AI The glass slipped from her fingers before it hit the bar. Aurora barely caught it, the amber liquid sloshing over her thumb. The ice cube melted against her skin, cold and sharp.
"Didn't think I'd see you here, Laila ."
That voice. Low, rough, like gravel under a boot. She hadn’t heard it in—what? Five years? Six? The name *Laila* hit her like a punch to the sternum. No one called her that anymore. Not since she’d left Cardiff, not since she’d buried the girl who thought she could outrun her past.
Silas stood at the end of the bar, his signet ring glinting under the dim lights of The Raven’s Nest. The green neon sign outside cast a sickly glow through the window, painting his face in shades of jade and shadow. His beard was more grey now, the auburn streaks faded like old bloodstains. The limp was still there, that slight hitch in his step when he moved, as if the past refused to let him forget.
Aurora wiped her hand on her jeans, the denim rough against her palm. "Silas." His name tasted foreign on her tongue. She hadn’t said it aloud in years. Not since she’d fled London the first time, not since she’d thought she could leave all of this behind.
He didn’t smile. Just nodded, as if her presence was expected , as if she hadn’t vanished without so much as a goodbye. The bar was quiet tonight, the usual hum of conversation muted, as if the room itself held its breath. The walls, lined with yellowed maps and black-and-white photographs of places she didn’t recognise, seemed to lean in.
"You’re working for Yu-Fei now?" His voice cut through the silence , precise, like a blade sliding between ribs.
She stiffened. Of course he knew. Silas knew everything. "Part-time. Deliveries." She kept her tone light, as if it were nothing, as if she hadn’t spent the last two years pedalling through London’s rain-slicked streets, her thighs burning, her lungs screaming, just to keep the rent paid on the flat above this very bar.
"Delivery girl." He said it like it was a title, like it was something to be proud of. Or ashamed of. With Silas, it was always hard to tell. "Never took you for the type to settle for minimum wage."
Aurora’s fingers curled around the glass. The condensation beaded under her nails. "Didn’t take you for the type to settle for barkeep."
That got a reaction. A flicker in his hazel eyes, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "This isn’t settling, Rory. This is strategy." He tapped the bar with his knuckles, the sound sharp, deliberate. "You, on the other hand, look like you’re running."
She flinched. Not at the words, but at the accuracy . The way he said it, like he’d been watching her this whole time, like he’d seen the late-night rides, the way she jumped at the sound of footsteps behind her, the way she still checked the locks three times before bed. "I’m not running. I’m living."
"Living." He repeated the word like it was a joke. "Funny way to describe it." He leaned forward, the scent of aged whiskey and something darker—gun oil, maybe—wrapping around her. "You left Cardiff. Left your name. Left *him *." The last word was a bullet, fired low and deliberate.
Aurora’s breath hitched. Evan. She hadn’t heard that name in years, not aloud, not even in her own head. She’d buried it deep, under layers of new identities, new cities, new lives. But Silas had always had a way of digging up the things she wanted to forget. "That’s not my life anymore."
"Isn’t it?" He straightened, his gaze flicking to the door, then back to her. "You think a name change erases the past? You think a few hundred miles and a new haircut make you someone else?"
She wanted to snap at him , to tell him he didn’t know what he was talking about. But the words died in her throat. Because he did know. Silas had always known. That was the problem.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. The ice in her glass had melted completely now, the whiskey diluted, weak. Like her resolve .
"You look tired," he said at last, his voice softer, almost gentle. It was worse than the accusations.
Aurora laughed, a sharp, humourless sound. "Thanks. You look like hell yourself."
Silas chuckled, low and rough. "Fair." He reached beneath the bar and pulled out a fresh glass, pouring two fingers of something dark and expensive. He slid it towards her. "Drink. On the house."
She hesitated, then took it. The first sip burned all the way down, warm and bitter. It tasted like memory. "What’s the catch?"
"No catch." He wiped down the bar with a rag, his movements slow, methodical . "Just an old friend buying a drink for another."
"Old friend." The words left a bad taste in her mouth. "Is that what we are?"
Silas paused. The rag stilled in his hand. "What else would we be?"
Aurora swirled the whiskey in her glass, watching the liquid cling to the sides. "You tell me. You’re the one who taught me how to disappear."
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "And you’re the one who did it without so much as a thank you."
The words stung. She looked away, her gaze landing on the bookshelf at the far end of the bar. The one that hid the secret room. The one she’d never been allowed to enter, not even when she’d worked for him , back when she’d still believed in the idea of control, of safety. "I didn’t think you’d want a thank you."
"I wanted a lot of things." His voice was quiet now, the edge gone. "Didn’t get most of them."
The air between them was heavy, charged with all the things they weren’t saying . The regrets, the choices, the roads not taken. Aurora finished her drink in one go, the burn in her chest spreading. "What do you want now, Silas?"
He studied her for a long moment, his hazel eyes unreadable . Then, slowly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a key. It was small, silver, unremarkable. He placed it on the bar between them. "I want you to stop running."
Aurora stared at the key. It gleamed under the dim light, a tiny, taunting thing. "What’s that?"
"A way in." He tapped the bookshelf with his knuckles. "You know what’s behind there."
She did. Everyone in their line of work did. The Raven’s Nest wasn’t just a bar. It was a hub, a nexus, a place where the kind of people who operated in the shadows came to trade secrets and favours. And the room behind that bookshelf was where the real business happened. "You’re offering me a job."
"I’m offering you a chance to stop pretending." He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper . "You’re not a delivery girl, Rory. You never were."
Her pulse pounded in her ears. This was what she’d wanted, wasn’t it? A way back in. A way to be more than just a girl on a bike, more than just a survivor. But the fear coiled in her gut, cold and heavy. "What if I don’t want it?"
Silas’ expression didn’t change. "Then you walk away. Again." He pushed the key a little closer. "But we both know you won’t."
Aurora’s fingers twitched towards it. She could take it. She could walk through that door, step back into the world she’d left behind. The world where she wasn’t just Aurora Carter, where she was *Malphora *, the ghost, the girl who could slip through the cracks and come out the other side unscathed. But that girl had died in Cardiff. Or at least, that’s what she’d told herself.
The door to the bar creaked open, letting in a gust of cold air. A group of laughter and chatter spilled in, breaking the spell. Silas didn’t look away from her, but his hand drifted towards his pocket, his body tensing slightly . Old habits.
Aurora exhaled, long and slow. "What’s the first job?"
Silas smiled. It wasn’t a kind smile. "There’s a package in the back. Needs delivering to a man in Whitechapel. Tonight."
She should’ve known. There was always a catch. "And if I say no?"
He shrugged. "Then I’ll find someone else. But you won’t." He tapped the key again. "This is your shot, Rory. Take it or leave it."
The whiskey had warmed her, but the cold reality of his words sobered her quickly . She reached out, her fingers brushing the key. It was heavier than it looked. "What’s in the package?"
Silas’ smile widened, just a fraction. "That’s the beauty of it. You don’t ask."
Aurora’s grip tightened around the key. The metal bit into her palm, a sharp, grounding pain. She thought of the flat upstairs, the half-packed bags under her bed, the way she still woke up some nights gasping, convinced Evan’s hands were around her throat. She thought of the girl she’d been, the one who’d believed she could outrun her past.
And then she thought of the woman she could be.
She pocketed the key. "Give me the address."