Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYABYTP3Y0JS32E1743PCWJ

Rory pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven's Nest, the familiar creak swallowed by the low hum of conversation and the clink of glasses. Soho's evening chill clung to her coat, but inside, the air wrapped around her like an old blanket—smoky, laced with the sharp tang of whiskey and the faint, underlying bitterness of spilled beer. The green neon sign outside had flickered like a dying firefly, but here, in the dim glow of pendant lamps, the bar felt timeless. Walls papered with faded maps of forgotten empires and sepia-toned photographs of stern-faced men in trench coats stared down at her, as if judging her return. She hadn't meant to come here. Not tonight, not after the shift that had dragged her through London's rain-slicked streets on her battered scooter, delivering greasy takeout bags to indifferent doors. Yu-Fei's Golden Empress had been slammed, and her arms ached from wrestling the helmet off in the downpour. But the flat upstairs—her flat, precarious and thin-walled—had started to feel like a cage after the day's monotony. Eva was out with her latest fling, and the silence upstairs pressed too hard. So, Rory had descended the creaky back stairs, thinking only of a pint to blunt the edges. The bar was half-full, a scattering of patrons hunched over stools: a couple of suits unwinding from the City, a lone artist sketching in the corner, and the usual cluster of locals nursing their regrets. Rory slid onto a stool at the far end, near the polished mahogany where the bartender usually poured without asking. But tonight, the stool felt different—colder, as if the wood remembered her absence. She traced the scar on her left wrist with her thumb, the small crescent a pale reminder of a fall from a swing when she was eight, back when Cardiff still felt like home. "Evening, love. What'll it be?" The voice came from behind the bar, gravelly and warm, pulling her gaze up. She froze. The man polishing a glass wasn't the young lad she'd seen last—had it been six months? A year? No, longer. This was Silas. Older, wearier, but unmistakably him. Grey streaked his auburn hair like frost on autumn leaves, and his beard matched, neatly trimmed but softer at the edges. He moved with a deliberate grace, but she caught the slight hitch in his left leg as he shifted weight—a limp she didn't remember. His hazel eyes met hers, crinkling at the corners, but there was a shadow there, something guarded. "Silas?" The name slipped out before she could catch it, her voice thinner than she'd intended. He paused, the cloth stilling in his hand. Recognition dawned slowly, like a match struck in the dark. "Rory Carter. Bloody hell. It's been... what, eight years?" She nodded, the number landing like a stone in her gut. Eight years since she'd last set foot in this place properly, since before the flat upstairs became her reluctant sanctuary. Back then, she'd been twenty, fresh from Cardiff, Eva dragging her to London on a promise of escape. Silas had been a fixture even then—Eva's uncle's old mate, or so the story went—a retired spook who'd bought the Nest after some shadowy career ended in Prague. He'd poured her first legal pint here, listened to her ramble about law school dreams she never wanted, all with that quiet authority that made you feel seen without being dissected. But life had pulled them apart. She'd tumbled into Evan, the charming bastard who'd turned possessive, and Silas... well, he'd faded into the background as she isolated. When she finally fled that mess two years ago, Eva had pointed her here again, to the flat above the bar. Silas had handed over the keys without a word, no questions, no lectures. And since then? They'd nodded in passing—him limping down the stairs, her rushing off to deliveries—but no real conversations. Not like before. She'd changed, hardened into someone who delivered egg rolls instead of arguments in court. And him? The limp, the greyer hair—he looked like time had carved deeper lines into him. "Guinness?" He set the glass down, already reaching for the tap, as if no chasm had opened between them. "Yeah. Thanks." She watched the dark foam rise, her fingers drumming the bar. The scar itched under her sleeve, a phantom twinge. "You look... good." He snorted, sliding the pint her way. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted under the light—always there, a talisman from some old life. "Liar. Age doesn't flatter a man like me." He poured himself a measure of something amber, leaning on the bar with his good leg. The limp was more pronounced up close; she imagined the knee protesting every step, a souvenir from that botched op he'd hinted at once, back when they talked like friends. She took a sip, the bitter slide grounding her. "The place hasn't changed. Still got that photo of Churchill glaring at everyone?" "Wouldn't dream of moving it." He glanced toward the wall, where the framed print hung crooked, as always. "Keeps the drunks in line." Silence stretched, broken only by the murmur of the bar. Rory studied him—the way his shoulders carried less tension now, but his eyes scanned the room instinctively, mapping exits, faces. The Spymaster, Eva called him in jest, but there was truth in it. Who he'd been: sharp, untouchable, weaving networks in shadows. Now? Barman with a bad leg, pouring pints for tourists. "You've been scarce," he said finally, voice low. "Upstairs, I mean. Thought you might've ghosted London altogether." She shrugged, but the motion felt forced. "Work. Deliveries keep me out late. And... you know how it is. Life piles up." He nodded, but his gaze lingered on her wrist, where her sleeve had ridden up just enough to show the scar. "Heard about Evan. Eva mentioned. You alright?" The question hung, simple but loaded. Rory's throat tightened. Alright? She'd rebuilt—new name in her head sometimes, Laila, like a ghost identity—but the bruises faded slower than the body ones. "Getting there. Better than before." Silas didn't push, just sipped his drink. That was him: listening more than talking, letting the weight settle. But tonight, the air between them crackled with unspoken years. She remembered the last real talk they'd had, eight years back, her spilling dreams of Pre-Law, him warning her about the world's sharper edges with stories half-told. "You'll outthink them all, Rory," he'd said, hazel eyes steady. "Just don't let it blind you." She hadn't listened. Chased the wrong stability, ended up running. And him? What regrets did a man like Silas carry? The limp spoke of one—a knee shattered in Prague, a op gone wrong that ended his field days. She'd overheard Eva once: "He lost good men that night. Blames himself." "You?" she ventured, tracing the bar's grain. "The leg... new?" His laugh was short, wry. "Worsens with the weather. But it's old news. Prague, '09. Botched extraction. My fault." He flexed the joint subtly, wincing. "Retired me to this." He gestured around the bar, maps and photos like relics of a life he couldn't quite leave. Rory leaned in, the Guinness warming her chest. "You were the best, Si. Eva always said you ran circles around MI6." "Past tense." He met her eyes, the crinkles deepening. "Now I run a bar. Spot on spies in the clientele, maybe. Keeps the mind sharp." But she saw the flicker—the man who'd traded shadows for neon, authority for aprons. Changed, yes. The grey in his hair wasn't just age; it was the weight of missions unspoken, contacts buried. Regret etched in the limp, in the way he gripped that ring like an anchor. Time pressed in, heavy as the rain outside pattering the windows. Eight years, and here they were: her, the girl who'd fled an abuser, delivering for a Chinatown spot instead of arguing cases; him, the spymaster pouring pints. Friends, once—mentor and mentee, really—but the chasm yawned with what-ifs. What if she'd stayed in touch after that first escape? What if he'd called her out sooner on Evan? What if Prague had gone right, and he was still out there, not limping behind a bar? "You ever think about going back?" she asked, voice soft. "The work. Before all this." Silas poured another round, movements precise despite the hitch. "Every day. But the Nest... it's my network now. Quieter, but it works." He paused, eyes on her. "You? Law school was your fire. Still chase it?" The question stung. She'd abandoned it, buried under fear and survival. "Maybe. Someday." Lies. The fire dimmed, replaced by quick fixes and out-of-the-box dodges to pay rent. He nodded, but the silence thickened. Outside, a cab horn blared, and inside, a patron laughed too loud. Rory felt the tension coil—the who they were versus now. She, cool-headed Rory, reduced to Rory the delivery girl, scar and all. Him, Silas the unyielding, hobbled by time. "Regret's a bastard," he said suddenly, as if reading her. "Eats at you if you let it. I let a team down in Prague. You... well, you got out." She swallowed. "Didn't get out clean. Lost years." "But you're here." His voice held that quiet authority, pulling her back. "That's something." The bar hummed on, oblivious. Rory sipped, the foam bitter on her tongue. Unspoken regrets hovered: his, for the life traded; hers, for the dreams deferred. Eight years bridged in pints and glances, the weight settling like dust on old maps. They weren't the same, but in this dim light, they were enough—two ghosts recognizing each other, time's cruel etchings and all. The evening wore on. Silas shared a story from the Nest's early days—a dodgy contact who'd mistaken the bar for a drop point, leading to a chase through Soho alleys. Rory laughed, the sound genuine, loosening the knot in her chest. She countered with a delivery mishap: a bag of dim sum spilled on a posh doorstep, her quick thinking turning disaster into a tip. "Out-of-the-box," she said, echoing his old praise. He smiled faintly, the limp forgotten as he poured. "That's you, Rory. Always was." But as the crowd thinned and the neon buzzed outside, the tension resurfaced. She glanced at the bookshelf in the corner, knowing the hidden room beyond—clandestine meetings, Eva had whispered once. Silas's real world, still lurking. "You use it much?" she nodded toward it. His eyes sharpened. "When needed. Old habits." Regret flickered again—his world pulling, but the knee holding him back. Hers, too: the law calling faintly through the delivery hum. By closing, the bar empty save for them, Rory stood, coat in hand. "Thanks for the pint. And the talk." Silas walked her to the door, limp echoing softly. "Anytime. Door's always open." She paused on the threshold, rain misting her face. Eight years, and the weight lingered, but lighter now. Unspoken, yes—but shared. As she climbed the stairs to her flat, the scar on her wrist felt less like a mark of loss, more like a line connecting back. Time had changed them, but the Nest held steady, a nest indeed for weary wings.