AI Dark wood gleamed under the low lights of The Raven’s Nest. Old maps—faded admiralty charts of forgotten naval routes, schematic drawings of London’s labyrinthine sewer system—adorned the walls, interspersed with sepia-toned photographs of faces Rory couldn't place but felt she should know. The air hung thick with the scent of spilled ale and slow-burning tobacco, a permanent, comforting fug. Rory nursed a gin and tonic at a small, scarred table tucked into a corner, her black shoulder-length hair pulled back loosely , a few strands escaping to shadow her cheekbones. The small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a relic of a childhood tumble from a climbing frame, peeked from beneath the rolled sleeve of her plain grey jumper. She traced its edge with her thumb, the rough wool a familiar , grounding texture.
A familiar shuffling sound broke the low murmur of conversation from the bar's main room. It was Silas, his grey-streaked auburn hair neat above a face etched with lines that spoke of years spent watching and waiting. He navigated the tables with that characteristic, almost imperceptible drag in his left leg, a silver signet ring glinting on his right hand as he steadied himself against a chair back. He paused, his hazel eyes sweeping the room, then landed on her. A flicker of surprise , quick as a struck match, bloomed and faded on his face.
He moved towards her table, his usual quiet authority now tinged with something resembling curiosity. He didn't call out, didn't make a show. He simply arrived, filling the space beside her with a presence that felt both solid and slightly detached, like a figure in one of the old photographs on the wall. The faint scent of pipe tobacco and something sharp, like old paper, wafted from him.
"Rory," he said, his voice a low rumble that barely disturbed the air. "I didn't expect to see you sitting here. Not for a while, anyway."
She looked up, her bright blue eyes widening for a fraction of a second before settling into a more guarded expression. Her voice, when she replied, was steady, betraying none of the sudden clench in her stomach . "Silas. You're still here."
Her words hung there, a simple statement devoid of judgment, yet carrying the weight of years unspooled. Silas’s gaze lingered on her, his eyes missing little. He noted the subtle weariness around her eyes that hadn’t been there before, the less polished way she carried herself, the way her hands, though clean, looked too capable, too used to rougher work than he remembered. "Where else would I be?" he asked, a faint smile playing on his lips. "This old place is my anchor. Keeps the ship from drifting too far." He gestured to the chair opposite her. "Mind if I?"
She gave a small shake of her head. "Please."
He sat, the slight limp announcing his movement. He didn’t order a drink, not yet. He simply looked at her, a silent inventory being taken . The silence stretched, filled only by the bar’s ambient hum. Silas broke it, his tone carefully neutral, laced with an old man’s indulgence. "You look… different, Rory. Not the girl I used to see sketching in that little notebook, dreaming of distant cities."
Rory’s fingers stilled on the scar. A nervous laugh escaped her. "That feels like another lifetime, Silas." Her eyes flickered towards the door, then back. "Things change."
"They do," Silas agreed, his gaze drifting to a framed map of the London Underground. "Sometimes for the better, sometimes..." He let the sentence trail off, his eyes reflecting the dim light. "You still living above the premises?"
"Yeah," she confirmed, her voice flat . "It's… convenient." Her smile was thin. "Makes the rounds easier."
Silas’s eyebrows lifted infinitesimally. "'Rounds,' is it? Not lectures and law books, then?"
She turned her half-empty glass in her hands, the condensation leaving a damp ring on the tabletop. "Life took some unexpected detours." The crescent scar on her wrist caught his eye again. He remembered it vaguely, a story about a fall. There were always stories. "Cardiff felt a long way off. A lot can happen when you throw yourself into a new current."
"A new current," Silas echoed, his tone thoughtful . He watched her now, not as a casual acquaintance, but with the sharp, assessing gaze of his former life . He saw the way her shoulders tensed slightly when a door slammed outside, the constant subtle scan of her surroundings. It wasn't the bright-eyed curiosity of a student anymore. This was the careful alertness of someone who had learned to watch for threats. "This city," he continued, his voice dropping a little, drawing her in, "it’s a hungry place. You don't often find yourself here if you haven't been chewed up a bit, or deliberately sought out the teeth."
Rory offered a wry twist of her lips. "Maybe a bit of both." She looked past him, towards the counter where a younger bartender was wiping glasses. "I deliver food. Yu-Fei's place, down on Market Street."
Silas’s expression didn't change, but a certain stillness settled over him. He picked up his own untouched glass, twirling it slowly . "Yu-Fei. Yes, I know him. Good man. Knows how to keep his head down. Important skill." He took a slow sip of his drink, a dark amber liquid that looked potent even in the dim light. "You always had a sharp mind, Rory. The kind that could turn anything into an advantage. I remember your father speaking of your intellect."
The mention of her father brought a shadow across her face, swift and fleeting . "Dad tries. Mum too." Her voice was tight. It wasn’t regret, not entirely. More like a dull ache, a recognition of a life she had deliberately stepped away from, a good one that couldn't hold her anymore. "It’s just… London has a way of changing your perspective. Makes you see what’s real. What keeps you warm at night."
"Warmth," Silas mused, his words soft, almost to himself as he stared into his glass. "That's a commodity that's hard to come by, for some. Especially for those who carry burdens they didn't choose." He looked up, his hazel eyes meeting hers directly. There was an ancient weariness in their depths , a knowledge of costs and compromises that went far beyond the usual pains of life. "Prague taught me that much. The cost of certain kinds of knowledge. The faces you can’t forget. The price of silence ."
Rory remained quiet, absorbing his words, a strange resonance vibrating between them. She knew Silas had been in the intelligence world, had heard whispers. But he’d always maintained a careful distance, a professional facade . Now, in the dim, intimate confines of his bar, that facade seemed to be eroding, revealing something harder, more brittle beneath. She found herself leaning forward, drawn by the unguarded vulnerability in his tone. "What happened in Prague?"
Silas offered a short, sharp laugh that held no humour. He waved a dismissive hand. "Old stories. Just stories. The point is, Rory, some paths, once you choose them, they choose you back. They carve themselves into you. And the deeper they go, the harder it is to find your way out, or even to remember what you were looking for in the first place." He tapped his signet ring against the glass. "You seem to have found your own kind of path. Delivering parcels through the city's veins. It's a different kind of observation, isn't it? Seeing London from the street rather than from a map."
"It's honest work," Rory said, a defensive edge creeping into her voice . "Keeps the lights on. Keeps me… moving."
"Movement is good," Silas conceded, his gaze never wavering . "Better than stagnation. But the wrong kind of movement, the kind that just circles the drain, can be just as fatal." He pushed his glass slightly away. "This city drains folk. It takes pieces. Most times, you don’t even know they're gone until you try to stretch and find you’re missing fingers." He paused, his eyes seeming to look not at Rory, but through her, at a distant horizon . "I’ve seen too many good people become… collateral. Too many bright futures extinguished by choices made in haste, or by forces that cared nothing for the flame." He finally set his glass down with a soft thud. "That scar on your wrist. A childhood accident you said?"