AI The green neon sign flickered above the door of The Raven's Nest, casting erratic shadows on the Soho pavement slick with evening drizzle. Aurora Carter pushed through the heavy oak door, the familiar creak swallowed by the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses inside. She hadn't set foot in this place in years—not since that humid summer in Cardiff when her father had dragged her to London for a weekend, insisting she meet his old colleague from the legal circuit. Brendan Carter always had a way of turning acquaintances into obligations, and Silas Blackwood had been one of those names tossed around like a half-remembered debt.
Rory shook rain from her black hair, the strands clinging to her shoulders like damp secrets. At twenty-five, she carried herself with the clipped efficiency of someone who'd learned to move light and fast—delivery bags slung over one arm, eyes scanning the room not for threats but for exits . The bar hadn't changed much: walls papered in faded maps of forgotten empires, black-and-white photos of stern-faced men in trench coats staring down from crooked frames. The air smelled of polished wood and spilled whiskey, undercut by the faint tang of cigarette smoke from the alley out back.
She slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar, away from the cluster of theater types nursing pints after a show. Her shift at Golden Empress had run late—Yu-Fei had piled on extra runs through the rain—and all she wanted was a quick gin to cut the chill before climbing the stairs to her flat above. The flat Silas had offered, sight unseen, through some mutual contact Eva had rustled up. "Trust me," Eva had said over the phone from Cardiff. "He's solid. Like family, almost."
The bartender—a wiry kid with tattoos snaking up his forearms—nodded at her order without a word. Rory traced the crescent scar on her left wrist with her thumb, a habit born from too many idle moments. Childhood accident, her mother had always called it, though Jennifer Ellis-Carter's voice had carried that edge of blame whenever the story came up. Fell off the swing set chasing shadows. Or was it running from her father's raised voice? Time blurred the edges.
Footsteps approached from the back, a slight hitch in the rhythm that made her glance up. Silas Blackwood emerged from the shadows behind the bar, wiping his hands on a rag. Taller than she remembered, his grey-streaked auburn hair cropped close, beard trimmed to a neat line that hid the lines around his mouth. Hazel eyes caught the dim light, sharpening as they landed on her. He froze mid-step, the rag dangling from his fingers.
"Aurora Carter," he said, voice low and gravelly, like stones shifting in a riverbed. No question mark, just the weight of recognition.
She straightened, the stool creaking under her. "Silas. Been a while."
He tossed the rag onto the counter and leaned against it, his right hand—adorned with that silver signet ring—flexing slightly . The limp was new, or at least more pronounced; he favored his right leg as he shifted weight . "Twelve years, give or take. You were what, thirteen? Your dad brought you round after that case in Westminster. Said you had a knack for puzzles."
Rory's fingers tightened around the glass the bartender slid her way. Gin, neat. She took a sip, the burn steadying her. "Thirteen and bored out of my skull. You showed me that trick with the locks—how to pick 'em with a paperclip. Dad nearly had a fit when he found out."
A ghost of a smile tugged at Silas's lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Brendan always did worry too much. How's he holding up? Still arguing cases in Cardiff?"
She swirled the gin, watching the liquid catch the light. "Retired last year. Mum's got him on a strict gardening schedule now. Keeps him out of trouble." The words came easy, practiced, but they tasted like ash . Trouble had a way of finding Brendan Carter, especially after she'd left home without much of a goodbye. Evan had seen to that—his fists and his promises twisting her world until London felt like the only door left unbarred .
Silas nodded, pouring himself a measure of scotch from a bottle kept under the counter. No ice, just the amber liquid glinting in the lowball glass. He raised it slightly, a silent toast, then took a slow pull. "And you? Word got to me you'd landed in town. Flat upstairs is yours if you need it—rent's fair, no questions."
Rory met his gaze, those hazel eyes probing without pushing. Changed, he had. Back then, Silas moved like a shadow—sharp, unyielding, the kind of man who could vanish into a crowd or command one without raising his voice. Now, the limp dragged at him, and the lines etched into his face spoke of nights that stretched too long. Retirement didn't suit him; it hung on him like an ill-fitted coat.
"Needed a fresh start," she said, setting the glass down with a soft clink. "Eva vouched for you. Said you were the one to call if things got... complicated."
He chuckled, a dry sound that echoed off the maps. "Eva's got a long memory. Last I heard, she was climbing the ranks at that firm in Swansea." He paused, eyes narrowing slightly . "Complicated how?"
The bar's hum filled the space between them—the laughter from a booth, the scrape of a chair. Rory glanced at the door, rain pattering against the window like impatient fingers. "Just life. You know how it goes. Boyfriends who don't know when to quit, degrees that lead nowhere. Pre-Law at Cardiff sounded good on paper, but..." She trailed off, tracing the scar again. Evan’s grip had left more than bruises; it had carved regrets into her bones.
Silas's jaw tightened, the signet ring catching the light as he gripped his glass. "Paper's full of lies. I learned that the hard way." He took another sip, eyes drifting to one of the photos on the wall—a grainy shot of Prague's Charles Bridge at dusk, figures blurred in the fog. "Ran a op there once. Thought I had it all mapped out. Turns out, maps don't account for the fog."
She followed his gaze, the photo pulling at something buried. Thirteen-year-old her had pored over those walls, imagining Silas as some kind of spy from the stories he half-told. "Knee?" she asked, nodding at his leg.
His free hand brushed his thigh absently. "Souvenir. Botched extraction. One wrong step, and the whole thing unravels." He set the glass down, the clunk deliberate. "You look different, Aurora. Stronger. But that scar—still picking at it?"
Rory's hand dropped to her lap. "Habit. Reminds me not to fall again." The gin warmed her chest, loosening the knot there. "What about you? Bar life suits the Spymaster?"
He arched a brow, the old glint surfacing. "Don't call me that. Silas Blackwood, publican. The Nest keeps me honest." But his voice carried the lie; the hidden room behind the bookshelf whispered of old habits. Contacts, whispers, deals sealed over backroom tables. Retirement was a front, same as the bar.
She leaned forward, elbows on the scarred wood. "Honest. That's rich. Last time we talked—really talked—you were knee-deep in files for Dad's firm. Said you'd show me the ropes someday, get me out of Cardiff's shadow."
Silas's expression shifted, the lines deepening. He glanced away, toward the green neon bleeding through the window. "Ropes. Yeah. Life had other plans." The scotch glass turned in his hand, ring scraping softly . "I pulled out after Prague. Knee went, trust went with it. Opened this place to... I don't know, ground myself. Your dad called once, after you started uni. Said you were brilliant, but restless. Offered to connect you with some folks in London. I should've followed up."
Regret hung there, unspoken but thick as the smoke from the alley. Rory felt it coil in her gut—the years where paths could have crossed sooner, where a word from him might have steered her clear of Evan. "Restless," she echoed . "That's one way to put it. I stuck it out, got the degree. Then things with... someone. Got bad. Eva pushed me here. Away from it all."
He nodded slowly , hazel eyes locking on hers. "Away's a start. But it follows if you let it." His voice dropped, carrying the weight of confessions half-made. "I let mine follow too long. After the injury, I thought the limp was the worst of it. Turns out, it's the what-ifs. What if I'd spotted the leak sooner? What if I'd pulled the team out clean?"
The bar seemed to shrink around them, the hum fading to a distant pulse . Rory's pulse quickened , mirroring his. "What if I'd listened to Dad? Stuck with Pre-Law, built something steady instead of running deliveries through London rain?"
Silas reached across the bar, not touching, but close enough she could see the faint tremor in his hand . "Steady's overrated. You think quick, Aurora. Always did. That scar? It's proof you survived." He straightened, the limp asserting itself as he stepped back. "But regrets—they pile up like unpaid tabs. Drink your gin. First one's on me."
She lifted the glass, the liquid trembling slightly . "To what-ifs, then. And to not letting them win."
Their glasses met with a quiet chime, the sound swallowed by the bar's murmur. Outside, the rain eased, but the air between them thickened with the years unspoken . Silas turned to serve another patron, his limp carrying him away, but Rory lingered, the scar on her wrist a quiet anchor. Time had carved them both—her sharper, him weathered—but in that moment, the bar held them steady, two old friends bridging the chasm with half-truths and heavy silences.
The conversation stretched as the night deepened, the bartender slipping away to the back, leaving them the stretch of polished oak. Silas returned, pouring refills without asking. "Tell me about this ex," he said, voice casual but eyes intent . "The one who made running seem like the smart play."
Rory hesitated, the gin blurring the edges of reluctance. "Evan. Charming at first—poet type, or so he thought. Wrote verses about my eyes, then twisted them when I pushed back." She rubbed her wrist, the crescent a map of one particularly bad night. "Broke things off, but he didn't take no for an answer. Showed up at my flat, work, everywhere. Eva found this place through a mate, said you'd know how to handle loose ends."
Silas's face hardened, the spy's mask slipping into place. "Loose ends. Handled plenty in my day." He glanced at the bookshelf in the corner, the one that swung open on hidden hinges. "You press charges?"
"Thought about it. But Pre-Law brain kicked in—evidence, witnesses, all that. Easier to vanish." She took a long sip, the burn chasing the chill . "What about you? Prague—sounds like more than a bad knee."
He exhaled, leaning on the bar, weight on his good leg. "Team insertion. Intel on a defector. Fog rolled in thick, comms glitched. One guy down, knee shredded on the escape." His fingers drummed the counter, ring tapping rhythm. "MI6 pension buys a lot of quiet, but not peace. Opened the Nest to remind myself I'm still in the game, just on my terms."
Rory studied him, the grey in his hair like frost on autumn leaves. "Your terms look lonely. No family? No one waiting upstairs?"
A shadow crossed his face. "Family's complicated. Lost my wife to cancer five years back. Kids scattered—one in Berlin, another stateside. We talk, but..." He shrugged, the motion pulling at his shoulder . "Time pulls people apart. You learn to fill the gaps."
She nodded, the parallel stinging. "Mum and Dad—they're still together, but it's not the same. I call once a week, but Cardiff feels like another life. This scar? Mum blames herself, says she should've watched closer. Dad just nods, like it's his fault for working late."
Silas poured another finger of scotch. "Blame's a thief. Steals the good memories too." His eyes met hers, steady. "You here for good, Aurora? Or just passing through?"
"Passing? Maybe at first." She smiled faintly, the first real one of the night. "But London's got hooks. And this bar—feels like coming home to a place I never knew."
He raised his glass again, the ring glinting . "To hooks, then. And to cutting the ones that drag."
The toast lingered, the bar emptying around them. Rory felt the weight lift slightly , not gone, but shared . Silas limped to the end of the counter, flipping the sign to closed, the green neon outside winking off. Upstairs waited her flat, sparse and new, but down here, in the glow of old maps and older regrets, she'd found a tether. Time had changed them—her from restless girl to guarded survivor, him from shadow operative to limping sentinel —but the unspoken bound them still, a quiet promise against the fog.