Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9EXSF2MDHGRJR21AZWG31

Rory shoved the door to The Raven's Nest open, the green neon sign above buzzing like a trapped wasp. Hinges creaked. Dim light spilled from sconces bolted to walls papered in faded maps—yellowed charts of forgotten coasts, crisscrossed with pencil marks—and black-and-white photographs of stern faces staring out from another era. The air hung thick with peat smoke and spilled stout, undercut by the low rumble of a jukebox crooning some half-forgotten blues riff. She scanned the room. Three punters hunched at the bar, elbows carving territory in rings of condensation. A couple in the corner nursed pints, their whispers lost in the gloom. Rory claimed a stool at the far end, leather cracked under her weight. Her delivery shift at Golden Empress had dragged—another night dodging cabs and drunks in Soho's snarl. She needed this. One gin, straight, to blunt the edges. The bartender shuffled forward, back turned at first, pouring from a tap with practiced twist. Grey-streaked auburn hair caught the light, neatly trimmed beard framing a jaw set like granite. He pivoted, glass foaming over. Hazel eyes locked on hers. Froth slopped onto the scarred oak. He froze. Silver signet ring glinted as his knuckles whitened around the pint handle. "Rory Carter." Her pulse kicked. Straight shoulder-length black hair swung as she whipped her head up. Bright blue eyes narrowed. That voice—gravel wrapped in velvet—cut through years. Silas Blackwood. Taller than memory painted him, 6'1" of quiet bulk, but the left leg dragged now, a hitch from knee to floor. No trace of the spry fixer her da had trusted back in Cardiff days. "Silas." She gripped the bar edge, crescent scar on her left wrist pulling tight. "Christ. You own this place now?" He slid the pint aside, abandoned it. Grabbed a bottle from the rail—Bombay Sapphire, her poison from uni nights. Poured neat, no ice, no tonic. Pushed it across. His limp echoed as he circled to her side of the bar, vaulted the hatch with a grunt that betrayed the old injury. "Sit proper." He pulled a stool close, straddled it. Hazel eyes bored in, tracing the lines time had etched around her mouth. "Last I heard, you were buried in law books. Pre-Law at Cardiff. Brendan boasted enough." She snatched the gin, downed half in one pull. Fire bloomed down her throat. Set the glass with a clink. "Da boasted bollocks. Dropped out. London swallowed the rest." Silas nodded once, slow. Beard twitched. "London does that. Chews up the sharp ones." His gaze flicked to her wrist, the scar. "Still got that mark from the swing-set tumble. Age eight. You screamed blue murder till Jennifer stitched it herself." Rory twisted her arm, hid the crescent under her sleeve. Heat crept up her neck. "Photographic memory now? Or you spying on us Carters all these years?" He leaned back, signet ring tapping rhythm on his knee. "Brendan called me after Prague. That botched job. Needed a solicitor who wouldn't flinch at classified shite. Your da pulled strings. Kept my arse out of Leavenworth." "Prague." She echoed the word, tasted ash. Da's late nights, hushed calls. "He never said. Just that you were 'old mates from the service days.' MI6 whispers." Silas's mouth crooked. "Old mates. Aye." He shifted, left leg protesting with a creak of joint. "Ran ops together once. Him legal cover, me the boot on ground. Then the knee went. Bullet fragment. Retired to this." Swept a hand at the maps, photos. "Front for contacts. Quieter life." She swirled the gin, ice absent, clear as truth. "Quieter. Right. You look like you swallowed a storm cloud, Si." His laugh barked short. "And you? Shoulder-length black now, not that wild bob. Blue eyes sharper. But delivery bike? Yu-Fei's Golden Empress? Spotted you zipping parcels last week." Rory's stool scraped. "Stalking now? Eva dragged me here. Flat upstairs. Needed out after Evan. Abusive prick. Law school's a ghost." "Evan." Silas spat the name. Ring tapped faster. "Brendan mentioned a boyfriend. Said you sounded hollow on calls." She slammed the glass down. Splinter of pain in her palm. "Hollow. Good word. He broke ribs once. Twice. I bolted. Eva's fault—her idea, London escape. Now I sling chow mein for Cheung. You gonna lecture?" Silas held her stare. "No lectures. Regrets enough without." He rose, limped to the bar. Fetched his own glass—whiskey, peaty, neat. Returned. Clinked hers. "To ghosts." They drank. Silence stretched, broken by jukebox static. "You changed." Rory eyed his limp, the grey invading auburn. "No more field chases. Barstool king." "Field ended in mud. Limp's souvenir." He flexed the knee, winced. "You? Cool-headed Rory. Quick thinker. Pre-Law star. Now parcels and pints." "Life pivots." She rubbed her scar again. "Da pushed law. Mum wanted teacher like her. I ran. Regret that?" His hazel eyes softened fraction. "Brendan died two years back. Heart. Never forgave himself for pushing you. Wanted you safe. Ironclad." Rory's throat closed. Gin soured. "Safe. Bollocks. Heard from Eva. Funeral skipped. Too tangled." Silas nodded. "I went. Stood back. Raised glass to Brendan. Your da saved me once in Dublin. Cover story when IRA sniffed close. Owed him." "Owed." She leaned in, voice dropping. "Why'd you vanish after Prague? Da said you cut ties. No calls, no cards." He drained whiskey. Set glass deliberate. "Cut ties to protect. Brass leaned hard post-op. Enemies lingered. Didn't want splash on Carters." "Linger." Rory's fingers drummed. "Fled Cardiff anyway. Evan accelerated it." Silas poured refills. Hands steady, ring catching light. "See the Nest much? Live above, flat shakes when bands play below." "Delivery ends late. Avoid crowds." She sipped. "Tonight? Craved quiet. Found you." He grinned faint, beard shifting. "Quiet's lie here. Back room's for deals. Bookshelf hides it." Nodded to wall of maps. "Ever need out, say word." Rory traced a map's contour— jagged Welsh coast. "Out. Like Da's deals? You two schemed plenty." "Aye. He barristered for shadows. I fetched dirt." Silas's voice roughened. "Regret losing touch. Could've warned about Evan types." "Warned." She shot back. "Twenty-five now. Learn hard." "Harder alone." He stood, limped to jukebox. Flipped coin. New track growled—raw guitar, lamenting vocals. Returned. "Dance once? Cardiff pub, you sixteen. Da dared." She barked laugh. "Da dared. You spun me clumsy. Mum snapped photos." "Clumsy now too." He offered hand. Ring cool against her palm. Rory rose. No music pulled them close—just sway in place, bar emptying. His limp brushed her step. Grey hair brushed her cheek. "Missed this." Silas murmured low. "Family you were." "Was." She pulled back. Blue eyes searched hazel. "Changed, Si. Both." He released her hand. Sagged onto stool. "Time carves. Unspoken bits fester." Rory reclaimed her seat. Gin gone. "Fester. Da's regret—pushing law. Mine—dropping it. Yours?" Silas stared at ring. Twisted it. "Prague. Lost partner. Knee price small. Didn't call Brendan after. Pride." "Pride." She echoed. "Kills quiet." Bar door swung. Last punter stumbled out. Neon buzzed approval. "Stay." Silas poured last rounds. "Talk more. Years to fill." She nodded. Wrist scar itched. Maps watched. Photographs judged. "Years." Rory clinked glass. "Start now." He leaned forward, beard silver-flecked. "Eva mentioned you settled. Flat solid?" "Solid. Rattles, but mine." She flexed fingers. "Evan's ghost gone. Mostly." "Mostly." Silas's eyes crinkled. "Tell it. Details." Rory exhaled. Dove in. "Met at uni mixer. Charming first. Fists later. Broke nose once—told coppers self-defense. Da believed. Mum fretted." Silas listened. Nodded at turns. "Brendan suspected. Phoned me vague. 'Watch daughter,' he said." "Watch." She snorted. "You in Soho?" "Network reaches." He tapped temple. "Eva filled gaps when you landed." "Eva." Rory softened. "Childhood anchor. Pushed flat here. 'Silas safe,' she swore." "Safe." Silas chuckled dark. "Safe as shadows." Jukebox whirred end. Silence pooled. "You?" She prodded. "Post-Prague. Knee mends how?" "Doesn't." He patted leg. "Physio, cane ditched pride. Bar built network. Contacts trickle—old ops, new whispers." "Whispers." Rory leaned. "Still spy?" "Retired." Ring spun. "Nest spies for me." She glanced walls. Maps hid secrets. Photos held ghosts. "Regret retirement?" Voice low. "Regret silence." Silas met eyes. "To Brendan. To you." Rory swallowed. "Mutual." Glasses emptied. Bar clock ticked past midnight. Neon flickered. "Another?" Silas rose, limp softer now, warmed. "Aye." She stayed. Conversation flowed. Cardiff tales resurfaced—Da's barrister rants, Mum's Welsh hymns. Prague shadows hinted, never full. Evan's bruises faded in retell. Time's weight settled, heavy but shared. Silas fetched crisps. "Eat. Gin hollows." She crunched salt. "Bossy." "Always." He winked. Dawn hinted outside. Words bridged years. Regrets hung, unspoken no more. Rory checked watch. "Shift soon." "Yu-Fei waits." Silas cleared glasses. "Door always." She stood. Hugged quick—his beard tickled, ring pressed back. "See you, Si." "Count it." Door swung shut. Neon buzzed on.