Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY9VJXAHTPRX0F0XAZ0PPNB

Rain pelted the cobblestones outside The Raven's Nest, turning Soho's narrow streets into slick mirrors under the streetlamps. Aurora Carter pushed through the heavy wooden door, her black hair plastered flat against her shoulders from the downpour. She shook off the worst of it, droplets scattering across the worn floorboards. The bar hummed with low chatter, glasses clinking like distant thunder. Dim lights flickered over walls lined with faded maps and black-and-white photos, the air thick with the scent of aged whiskey and polished oak. She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the cluster of regulars nursing pints. Her bright blue eyes scanned the room, not really seeing it. Exhaustion clung to her like the damp chill. The delivery shift at Golden Empress had run long, greasy takeout bags slung over her shoulder through endless traffic. Now, all she wanted was a quiet drink before climbing the stairs to that flat upstairs—courtesy of Eva's connections, or so she'd said. Rory hadn't asked questions. London was supposed to be a fresh start, away from Cardiff's ghosts. The bartender, a tall man with grey-streaked auburn hair and a neatly trimmed beard, limped over. He moved with deliberate grace, favoring his left leg, a silver signet ring glinting on his right hand as he wiped down the counter. Hazel eyes met hers, and for a split second, they narrowed. Then widened. "Rory?" His voice cut through the murmur, low and edged with disbelief. He set the rag down, leaning forward. "Aurora Carter?" She froze, glass halfway to her lips. The name hit her like a forgotten echo. Nobody called her Aurora anymore, not since... Her gaze locked on him. The limp, the beard, those eyes. Recognition slammed into her. "Silas?" She set the glass down hard, liquid sloshing over the rim. "Silas Blackwood? What the hell are you doing here?" He chuckled, but it came out rough, like gravel under boots. "I own the place. The Raven's Nest. Been mine for years." He gestured around, the green neon sign outside casting faint shadows through the window. "You look like you've seen a ghost." "I might as well have." She pushed wet strands from her face, the small crescent scar on her left wrist itching under her sleeve. "Last I heard, you were off in some Eastern European hellhole, dodging bullets for queen and country. Dad used to talk about you like you were invincible. Brendan Carter—remember him? Your old drinking buddy from the bar association days." Silas's expression tightened, a flicker crossing his features. He poured himself a measure of scotch, neat, and slid it across. "Brendan. Yeah. Hell of a barrister. How is he?" "Fine. Still arguing cases in Cardiff." She took a sip, the burn steadying her. "Mom's still teaching. They worry, you know. About me." He nodded, eyes drifting to the scar on her wrist as she rolled up her sleeve absentmindedly. "And you? Last time I saw you, you were what—fifteen? Tagging along at that summer barbecue in the hills. You had that wild energy, always climbing trees or debating politics with the adults. Brendan said you'd make a fine lawyer someday." She laughed, sharp and bitter. It echoed off the walls. "Pre-Law at Cardiff. Dropped it halfway through. Couldn't stomach the courtroom drama. Too much like home." Silas leaned on the bar, his limp more pronounced as he shifted weight. "What brought you to London, then? Delivery gigs? That's a far cry from briefs and gavels." "Evan." The name slipped out before she could cage it. She stared into her glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. "Abusive prick. Thought he owned me. Eva—remember her? Childhood friend—dragged me out here. Said I needed distance. So here I am, slinging dumplings by day, crashing in some flat above a bar by night." His jaw clenched, fingers tightening around his own glass. "Above this bar?" "Yeah. Eva set it up. Didn't mention the owner was a blast from the past." Silence stretched between them, broken only by a patron's laugh from the corner. Silas rubbed his knee, the old injury twinging in the damp air. "Life's funny that way. I retired after Prague. Botched op. Knee's never been the same. Opened this place as a... front, I guess. Keeps the contacts flowing." "You? Retired?" She eyed him, taking in the grey streaks, the quiet authority that hadn't faded. "You were the Spymaster, Silas. Dad's stories painted you as this untouchable operative, slipping through shadows like smoke. Now you're pouring pints in Soho?" He smirked, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Shadows catch up. That botch in Prague—lost a partner. Good man. I limped away, but the regrets? They stick." She traced the rim of her glass, the weight of her own escapes pressing down. "Regrets. Yeah. I regret not leaving Evan sooner. Regret letting him twist me into someone small. You know, I used to thinkQuick out-of-the-box, cool-headed Rory could handle anything. Turns out, not so much." "Don't sell yourself short." He topped off her drink without asking. "That scar on your wrist—still from that bike crash? You were twelve, stubborn as hell, insisted on riding without training wheels." She glanced at it, a faint smile tugging. "Yeah. Dad freaked out. You were there, weren't you? Visiting from whatever mission. Patched me up with that field kit of yours, told me scars build character." "They do." His voice softened, gaze distant. "But some scars run deeper. Prague left more than the limp. I pushed too hard, ignored the signs. Partner paid the price." The bar's hum faded into background noise as they talked. Rain hammered the windows, relentless. Rory shifted on her stool, the exhaustion easing into something rawer—nostalgia laced with ache. "Why'd you really open this place?" she asked, voice low. "Not just a front. You could have vanished, gone off-grid like the stories said." He swirled his scotch, ice clinking. "Vanishing sounds romantic until you're alone with the ghosts. This bar? It's a nest. Old maps on the walls remind me of paths taken, photos of faces I can't forget. And that hidden room back there—through the bookshelf—still hosts the occasional meet. Keeps the blood pumping." She raised an eyebrow. "Spymaster Silas, still in the game?" "Barely." He rubbed his beard, the silver ring catching light. "Age creeps in. You wake up one day, and the world's moved on without you. Your dad's stories? They were half-truths. I was never invincible. Just lucky. Until I wasn't." Her fingers drummed the bar, restless. "I get that. In Cardiff, I was Rory the fighter, the one with plans. Now? Laila sometimes—fake name for deliveries when I don't want traces. Malphora in my head, like some alter ego to toughen up. Pathetic, right?" "Not pathetic." He met her eyes, steady. "Survival. We all wear masks. Mine's the bar owner with a limp. Yours? Whatever gets you through." A group at the end of the bar erupted in laughter, pulling their attention. Silas waved them off with a nod, then turned back. "Tell me about Evan. What happened?" She hesitated, the words clotting in her throat. "Started small. Jealousy, control. Then fists. I stayed too long, thinking I could fix it. Dad wanted me to press charges, but I ran instead. London swallows you whole if you let it." "Swallows, or saves." He limped around the bar, pulling up a stool beside her. Close now, she smelled the faint cologne mixed with bar polish. "Brendan reached out once, years back. Asked if I'd check on you. I said I was out of the game. Regret that now." She looked at him, the years etched in his face. "You couldn't have known. We were kids then—you, the mysterious uncle figure dropping in with tales of espionage. I idolized you. Thought that's what strength looked like." "Strength?" He snorted. "Strength is walking away when it's time. I didn't. Stuck in the field too long, chasing shadows. Now look at me—hobbling behind a counter, nursing old wounds." The conversation lulled, rain easing to a drizzle outside. Rory sipped her drink, the alcohol warming the edges of old pains. "What if I'd stayed in Pre-Law? Become like Dad? Would that have changed things?" "Doubt it." His hand brushed hers accidentally as he reached for the bottle, pulling back quick. "Paths fork. Regret's the fork you didn't take. But here we are, two ghosts colliding in a bar." She nodded, eyes tracing a black-and-white photo on the wall—a younger Silas, sharp-suited, standing beside a map of Prague. "That you?" "Yeah. Pre-limp. Pre-regrets." He stared at it, voice dropping. "Partner's in the frame too, cropped out. Lost him to a double-cross. I replay it nights— what if I'd pulled him back?" "Unspoken stuff." She twisted her wrist, scar pale under the lights. "Like how I never told Dad the full story with Evan. Just fled. Regret not fighting harder, or maybe fighting at all." He poured another round, glasses clinking. "Fight's not always fists or guns. Sometimes it's showing up, like you did tonight." The door swung open, letting in a gust of wet air and a new patron. Silas glanced over, but his focus stayed on her. "Stay awhile. Flat upstairs is yours, but the bar's open late." She smiled faintly, the tension coiling between past and present. "Yeah. Catch up on lost time." Their words flowed easier now, weaving through memories. Silas recounted a stakeout in Berlin, how he'd thought of Brendan's advice during a tight spot—stay cool, think sideways. Rory shared snippets of university days, the pressure to follow family footsteps, the night she packed a bag and bolted from Evan mid-argument. "You always had that spark," he said, leaning in. "Quick thinker. Out-of-the-box. Don't lose it to regrets." "Easier said." She eyed his ring, the silver worn smooth. "That from the service?" "Family heirloom. Reminder of roots." He twisted it, gaze inward. "Lost a lot chasing the job. Relationships, normalcy. Your dad warned me once—don't let it consume you. I didn't listen." "Dad's full of warnings." She chuckled, but it faded quick. "He'd be shocked to see us here. Old friends, worlds apart." "Worlds collide." His limp dragged as he stood to serve another customer, but he paused. "Glad they did." The night deepened, bar emptying slow. Rory felt the pull of exhaustion, but the conversation anchored her—threads of who they'd been tangling with who they'd become. Silas moved behind the counter again, polishing glasses, his hazel eyes catching hers now and then. "Tell me about the hidden room," she prodded, voice teasing but curious. "Still playing spy?" He grinned, faint. "Occasional. Old habits." She leaned forward, the scar on her wrist brushing the wood. "Show me sometime?" "Maybe." His expression shifted, regret flickering. "If I hadn't retired, who knows. But here we are." They talked on, rain tapping the windows like forgotten promises.