AI Aurora pushed open the door to The Raven's Nest, the familiar creak of hinges cutting through the low hum of conversation inside. Rain slicked her black hair, plastering strands to her forehead, and she shook droplets from her jacket before stepping fully into the dim light. The bar smelled of aged wood and spilled whiskey, walls lined with faded maps that curled at the edges like forgotten promises. She needed a drink, something sharp to dull the ache from another long shift dodging traffic on her battered scooter. Her flat upstairs waited, but solitude pressed too heavy tonight.
She slid onto a stool at the far end of the polished oak counter, away from the cluster of patrons nursing pints under the green neon glow filtering from the window. The bartender, a wiry man with tattoos snaking up his arms, nodded and poured her a gin without asking. Aurora traced the crescent scar on her left wrist with her thumb, a habit born from idle moments. Five years since she'd last sat here like this, back when London felt like escape rather than endurance .
Footsteps approached from the back, uneven rhythm betraying the slight hitch in the stride. Aurora glanced up, and her breath caught. Silas Blackwood emerged from the shadows behind the bar, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the lamplight, hazel eyes sharpening as they met hers. He froze mid-step, hand pausing on the edge of the counter. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted as his fingers tightened.
"Rory?" His voice carried the gravel of too many cigarettes and unspoken operations, low enough that the other patrons didn't stir.
She straightened, heart thudding against her ribs. Last time she'd seen him, she was eighteen, fresh from Cardiff with dreams of law school and a father who still believed in her potential . Silas had been the family friend, the one her dad trusted from some vague intelligence circles, the man who'd shared stories over tea in their cramped kitchen. He'd limped less then, smiled more freely. Now, lines etched his face like cracks in old leather, and his posture held a guarded stillness.
"Silas." She managed a half-smile, fingers curling around the cool glass. "Didn't expect to find you pouring drinks."
He limped closer, easing behind the counter with deliberate care, and pulled a stool out for himself. The bar's hum faded into white noise as he sat across from her, elbows planting on the wood. His beard, neatly trimmed, shadowed a jaw that clenched once, then released.
"World turns strange paths." He signaled the tattooed bartender to cover the front, then fixed his gaze on her. "You look... different. London suits you, or breaks you?"
Aurora sipped the gin, the burn steadying her pulse . Different. She caught her reflection in the polished surface behind him—eyes too bright, too watchful, the kind that scanned exits in crowded rooms. The abusive grip of Evan lingered in her flinch at raised voices, in the way she locked doors twice now. Five years ago, she'd burst into this city with Eva's encouragement, chasing freedom. Now she delivered takeout for Yu-Fei, scraping by in the flat above this very bar, the one Silas had offered without question when she showed up on his doorstep a month back, hollow-eyed and silent.
"Suits in parts. Breaks in others." She set the glass down, watching the liquid swirl. "What about you? Still playing spymaster in the shadows?"
Silas's laugh came short, a bark that didn't reach his eyes. He reached for a bottle of scotch from the shelf, pouring a measure into a tumbler with hands that bore faint scars from field work long past. The limp—he'd gotten that in Prague, he'd told her once, a story half-jest about a bad jump. But the change ran deeper. The man who'd once regaled her with tales of shadowy deals over her mother's Welsh cakes now owned this place, a front that screamed retirement but whispered unfinished business. His network, he'd hinted during that frantic phone call from her dad last month, still pulled strings. Yet isolation clung to him like the dust on those old photographs.
"Shadows got too long." He swirled the scotch, ice clinking softly . "Knee gave out for good after that last mess. Bar keeps the ghosts at bay. Or invites them in."
She leaned forward, elbows mirroring his. The counter's grain pressed into her skin, grounding her. Years ago, he'd been the uncle figure, the one who saw her quick mind and pushed her toward law, toward outsmarting the world instead of running from it. "Dad mentioned you retired. Said you looked like hell at the last family gathering he dragged you to."
Silas's gaze dropped to his ring, twisting it once. "Brendan always did exaggerate. Your father—stubborn as ever. Still fighting cases in Cardiff?"
Aurora nodded, the motion tight. Brendan Carter, with his barrister's fire, had called her last week, voice laced with that Irish lilt demanding she come home. But home meant Evan’s shadow, the bruises that faded but the fear that rooted deep. And Silas— he'd been the bridge then, the one who'd quietly advised her dad on a custody tangle when her parents fought over her future. Now, seeing him here, the weight of those years pressed in. She’d vanished into university, then London, leaving connections frayed.
"He's winning more than he loses." She paused, tracing the scar again. "Missed your stories, though. The ones about outfoxing the bad guys without a single shot."
He met her eyes, hazel depths flickering with something raw—regret, perhaps, for the paths not taken. "Stories lose their shine when they turn real. You remember that time in the kitchen, you quizzing me on codes while your mum baked? Thought you'd crack the world open."
Her throat tightened. She did remember. Shoulder-length hair in a ponytail then, no deliveries or evasive exes. Intelligent, cool-headed Rory, plotting arguments like chess moves. "I did crack it. Just not the way anyone planned."
Silas leaned back, the stool creaking under his weight . His limp caught the light as he shifted, a reminder of his own fracture. Prague had stolen more than his stride; it had hollowed that quiet authority into something watchful, weary. He'd mentored her in fragments—tips on observation, on reading lies in a glance—before she bolted for Pre-Law and he for deeper shadows. Now, the bar's hidden room, that bookshelf door she knew about from childhood visits, loomed in her mind. Still in use? Or just a relic?
"You bolted after that boy, didn't you?" His voice softened, probing without pressure. "Evan. Heard whispers from Eva. She called me when you landed here first time, scared out of your wits."
Aurora's fingers stilled on the glass. Whispers. Eva, her childhood anchor, had pulled strings to get her to London, but Silas— he'd been the safety net, offering the flat above without a word of pity. Five years she'd avoided this place, this man, burying the girl who'd trusted too easily. Changed. The word hung unspoken . She scanned rooms now, not for opportunity, but threats . Quick thinking turned to survival dodges around potholes and prying eyes.
"Whispers don't cover it." She forced a breath, meeting his stare. "He broke more than promises. I left everything—university, Dad's lectures, your cryptic advice. Thought distance would fix it."
Silas nodded slow, tumbler pausing at his lips. Ice shifted, a tiny avalanche in the quiet between them. "Distance mends bones, not the rest. Saw it in Prague. Lost a partner there—good man, sharp as you. Blame sits heavy when you can't rewrite the end."
She caught the flicker in his expression, the way his free hand flexed against the counter. Unspoken regret. For the operation? For not pulling her back sooner? The bar's patrons laughed in the background, oblivious, but tension coiled between them like smoke. Who they'd been—mentor and eager student, friends bound by her family's orbit—clashed with now. She, scarred inwardly; he, limping through a half-life.
"You could've called." Aurora's words slipped out sharper than intended. "After Eva told you. Instead, I show up months ago, half-broke, and you just hand over keys like it's nothing."
His hazel eyes narrowed , not in anger, but assessment . "Called once. You hung up. Figured space was your play." He set the tumbler down with a soft clink. "Regret that now. Should've pushed harder. Like I did with that op—knew the risks, didn't pull the team."
The air thickened, maps on the walls seeming to shift in the dim light. Aurora's pulse echoed the rain pattering against the window. Time's weight settled, years of silence revealing fractures. She'd become the runner, he the watcher from afar. Regret unspoken , yet etched in every line, every pause.
"Push now, then." She tilted her head, blue eyes locking on his. "Tell me what the Nest really hides these days. Or is that off-limits to the delivery girl upstairs?"
Silas's mouth quirked, a ghost of the old smile. He glanced toward the back, where the bookshelf waited, then back to her. "Off-limits was never our style. But change means picking battles wiser."
She held his gaze, the gin warming her veins. Battle lines blurred here, in this dimly lit haven. The conversation stretched, pulling threads of past and present, regrets hovering like the neon sign's glow outside.
Aurora shifted on the stool, the wood warm from her weight . "Wiser battles. Like what? Sticking around when everything screams run?"
He poured another measure into her glass without asking, the liquid amber under the light. "Like facing the ghosts head-on. Prague taught me that. Limped out, but didn't break full."
Her scar itched under her thumb. Evan’s ghost lingered in nightmares, but Silas's presence chipped at it. "Didn't break full," she echoed . "Poetic for a spymaster."
"Practical." He tapped the counter once, ring clicking. "You think quick, Rory. Always did. Use it to rebuild, not just evade."
The bartender returned, wiping a rag across the far end, but Silas waved him off. Conversation dipped into memory then, halting at first. She recalled his visits to Cardiff, the way he'd sneak her puzzles disguised as games, honing her mind while her parents argued law in the next room. "You made me believe I could outsmart fate," she said.
Silas's laugh returned, deeper this time. "Fate's a bastard. But you almost did. University dropout—Evan's shadow or your own fire?"
"Both." Honesty burned, but the bar's intimacy allowed it. "Dad pushed Pre-Law. I ran instead. Regret that leap sometimes."
He nodded, hazel eyes distant. "Regrets stack like files in the hidden room. Prague's on top—could've pulled strings, saved the knee, the man. Didn't. Now I pour drinks, watch the door."
She followed his glance to the entrance, green neon flickering. Watch the door. Paranoia or habit? The change in him struck harder now—authority tempered by loss, limp a badge of what he'd traded for peace. "Watch for what? Old enemies or new friends?"
"Both find their way in." He stood then, testing the knee with a subtle grimace, and limped to fetch a bowl of nuts from the shelf. Placed it between them. "You staying this time? Flat's yours, but London's no Cardiff kitchen."
Aurora crunched a nut, salt sharp on her tongue. "Staying. For now. Eva checks in, but you're the constant I forgot."
Silence fell, heavy with the unsaid. Time had reshaped them—her into a survivor, him into a sentinel . Regret wove through, not bitter, but a quiet ache . The bar pulsed around them, photographs whispering of other lives, other changes.
She leaned in again. "Tell me about Prague. Real version, not the kitchen tale."
Silas hesitated, then settled back. "Jump went wrong. Alley chase, bullet grazed the knee. Partner covered me—took the hit meant for me. Pulled out, but the weight ..."
His voice trailed, but she saw it: the unspoken burden, the mentor who'd taught her strength now revealing his cracks. Tension hummed, bridging years. "Weight I know," she murmured. "Evan's hits landed different, but the pull-back... same."
They talked on, voices low, the bar's dimness a cocoon. Revelations unfolded—her deliveries dodging old haunts, his network quietly aiding strays like her. Regret surfaced in fragments: her for lost years in law, him for the op's toll. One changed profoundly, both marked by time's inexorable carve.
Aurora glanced at the clock above the maps—late, but the night stretched. "Another round?"
Silas poured, the liquid glugging steady. "Always."