Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9Q0JXXXC1DMHPRZW2BBNB

Aurora pushed open the heavy door to The Raven's Nest, the familiar creak swallowed by the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. The air inside wrapped around her like an old coat—smoky, laced with the tang of spilled whiskey and the faint, earthy bite of aged wood. Soho's evening crowd had trickled in, a mix of locals nursing pints and tourists snapping photos of the walls plastered with faded maps and grainy black-and-white shots of long-gone spies or poets, she could never tell which. The green neon sign outside buzzed faintly through the window, casting erratic shadows across the bar. She'd meant to slip upstairs to her flat without stopping, her delivery shift at Golden Empress having dragged into the kind of exhaustion that settled in her bones. Her black hair, straight and shoulder-length, clung damply to her neck from the drizzle outside. At five-foot-six, she wove through the patrons with the practiced ease of someone who'd learned to navigate tight spaces, her bright blue eyes scanning for an empty stool. But the bar was fuller than usual, and as she sidled up to the polished oak counter, a voice cut through the din—deep, gravelly, laced with a familiarity that made her pause. "Rory Carter. As I live and breathe." She froze, hand halfway to her pocket for her keys. The voice belonged to Silas Blackwood, but not the Silas she glimpsed in passing these last few months since Eva had shoved her into this flat above his bar. This was the Silas from before, the one who'd spun tales in her father's study back in Cardiff when she was a gangly teenager, all knees and questions. He stood behind the bar, taller than she remembered at six-foot-one, his grey-streaked auburn hair swept back, beard neatly trimmed to frame a face etched with lines that hadn't been there a decade ago. His hazel eyes fixed on her with that quiet authority, the kind that made you feel seen, whether you wanted to be or not. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the light as he polished a glass, and she noticed the slight hitch in his step as he shifted weight off his left leg—the limp she'd heard whispers about but never asked after. "Silas," she said, the name tasting foreign on her tongue after years of silence. She slid onto a stool, the leather worn smooth under her palms. "Didn't expect to see you slinging drinks tonight." He chuckled, a low rumble that vibrated through the bar top. "Always slinging something, love. What'll it be? On the house, for old times' sake." She hesitated, tracing the small crescent scar on her left wrist with her thumb—a remnant of a childhood tumble from her father's garden wall, the kind of mark that itched when old memories surfaced. Old times. God, how long had it been? Ten years? More? Her father, Brendan, the Irish barrister with his endless cases, had hosted Silas back then, a distant cousin or colleague—something vague like that. Silas had been the exciting uncle figure, fresh from some shadowy assignment, dropping hints of intrigue that made her wide-eyed dreams of law school feel dull by comparison. He'd encouraged her out-of-the-box thinking, praised her quick wit during those late-night chats while her mother, Jennifer, fussed in the kitchen with tea. Then he'd vanished into retirement, and she'd buried herself in Pre-Law at Cardiff Uni, only to unravel it all with Evan. "A pint of the usual," she said finally, voice steady despite the knot in her chest. "If you still stock that bitter I liked." He nodded, drawing it with practiced pulls, the foam cresting just right. As he set it down, his gaze lingered, appraising. "You look... different, Rory. London suits you, or is it wearing you down?" She took a sip, the bitter warmth grounding her. Different. That was one way to put it. The girl he'd known had been all fire and certainty, debating ethics with him over her father's whiskey. Now, at twenty-five, she was a ghost of that—cool-headed still, intelligent enough to dodge questions, but the out-of-the-box thinking felt rusted, bent by the weight of fleeing Cardiff, of Evan's fists and lies. Eva had dragged her here, to this flat above the Nest, promising a fresh start. But seeing Silas now, face-to-face after years of polite nods in the stairwell, it hit her: she'd been hiding from more than just her ex. "It's... complicated," she replied, meeting his eyes. "Delivery gigs pay the rent. Beats courtrooms, I suppose." He leaned on the bar, the limp making him favor his right side, and she caught the flicker of something—regret? Recognition?—in his hazel depths. "Complicated's my middle name. Used to be, anyway." He glanced around the bar, at the maps curling at the edges, the photographs of Prague alleys and Berlin bridges that hinted at his past without spelling it out. The Raven's Nest was his now, a front turned real, or so the rumors went. "Last I heard from your da, you were set for big things. Barrister like him, teacher like your mum. What happened, lass?" The question hung between them, heavy as the smoke from a nearby patron's cigarette. She swirled her pint, watching the bubbles rise and pop. What happened? Evan, for starters—the charming law student who'd turned possessive, his temper a slow poison that left bruises she hid under long sleeves. The night she'd left, blood on her lip and a bag over her shoulder, her parents' pleas echoing as she boarded the train to London. And Silas? He'd been a ghost even then, retired after that botched op in Prague she only pieced together from her father's worried mutters. Knee shattered, career ended. She'd written him once, a clumsy note after uni, but got no reply. Time had swallowed the rest. "Life," she said simply, the word a shield. "Fell in with the wrong crowd. Needed a change." Her voice cracked just a fraction, and she covered it with another sip. "You, though. The Spymaster behind a bar counter. That's a plot twist I didn't see coming." He straightened, the signet ring tapping against the wood as he set down his cloth. A ghost of a smile tugged at his beard. "Spymaster. Haven't heard that in years. Aye, Prague took its toll." He rubbed his left knee absently, the limp a silent testament. "Botched job—lost good people. Came back with this hitch and a pension that wouldn't cover the rent. Opened the Nest to keep busy. Or so I tell myself." His eyes darkened, drifting to a photo on the wall: a younger Silas, unscarred, arm around a man whose face blurred in the grainy print. "Your da tried to pull strings, get me back in the game. But some doors close for good." She followed his gaze, the photo pulling at her. Unspoken regret thickened the air, a shared undercurrent. He'd been the one to warn her, back in Cardiff, about the shadows of the world—how intelligence work chewed you up, spat you out changed. "Be careful what you chase," he'd said, hazel eyes serious over her father's scotch. She'd laughed it off then, sixteen and invincible. Now, looking at him, the grey in his hair, the authority tempered by weariness, she saw the cost. And he saw hers—the scar on her wrist a small thing compared to the invisible ones Evan had carved. "You never wrote back," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them. Regret twisted in her gut, sharp and unbidden. "After I left uni. I thought... maybe you'd understand." Silas's face softened, the lines deepening. "I got the letter, Rory. Mailed it from that dingy post office near the uni, didn't you? All fire about dropping Pre-Law, chasing something real." He paused, pouring himself a finger of whiskey, the amber liquid glinting. "I was holed up here, knee throbbing, drowning in what-ifs from Prague. Thought you'd be better off without my brand of advice. Your da said you were safe, with Eva. But I should've reached out. Time's a thief, isn't it?" She nodded, throat tight. The bar's hum faded, just them in this pocket of dim light. Time. It had stolen her certainty, left her delivering dim sum in the rain, glancing over her shoulder for shadows that weren't there. Silas, once the untouchable operative, now limped through evenings pouring pints, his network of contacts reduced to barflies with secrets. The tension coiled between them—who they'd been, vibrant and connected, versus this: two survivors nursing regrets like bad habits. "I ran," she admitted, voice low. "From Evan. He... wasn't what he seemed." The words tumbled out, concrete details she'd buried: the first slap dismissed as stress, the crescent bruise on her wrist from when he'd grabbed her during an argument—not the childhood scar, but one that faded slower. "Mum wanted me to fight it legally, like Da. But I couldn't breathe there anymore." Silas's hand stilled on the glass. "Evan. The law boy your da mentioned." His jaw tightened, the mentor in him surfacing. "You did right, getting out. World's full of men like that—hiding behind charm till they don't need it." He slid the whiskey aside, leaning closer, voice dropping. "Regret's a bastard, Rory. Keeps you up at night, replaying the ops you could've saved, the words you should've said. But it's the unspoken ones that fester." Their eyes locked, blue on hazel, and in that moment, the years bridged. She saw the Silas who'd bandaged her knee after that garden fall, laughing about scars as badges. He saw the girl who'd argued circles around him, potential untarnished. But the weight pressed down—the flat above his bar a coincidence or fate, her deliveries a detour from the path they'd both imagined. Unspoken: his failure to guide her away from Evan sooner, her silence after his retirement, assuming he didn't need her clumsy concern. "Here's to thieves and second chances," he said, raising his glass. She clinked her pint against it, the sound clear amid the bar's murmur. "To not letting them win," she replied. They talked then, the conversation unfurling like a map on the wall—slow at first, then winding through Cardiff memories, her mother's Welsh lullabies, his Prague ghosts. She confessed the flat's creaky floors keeping her awake, the thrill of outmaneuvering traffic on her scooter. He shared the hidden room behind the bookshelf, not for spies anymore but for quiet nights with jazz records. Laughter crept in, tentative, easing the tension, but the regret lingered beneath, a shadow promising more talks, more bridges. As the crowd thinned, Aurora stood, pint empty, heart fuller. "Don't be a stranger upstairs, Si," she said, using the old nickname. "Door's always open." He nodded, the limp evident as he moved to clear her glass. "Won't be, Rory. Time to steal some back." She stepped into the drizzle, the neon buzz fading behind her, but the warmth stayed—a crack in the armor, regret's weight lightened, if only for a night.