AI Rory pushed open the heavy wooden door of The Raven's Nest, the faint chime of a bell above it cutting through the muffled hum of evening chatter. Rain slicked the streets of Soho outside, and she shook droplets from her jacket, her straight black hair clinging damply to her shoulders. She hadn't meant to come here—her flat was just upstairs, a narrow staircase away from the noise—but the delivery shift at Golden Empress had run long, and the thought of cooking alone felt like surrender . Better a quick pint in a familiar dimness than the echo of her own thoughts.
The bar smelled of aged wood and spilled ale, walls lined with yellowed maps of forgotten borders and black-and-white photographs of stern-faced men in trench coats. She scanned the room out of habit, her bright blue eyes flicking over the scattering of patrons: a couple huddled in a booth, a lone drinker nursing a whiskey at the far end. And then, behind the bar, polishing a glass with deliberate care, was Silas Blackwood.
She froze. It had been—what, eight years? More? The last time she'd seen him, he'd been striding through a crowded Cardiff pub, his auburn hair untouched by gray, his laugh cutting through the din like a blade. An old family friend, her father's colleague from some long-ago legal tangle that involved whispers of international intrigue . Brendan Carter had always spoken of Silas with a mix of admiration and caution, like handling a loaded gun. Rory had been nineteen then, all sharp edges and unearned confidence, tagging along on one of her father's trips. Silas had bought her a soda, teased her about her pre-law ambitions, and vanished into whatever shadow world he inhabited.
Now, he looked up, hazel eyes meeting hers across the scarred oak bar. A flicker of recognition , then something deeper—surprise, perhaps, or the ghost of old warmth . His grey-streaked auburn hair was pulled back neatly, his beard trimmed with the precision of a man who disliked loose ends. He set the glass down, his silver signet ring catching the low light from the pendant lamps.
"Rory?" His voice carried that same quiet authority, though softer now, edged with the years. He leaned on the bar, favoring his right leg just a touch—a limp she didn't remember.
She forced a smile, sliding onto a stool. "Silas. Bloody hell. You're the last person I expected to see pouring pints in Soho."
He chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Life's full of demotions. What'll it be? On the house, for old times."
"Guinness. Dark as my mood." She watched him pull the tap, his movements efficient , almost mechanical . The bar's dim glow highlighted the lines etched around his mouth, the subtle hunch in his shoulders. He wasn't the towering figure from her memories anymore; time had whittled him down, left him with that slight limp as he turned to fetch a fresh pint glass.
He slid the foam-capped glass toward her. "Haven't seen you since... Cardiff, was it? That godawful pub your father dragged us to. You were all fire and opinions back then. Pre-law, right? Planning to conquer the world."
She traced the small crescent scar on her left wrist with her thumb, a habit when memories pressed too close. "Yeah, well, plans change. Dropped out after a year. Too much like Da, arguing with shadows." She took a sip, the bitter stout grounding her. "What about you? Last I heard, you were... I don't know, jetting off to Prague or somewhere exotic. Spymaster Silas, my father called you."
He winced at the alias, leaning against the back counter. His signet ring tapped rhythmically against the wood, a tell she remembered from that long-ago night. "Prague was the end of it. Botched op. Knee's never been the same." He gestured vaguely to his left leg, the limp more pronounced now that she was looking for it. "Retired to this. The Raven's Nest. Keeps me out of trouble, mostly."
Rory nodded, but the words felt hollow. She glanced around the bar—the hidden bookshelf in the corner that she knew led to a secret back room, though she'd never asked about it. Rumors swirled in Soho about Silas Blackwood: ex-MI6, running a network from behind the taps. But seeing him now, the quiet authority tempered by weariness, it hit her how much he'd changed. The man who'd once spun tales of espionage over pints now wiped spills with a rag, his hazel eyes distant, like he was eavesdropping on ghosts.
"You look good, though," she said, trying for lightness . "The beard suits you. Makes you look... distinguished."
He snorted. "Distinguished is code for old. And you—Rory Carter, all grown up. What brings you to London? Last your father mentioned, you were set for the bar exam."
She stared into her glass, the foam dissolving slowly . Unspoken regret coiled in her chest, tight as a fist. Evan. The abusive ex who'd left bruises she could hide but scars that lingered. Fleeing Cardiff at Eva's urging, landing in this city of strangers. She'd found work delivering for Yu-Fei Cheung's place, the Golden Empress, pedaling through rain-slicked streets on a battered bike. And somehow, she'd ended up living above this very bar, though she hadn't known it was Silas's until now. Fate's cruel joke.
"Life happened," she said finally, her voice steady despite the knot in her throat . "Bad breakup. Needed a fresh start. Eva—remember her? Childhood mate—pushed me here. Said London swallows regrets whole."
Silas's gaze softened, and he poured himself a measure of scotch, neat. "Regrets. We've all got a cellar full." He limped around the bar, taking the stool next to her with a barely audible grunt. Up close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the way his hands—once so steady—trembled just a fraction as he lifted his glass. "I regret Prague every damn day. Lost a good man there. My fault, pushing too hard. Thought I was invincible."
She turned to him, their knees almost brushing. The bar's chatter faded to a distant murmur, the green neon sign outside casting erratic shadows through the window. "You? Invincible? Da always said you were the careful one. The spymaster who never got caught."
A bitter laugh escaped him. "Careful gets you killed slower. I walked away with this." He slapped his thigh lightly . "And a lifetime of what-ifs. What if I'd pulled back? What if I'd listened?" He met her eyes, and for a moment, the years peeled away—she saw the Silas from Cardiff, hazel eyes alight with stories. But then it was gone , replaced by this shadowed version, a man who'd traded secrets for solitude.
Rory felt the weight of her own unspoken words pressing down. "I regret not leaving sooner," she admitted, voice low . "Evan—he... it got bad. Bruises, the lot. I stayed because I thought I could fix it. Fix him." Her fingers tightened around the glass, the scar on her wrist itching like a reminder . "By the time I ran, I was a ghost of myself. Smart girl, quick thinker— that's what everyone said. But I couldn't think my way out of that."
Silas set his glass down with a soft clink. "We all have our blind spots. Mine was ambition. Yours... love, maybe? Or stubbornness, like your father." He smiled faintly, but it held no joy. "Time doesn't heal, Rory. It just layers on the scars."
She nodded, the tension between them thickening like fog. Who they'd been—her, the ambitious student; him, the untouchable operative—clashed against the reality: her scraping by on deliveries, him limping through nights in a dimly lit bar. Unspoken regrets hung in the air , heavy as the rain outside. What if she'd finished uni? What if he'd retired earlier? What if they'd crossed paths sooner, before life had carved them into these shapes?
"You own this place?" she asked, gesturing to the maps on the walls, the photographs that seemed to watch them .
"Aye. Front for... old habits." He glanced at the bookshelf, then back to her. "And you? Delivering takeout? That's not the Rory I remember."
She shrugged, but it stung. "Pays the rent. Flat above—wait, this is your building?"
His eyebrows rose. "Small world. Been letting it out through an agency. Didn't know it was you."
Laughter bubbled up, ragged and real. "Fate's a bastard. Here I am, crashing into your life again after all these years."
Silas reached over, his hand covering hers briefly, warm and steady despite the tremor. "Maybe not crashing. Maybe landing." But his eyes held that distance again, the regret pooling like spilled ink. He pulled back, standing with effort, the limp pulling him off-balance for a split second.
The bar door opened, letting in a gust of wet air and a new patron, shattering the bubble. Rory finished her pint, the bitterness lingering on her tongue. They exchanged numbers, promises to catch up properly, but as she climbed the stairs to her flat, the weight settled heavier. Time had changed them both—him into a relic of his former self, her into a woman running from shadows. Unspoken, the regrets echoed : missed chances, paths not taken, the slow erosion of who they'd meant to be.
Downstairs, Silas wiped the bar clean, his signet ring glinting under the lights. He paused at her empty glass, tracing the rim with a finger. The Nest felt emptier now, the maps on the walls mocking him with borders he'd once crossed without fear. Rory Carter, back in his orbit after all this time. A reminder of what he'd lost, and what he couldn't reclaim.
She lay on her narrow bed upstairs, staring at the ceiling cracks that mapped out like old veins. The scar on her wrist throbbed faintly, a crescent moon of memory. Silas below, her past incarnate, stirring regrets she'd buried deep. London had swallowed her, yes, but it hadn't erased the ache of what might have been. Time pressed on, relentless, leaving them both adrift in its wake.
The rain drummed steadily against the window, a rhythm of unspoken words. Rory closed her eyes, but sleep came slow, haunted by the man downstairs and the ghosts of their younger selves. Silas, in the dim bar, poured another scotch, toasting the empty stool where she'd sat. Regret wasn't a visitor; it was a permanent resident, woven into the fabric of their changed lives. And in the quiet hours, it whispered loudest.