forgotten places.
She slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, waving off the bartender with a quick nod. "Whiskey, neat. Whatever's cheapest."
The man behind the bar paused, his hand freezing mid-reach for a bottle. Hazel eyes locked on her, narrowing as recognition flickered . He set the glass down hard enough to slosh the amber liquid.
"Aurora?"
She looked up, bright blue eyes widening. The face staring back belonged to a ghost. Grey-streaked auburn hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and that silver signet ring glinting on his right hand. Silas Blackwood. Older, sure, with lines etched deeper around his mouth, and a slight hitch in his step as he leaned against the counter. But unmistakable.
"Silas?" Her voice cracked, the word tumbling out like a stone into still water.
He poured himself a matching glass, sliding it across the scarred wood. "It's been... what, eight years? Nine?"
She gripped the glass, knuckles whitening. "Something like that. Last I saw you, you were still dodging shadows in Prague. Or was it Berlin?"
"Prague." He lifted his drink, the liquid catching the dim light. "Botched that one proper. Knee's never forgiven me."
She noticed the limp then, the way he favored his right leg, shifting weight like an old habit. Time had carved him differently—sharper edges softened by age, but that quiet authority lingered, coiled tight beneath the surface.
"You own this place?" She glanced around, taking in the green neon sign's faint hum through the window, the hidden bookshelf in the corner that probably concealed more than books.
"Bought it after I cashed out. Retirement gift to myself." He clinked his glass against hers. "What about you? Last I heard, you were buried in law books at Cardiff, set to follow in Brendan's footsteps ."
Her father. The mention stung, pulling at threads she'd long tried to sever. She downed half her whiskey, the burn steadying her. "Plans change. Evan... well, you remember him."
Silas's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching beneath the beard. "I remember warning you about that prick. Told you he had the eyes of a man who'd break more than promises."
"You did." She traced the crescent scar on her left wrist, the pale curve a reminder of a different fracture—a childhood fall from a tree in her mother's garden. This hurt ran deeper. "I didn't listen. Thought I knew better."
He refilled her glass without asking, the bottle thudding against the counter. "And now? Delivery gigs in London? That's a far cry from barrister robes."
"Yu-Fei's place. Golden Empress. Pays the rent." She forced a laugh, bitter and short. "Got a flat upstairs, actually. Above this very bar. Small world."
His eyebrows shot up. "You're kidding. I've got tenants up there—wait, the one who blasts that godawful indie rock at midnight?"
"Guilty." She smirked, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Eva dragged me here after everything blew up. Said London would swallow my past whole."
"Eva always had a knack for trouble." Silas leaned in, voice dropping . "But you? Rory, you were the sharp one. Quick thinker, always three steps ahead. What happened?"
The name—Rory—hit like a forgotten melody. No one called her that anymore, not since Cardiff. She swirled the whiskey, watching eddies form and vanish. "Evan happened. Beat the ambition right out of me. Literally. Broke my arm once, said it was an accident. I believed him until I couldn't anymore."
Silas's fist clenched around his glass, the signet ring digging into his skin. "Bastard. If I'd known—"
"You were gone. Off saving the world, or whatever MI6 calls it." Her tone sharpened, old resentment bubbling up. "Disappeared after that one visit to Dad's office. What was it, some favor for a case? You patched up that knee of yours in our guest room, told stories that kept me up nights dreaming of adventure."
He rubbed his leg, the limp more pronounced as he paced behind the bar. "That was the point. Keep you dreaming, not diving in. World chews up people like you."
"Like me?" She set her glass down hard. "Or like the girl I was? Bright-eyed, full of out-of-the-box schemes. Now I'm just... surviving."
The bar emptied slowly around them, patrons filtering out into the rain-slicked night. A photograph on the wall caught her eye—a black-and-white shot of Prague's Charles Bridge, shrouded in fog. Silas followed her gaze.
"Took that before it all went south." He poured another round, slower this time. "Partner double-crossed us. Knee shattered in the getaway. Woke up in a hospital bed, wondering if it'd been worth it."
"Was it?" She met his eyes, searching for the man who'd once taught her how to pick a lock with a bobby pin, just for laughs.
He hesitated, the hazel depths clouding. "Some days, no. Left too many loose ends. People I should've checked on."
Like her. The unspoken words hung between them, thick as the bar's haze. She remembered the letters she'd written after he vanished—updates on university, silly anecdotes about her mother's latest classroom drama. They'd gone unanswered, lost in whatever shadows he chased.
"You changed," she said finally, voice low . "Not just the hair or the limp. You're... quieter. Like you've swallowed all that fire."
"And you?" He countered, stepping around the counter with a wince. "That spark in your eyes—it's dimmed. Used to light up a room with your ideas. Now you look like you're carrying the weight of ten lifetimes."
She stood, closing the distance. At 5'6", she had to tilt her head to meet his gaze, the 6'1" frame still imposing despite the years. "Time does that. Regrets pile up."
"What regrets?" His hand hovered near her shoulder, then dropped.
"Not leaving sooner. Not fighting back." She touched the scar again, fingers lingering. "Letting Evan twist me into someone small. And you—disappearing like that. Thought we were friends."
"We were." He turned away, busying himself with a rag, wiping down the counter in brisk strokes. "Are. But after Prague, I couldn't drag anyone else into my mess. Retired here, built this network. The Nest—it's a front, you know. Contacts come and go through that back room."
She glanced at the bookshelf, the secret room's outline faint in the dim light. "Spymaster Silas. Figures you'd turn a bar into a lair."
He chuckled, but it rang hollow. "Keeps me sharp. But seeing you... Christ, Rory. If I'd reached out—"
"Don't." She cut him off, grabbing his arm. The fabric of his shirt felt worn under her fingers. "We both made choices. Mine landed me here, delivering dumplings by day, crashing above a bar I didn't know was yours."
"Fate's got a twisted sense of humor." He covered her hand with his, the signet ring cool against her skin. "Stay for another? Catch up properly?"
She pulled back, but nodded. The rain outside hammered harder, drumming a rhythm that echoed their pulse . They settled into a booth, the leather creaking under their weight . Silas slid a fresh bottle between them, the clink of glasses a fragile bridge over the chasm of years.
"Tell me about London," he prompted, pouring. "Beyond the deliveries. Any schemes brewing in that head of yours?"
She sipped, the warmth spreading. "Nothing grand. Dodged a few close calls with shady customers. Once delivered to a guy who looked like he'd stepped out of one of your old stories—tattoos, whispers about underground deals."
His eyes sharpened. "Details?"
"Nothing actionable." She leaned back, crossing her arms. "But it reminded me of you. The thrill of it. Made me wonder what if I'd chased that instead of law."
"You could've." Regret laced his words, unspoken apologies woven in. "I saw it in you back then. Quick mind, cooler under pressure than most agents I trained."
"Then why vanish?" The question burst out, raw . "One day you're there, patching up in our house, teaching me surveillance tricks over tea. Next, radio silence ."
He stared into his glass, the auburn hair catching lamplight. "Feared I'd taint you. My world's poison, Rory. Saw too many bright ones snuffed out. Your dad begged me to steer you clear—said you were meant for courtrooms, not shadows."
"Dad." She scoffed, the sound sharp. "Always plotting my path. But you listened to him over me?"
"Not just him." Silas set his glass down, meeting her gaze. "After Prague, I limped home broken. Couldn't risk pulling you down with me."
She reached across, tracing the lines on his hand—the scars of a life lived hard. "And now? We're both here, limping in our own ways."
He turned his palm up, clasping hers. "Now we fix what we can."
The conversation shifted, weaving through memories. She recounted fleeing Cardiff, Eva's frantic calls pulling her to London. He shared fragments of operations, sanitized versions that still carried the sting of loss. Laughter punctuated regrets—her mimicking his old accents, him recalling her childhood pranks.
But tension simmered beneath, the weight of what-ifs pressing down. Every pause held unspoken words: her regret for staying with Evan too long, his for abandoning connections. Time had reshaped them—her once-vibrant energy tempered by survival, his authority frayed by isolation.
As the bottle emptied, she glanced at the clock. Midnight loomed , the bar's shadows lengthening. "Suppose I should head up. Flat's calling."
He stood with her, the limp pulling him back a beat. "Door's always open, Rory. No more vanishing acts."
She squeezed his shoulder, the gesture bridging years. "Promise?"
"Scout's honor." His smile cracked through the beard, genuine.
Outside, the rain eased to a drizzle, but inside, the air felt heavier with revelations. They parted at the stairs, her ascending to the flat above, him retreating to the bar's depths . The green neon flickered , casting long shadows over what remained unsaid.