AI Aurora pushed open the door to The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign flickering above her like a faulty heartbeat. Rain slicked her black hair flat against her scalp, and she shook droplets from her jacket onto the worn floorboards. The bar hummed with low chatter, glasses clinking against scarred wood. Old maps plastered the walls, their edges curling like forgotten secrets, and black-and-white photos stared out from frames, faces frozen in moments long dead.
She slid onto a stool at the far end of the counter, away from the cluster of patrons nursing pints. Her delivery shift had dragged on, parcels handed off in the downpour, and now she craved something sharp to cut through the chill . The flat upstairs waited, but emptiness echoed there too loudly tonight.
Behind the bar, a man with grey-streaked auburn hair poured a measure of whiskey into a tumbler. He moved with a deliberate grace, favoring his left leg just enough to notice. A silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he slid the glass to a customer. Aurora glanced up, then froze. Those hazel eyes, the neat beard—they yanked her back a decade.
"Silas Blackwood," she muttered, the name slipping out before she could clamp it down.
He turned, his limp more pronounced as he stepped closer. Recognition sparked in his gaze, sharp and immediate. He set down the rag he'd been wiping the counter with, his hands steady despite the years etched into his knuckles.
"Rory Carter. Or is it Aurora these days? Been a while since Cardiff."
She leaned forward, elbows on the bar, her bright blue eyes narrowing. The small crescent scar on her left wrist itched under her sleeve, a phantom from that childhood fall. "Thought you'd forgotten. Last I heard, you vanished after Prague. What, eight years? Nine?"
He poured her a gin without asking, the liquid clear and biting as he pushed it across. "Ten. And I didn't vanish. Retired. This place keeps me out of trouble." His voice carried that same quiet command, but softer now, worn at the edges like his limp.
She took a sip, the burn steadying her. "Retired. Right. Looks more like hiding. You were the one dragging me into those late-night strategy sessions back at uni, remember? Teaching me how to spot a tail, read a room. Said I had the mind for it."
A faint smile tugged at his beard. He wiped a spot on the counter that didn't need it. "You did. Still do, from what I see. Delivery girl by day, but those eyes—scanning every face that walks in. What brings you to my doorstep after all this time?"
She swirled the gin, ice clinking. "Life. Cardiff got small. Evan—remember him? Turned out to be a proper bastard. Eva convinced me to bolt to London. Funny, ending up above your bar. Fate's got a sick sense of humor."
He nodded, pouring himself a measure of the same whiskey he'd served earlier. "Evan. Yeah, I remember the warnings I gave you. Should've listened. But you always charged headfirst." His limp carried him to the stool beside her, though he didn't sit. Instead, he leaned against the bar, the weight of his knee evident in the shift of his stance.
"Charged? More like ran. You should've seen me back then, Si. Pre-law drone, parroting cases for Dad. Now? Dodging traffic on a scooter for Yu-Fei's takeout empire." She laughed, short and bitter . "You've changed too. That limp—Prague?"
He grunted, fingers tracing the rim of his glass. "Botched op. Knee took a bullet. MI6 pensioned me off, but the ghosts stick around." His hazel eyes met hers, holding a depth that hadn't been there in their university days, when he'd crash at her flat after mysterious trips, spinning tales of shadows and secrets.
She set her glass down harder than intended. "Ghosts. That's rich coming from you. You disappeared without a word. One day you're my unofficial mentor, next you're smoke. Left me wondering if you'd gotten yourself killed."
"Couldn't risk it. Contacts, loose ends. You were safer not knowing." He straightened, his signet ring catching the dim light. A patron at the other end signaled for a refill, but Silas ignored it for a moment, his focus locked on her.
"Safer? I ended up with Evan because of that void. Filled it with the wrong person." Her voice sharpened, the regret bubbling up unbidden. She rubbed her wrist, the scar a tiny anchor to simpler times.
He finally moved, limping to grab a bottle from the shelf. "Evan was your choice. But yeah, I left holes. Prague changed everything. Lost a partner there—good man, bad luck. Made me question the game."
She watched him pour, the liquid amber under the low lamps. "Question? You were the Spymaster, Si. Untouchable. Now you're slinging drinks in Soho, with maps on the walls like trophies from a life you can't let go."
He slid the fresh drink her way. "Trophies or reminders. Take your pick. This bar? It's a front, sure, but it's real enough. Network's still there, whispering through the back room." He jerked his head toward the bookshelf at the rear, its volumes hiding more than literature.
She followed his gaze, the hidden door's outline faint in the shadows. "Still playing, then. Figures. Me? I ditched the law books. Deliveries pay the rent, keep me moving. No time for regrets." But her tone betrayed her, the words hanging heavy.
He leaned in closer, his beard brushing near her ear as he lowered his voice. "Regrets find time. Like you finding me here. What really dragged you out of Cardiff? Evan hit you?"
She pulled back, her blue eyes flashing. "Once. Enough to wake me up. Eva's call came at the right moment. But you—why not reach out? I searched for you, you know. Hacked a few databases, used those tricks you taught me."
A chuckle escaped him, genuine but edged with weariness. "Hacked? Rory, you're incorrigible. I stayed dark for a reason. Old enemies don't forget."
"Enemies. Always the excuse." She drained her glass, the gin fueling the fire in her chest. Rain hammered the windows outside, a relentless drum against the bar's quiet hum. "Ten years, Si. I was twenty then, full of fire. Now? Twenty-five feels ancient. Mom's still teaching in Cardiff, Dad's buried in cases. They think I'm wasting my potential here."
He twisted his ring, the silver warm from his skin. "Potential's what you make it. I saw it in you back then—quick thinker, out-of-the-box. That hasn't changed." His limp betrayed him as he shifted weight , a wince flickering across his face.
She noticed, her expression softening just a fraction. "That knee looks like it hurts more than you let on. Retirement not treating you kind?"
"Kind enough. Bar keeps me sharp. Patrons spill more secrets than agents ever did." He glanced around, the photos on the walls seeming to watch them—faded faces from operations past, perhaps.
"Secrets. Like why you really opened this place. The Raven's Nest—poetic for a spook." She traced the grain of the wood with her finger, avoiding his eyes. "I regret not pushing harder back then. Could've joined you, learned the trade proper."
He shook his head, auburn strands catching the light. "No. That world's poison. Look at me—limping through days, chasing shadows in a back room. You dodged a bullet."
"Bullet you took." Her voice dropped, the weight pressing in . She stood, jacket still damp, and faced him fully. "Seeing you here, it's like staring at a mirror of what could've been. Time's a thief, Si."
He met her gaze, hazel eyes steady but shadowed. "Thief or teacher. Depends on the day." A customer banged a glass down, pulling his attention, but he lingered, the air thick between them.
She slipped a few notes onto the bar. "Keep the change. Maybe we grab a proper catch-up sometime. Without the bar between us."
He pocketed the money, his limp carrying him back to his duties. "Door's always open, Rory. For old times."
She turned toward the exit, the neon sign buzzing as she paused. "Old times. Yeah. They weigh more than I thought."
Outside, the rain swallowed her footsteps , but inside, Silas polished a glass, his reflection distorted in its curve. The bar carried on, maps whispering of paths not taken.
She reappeared moments later, shaking off fresh rain. "Forgot my keys upstairs. Mind if I grab them?"
He nodded, waving her through. "Help yourself. Flat's as you left it."
Up the narrow stairs, her flat greeted her with stale air and unpacked boxes. Keys jingled in her hand, but she lingered, staring at the wall shared with the bar below. Regret clawed at her, unspoken words from their talk echoing .
Back down, she bypassed the counter, heading for the bookshelf. Curiosity won. She pressed the hidden latch, the shelf swinging open to reveal the secret room—cluttered with files, a desk, maps pinned like battle plans.
Silas followed, his limp echoing in the tight space. "Snooping already? Some things don't change."
She spun, blue eyes wide. "This is your network? Christ, Si, it's like stepping into your head."
He closed the door behind them, the room muffling the bar's noise. "Head full of regrets. Sit." He gestured to a chair, easing into one opposite, knee protesting.
She perched on the edge, scanning the papers. "Regrets like Prague? Tell me what happened. Really."
He rubbed his beard, hesitating. "Partner's name was Novak. Double-crossed by a mole. I got him out, but the knee... permanent souvenir. Left the service bitter. Opened this place to stay connected, but it's a cage."
"Cage you built." Her fingers traced a map's lines, Cardiff marked in faded ink. "I regret not leaving Evan sooner. Wasted years thinking I could fix him. Like you thinking you could fix the world from shadows."
He leaned forward, signet ring tapping the desk. "World's not fixable. But people? Maybe. You showing up—stirs things. Makes me wonder about paths diverged."
"Paths." She stood, pacing the small room. "You taught me to think ahead, but I lingered in the past. Cardiff, family expectations. Now London's my escape, but it feels like running in circles."
He watched her, hazel eyes thoughtful. "Circles can break. Use that mind, Rory. Delivery work's a cover—I've seen you eyeing the patrons. Instincts sharp as ever."
She stopped, facing him. "Instincts that led me here. To you. Unspoken stuff between us—regret for not saying goodbye properly?"
"More than that." His voice roughened. "Regret for pulling you in at all. You were a kid, full of potential . I fed you scraps of my world, and look where it landed you."
"Landed me free." She crossed her arms, scar hidden under her sleeve. "Evan was my mess, not yours. But yeah, time's carved us different. You're the barman with ghosts; I'm the runner with nowhere to go."
He stood, limp pronounced in the confined space. "Nowhere? This city's full of doors. Like that one." He nodded to the shelf.
She laughed, the sound echoing off the walls. "Doors to trouble. Fitting for us."
They stepped back into the bar, the transition jarring. Patrons milled, oblivious. Silas resumed his post, pouring with practiced ease .
She lingered at the counter. "One more drink? For the road not taken."
He obliged, glasses clinking. "To roads. And the weight they carry."
She sipped, the gin smoother now. Conversation flowed easier, regrets weaving through words like threads in a worn tapestry . Time pressed on, unspoken layers peeling back with each exchange, the bar a silent witness to their fractured reunion.
Hours slipped by, the rain easing outside. Silas shared fragments of ops, Rory countered with tales of Cardiff's suffocation. Tension built in the gaps—words unsaid, years lost. His limp seemed heavier, her scar a badge of survival.
A patron left, door slamming. Silas glanced at the clock. "Closing soon. But stay. We've got catching up to do."
She nodded, settling in. "Yeah. Let's unpack some of this weight ."
Their talk stretched, revealing cracks in facades built over a decade. Regret hung thick, but so did the spark of reconnection, fragile and real in the dim light of The Raven's Nest.