Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9RH70F4JM9F3WVN7HCXNC

Rory pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign above buzzing faintly like a trapped hornet against the Soho drizzle. The air inside hit her like a sigh—stale smoke laced with whiskey and the faint metallic tang of old coins. Dim bulbs dangled from exposed wires, casting pools of amber over scarred wooden tables and walls papered in faded maps of forgotten empires, black-and-white photographs curling at the edges: grainy shots of men in trench coats, women with victory rolls, a world that had crumbled into this. She shook rain from her black hair, shoulder-length strands clinging damply to her neck, and scanned the near-empty room. A couple hunched in the corner, murmuring over gin; a lone pianist plinked melancholy keys in the back. Rory needed this—a stool, a pint, something to blunt the ache from eight hours dodging London traffic on her battered scooter, ferrying dim sum from Yu-Fei's Golden Empress. The flat upstairs waited, but so did the ghosts: Evan's last bruise fading on her ribs, the law books she'd burned in a Cardiff skip. Twenty-five felt like forty tonight. She slid onto a stool at the bar, fingers tracing the crescent scar on her left wrist, a silvery reminder of tumbling from a swing at seven. "Pint of bitter, please," she said to the bartender's back, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. The man turned, and time fractured. Silas Blackwood poured from the tap with deliberate slowness, foam cresting the glass like sea on a cliff. His hazel eyes, sharp beneath grey-streaked auburn brows, flicked up and locked on her bright blue ones. Six-foot-one, he loomed behind the counter, neatly trimmed beard framing a jaw that had hardened over decades. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted as he set the pint down. A slight hitch in his left leg as he shifted—Prague's ghost, the knee that ended field work. "Rory Carter," he said, voice low gravel, not a question. "Christ. Little Rory from Cardiff." Her breath caught, pint halfway to her lips. The face sharpened in memory: younger, clean-shaven, kneeling by her father's desk fifteen years ago, maps spread like battle plans. Brendan Carter, barrister by day, occasional informant by night—Silas had been the shadow in their parlor, trading whispers about IRA fringes while she eavesdropped from the stairs. He'd slipped her a sweet once, called her "sharp as a tack," promised to teach her locks when she was older. Then he'd vanished into MI6 murk, and her father had died in a car wreck two years later, unspoken debts buried with him. "Silas." The name tasted like rust. She hadn't known this was his place when Eva shoved the flat key into her hand last month. "The Spymaster himself, pouring pints. World really has gone topsy-turvy." He chuckled, a rumble that didn't reach his eyes, and leaned on the bar, favoring the right leg. "Retired. Mostly." His gaze traced her—shoulder-length black hair instead of the wild ponytail, the cool poise masking something frayed. The girl who'd debated him on ethics at twelve was gone; this woman carried ghosts in her posture. "What brings you to my nest? Last I heard, you were set for courts and gavels." Rory sipped, bitter foam grounding her. The scar itched under his stare. "Long story. Short version: law school's for masochists. I'm delivering takeaways now. Yu-Fei's. Keeps the lights on." She forced a grin, but it cracked. Changed significantly? She was a husk of the A-student who'd fled Evan’s fists three months back, Pre-Law dreams shattered like the mirror he'd punched. Silas polished a glass he didn't need to, ring catching light. Fifteen years carved him too: auburn hair threaded silver, beard masking jowls, limp turning swagger to measured prowl. The man who'd dismantled locks for fun now owned this dim relic, a front for strings he still pulled. "Delivery girl. You." He shook his head, hazel eyes narrowing. "Brendan'd have a fit. He bragged about you—future PM, he said." "Brendan bragged about everyone." Pain lanced, quick as her father's crash—whiskey on ice, black ice on the M4. She traced the bar's gouges, voices from the couple drifting like smoke. "What about you? Slumming it in Soho after saving the realm?" His smile faded, limp echoing as he stepped to fetch a bottle. "Prague, '09. Botched drop. Knee's the souvenir." He poured himself a finger of scotch, neat, and raised it. "To old ghosts." They clinked—her pint, his tumbler—and drank. Silence stretched, heavy as the maps overhead: Europe redrawn, borders bled. Rory watched his hand, steady despite the ring's weight. He'd been her father's friend, maybe more—whispers of ops, her da patching legal holes for Silas's web. She'd idolized them both, dreamed of joining that shadowed dance. Now? "You look different," Silas said finally, voice probing. "Harder. What happened, Rory?" She stiffened, blue eyes flashing. "Life. Evan happened. University boyfriend turned Prince Charming into Punch. Eva dragged me here." Words tumbled, unbidden—fled Cardiff, dumped Pre-Law, flat above his bar like fate's cruel joke. "Ran like hell. You know about running." Silas's jaw tightened, beard twitching. He knew running: aliases shed like skins, contacts burned. But regret coiled deeper—Brendan's file, the op that soured, pulling civilians close then ghosting. He'd promised the girl Rory once: "Stay sharp, kid. World needs thinkers like you." Now she delivered egg rolls, scarred inside and out. "Regret it?" he asked, casual as pouring. "The law? Or him?" "Both." Her voice cracked, pint sweating in her grip. "Thought I'd be someone. Now? I'm Laila on bad days, Aurora on forms. Rory nowhere." She laughed, bitter. "You? Still pulling strings from behind the bar?" He glanced at the bookshelf in the corner—false front to the hidden room, meetings with ghosts of MI6 past. "Some strings snap." Prague: partner down, knee shattered, retirement forced. Brendan's death unchecked—car crash too neat, whispers of retaliation he'd ignored. Unspoken regret burned: could've shielded the Carters better, pulled Rory into the fold instead of letting her drift. The pianist shifted to a slow jazz lament, notes curling like regret. Rory leaned in, voice low. "Remember that night? Da's study, you showing me the rabbit trick with the lockpick?" Her fingers mimed it, scar pale. Silas nodded, memory vivid: her bright blue eyes wide, Brendan's laugh booming. "You picked it faster than me. Said you'd be better." "Wasn't." She stared into her pint, foam gone flat. "Time wastes us, Si. You limp, I deliver. Friends become strangers." "Not strangers." His hand brushed hers—ring cool against her skin—then withdrew. Tension hummed, the bar's dimness amplifying it: who they'd been versus this. He regretted the silence after Brendan, the ops that isolated him. She regretted folding under Evan, torching ambitions. "Live upstairs now," she said abruptly. "Eva's doing. Didn't know it was yours till tonight." "Fate's a bastard." He poured her refill, free. "Stick around. Nest needs sharp eyes." Their eyes met—hazel assessing, blue defiant. Conversation flowed then, halting at first: her mother's Welsh lilt fading in Cardiff, his bar's underbelly of deals. Laughter cracked through—her mimicking Evan's posh rages, him recounting a Prague safehouse farce. But undercurrents pulled: her unspoken plea for purpose, his for redemption. Hours bled; the couple left, pianist packed. Rory's cheeks flushed, three pints deep. "Should go up. Rain stopped." Silas limped around the bar, held the door. "Rory—don't waste it. You're still sharp." She paused on the threshold, drizzle gleaming on cobblestones. "You too, Spymaster. Don't let the ghosts nest here." Door swung shut. Silas locked it, hazel eyes on the green neon's glow. Weight of time pressed: fifteen years, regrets unspoken—his failure to protect, hers to rise. Upstairs, her light flicked on. The bar sighed empty, maps whispering of roads not taken. But tomorrow, she'd descend. Strings might reweave. Rory climbed the narrow stairs, key rattling in the lock. Flat smelled of damp and instant noodles. She collapsed on the bed, wrist scar throbbing, Silas's face etched in mind. Changed? They both had—him bent but unbroken, her cracked but mending. Regret lingered, heavy as the pint's dregs, but for the first time in months, sleep came without Evan's shadow. Downstairs, Silas eased into the back room, bookshelf swinging silent. Files waited, but tonight, he poured another scotch. To Rory Carter. To second chances. The Raven's Nest slumbered, neon buzzing on. Time's weight eased, just a fraction, in the space between who they'd been and who they might yet be.