Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQE6PAHW7KSCJT7JHKQVV1

Rain slicked the pavement of Soho, turning the neon glow of the street into a blurred watercolor of reds and dirty yellows. Inside The Raven’s Nest, however, the light was steadfast—a sickly, comforting emerald hue cast by the vintage sign hanging just above the entrance. It hummed with a low electric buzz that Aurora Carter had long ago ceased to hear. She sat at the far end of the bar, nursing a soda water and peeling the label off a damp bottle. Her shoulder-length black hair had fallen forward, curtaining her face as she counted out the night’s tips from her shift at the Golden Empress. The smell of five-spice and roasted duck still clung faintly to her waterproof jacket, a scent that usually made her hungry but tonight just felt heavy. Behind the bar, Silas Blackwood moved with the economic precision of a man who rarely wasted energy. He was polishing a highball glass, his hazel eyes flicking briefly to the door every time a shadow passed the frosted pane. He favored his left leg, a subtle, rhythmic dipping of his shoulder betraying the old knee injury that had ended a career he never spoke about. "You're brooding, Rory," Silas said. His voice was gravel over velvet, quiet enough not to disturb the two regulars murmuring in the corner booth. "I'm counting," she corrected, not looking up. "There's a difference. Brooding doesn't pay the rent." "With the face you're making, neither will that." Silas set the glass down and twisted the silver signet ring on his right hand—a nervous tic that surfaced only when the weather turned foul. "Go home upstairs. You’ve been running deliveries in this deluge for six hours." "In a minute." The heavy oak door groaned open, admitting a gust of wind and the rhythmic drum of the downpour. Aurora instinctively pulled her jacket tighter, shielding her stack of crumpled pound notes. A man stepped inside, shaking off a long, charcoal wool coat. He was tall, broad in the way that suggested gym memberships rather than manual labor, with blond hair swept back in a style that defied the humidity. He looked around the dimly lit room, his gaze skimming over the black-and-white photographs of forgotten operatives and the antique maps pinned to the walls. He looked like a tourist who had taken a wrong turn on the way to a Mayfair club. Aurora glanced up, her bright blue eyes narrowing. Her brain, trained for quick assessments, cataloged the details instantly: the bespoke fit of the suit, the leather briefcase that probably cost more than her month’s wages, the way he held himself with an assumed ownership of the space. Then he turned, and the analysis shattered. "Aurora?" The name hung in the air, foreign and sharp. Nobody called her that anymore. To Silas, to Eva, to the kitchen staff at the Golden Empress, she was Rory. Aurora was a ghost who lived in a lecture hall in Cardiff, burying her head in tort law textbooks. She didn't stand. She couldn't. Her fingers curled into a fist, the movement stretching the skin over the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. "Julian," she said. The voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Julian Banks exhaled, a sound that was half-laugh, half-sigh, and closed the distance between them. He ignored the empty stools and stood right at the edge of her personal space. "My God. It is you. I told everyone you’d gone to France. Or maybe Italy." "London," she said flatly. "Just London." "I see." He looked her over, his eyes lingering on the windbreaker, the damp hair, the pile of small change on the bar top. There was no malice in his scrutiny, which made it worse. It was pity. "May I?" He gestured to the stool beside her. "Free country." Julian sat, hitching up his trousers to preserve the crease. Silas approached, his limp barely noticeable, his expression a polite mask of indifference. "Macallan. Eighteen, if you have it," Julian ordered without looking at the barman. "We have the twelve," Silas said, his tone dry. "That will do. And..." Julian gestured vaguely at Aurora’s soda water. "Whatever she’s having. Make it a double." "She’s fine," Aurora said quickly. Silas paused, caught her eye, and gave a microscopic nod before pouring the whisky. "It’s been three years, Aurora," Julian said, turning his full attention to her. "Three years since you walked out of the library and just... vanished. Brendan was beside himself." Hearing her father’s name was like a physical blow. She could picture Brendan Carter, the imposing barrister, standing in their hallway in Cardiff, his disappointment radiating like heat. "How is the firm, Julian?" she asked, deflecting. "Thriving. Merged with Davies & Sons last autumn. I made junior partner." He took the glass Silas slid toward him, swirling the amber liquid. "We all thought you’d be the first to make partner, you know. You had the mind for it. Sharper than mine, certainly." "I didn't have the stomach for it," she murmured. "And you have the stomach for... this?" He gestured around the room. Not just at the bar, but at the entirety of her implied existence. The dimly lit dive in Soho, the smell of old beer, the wet delivery gear. "I like the hours," she lied. "And the people are more honest." Julian laughed, a rich, polished sound that didn't fit the room. "Honest. Right. Is that what you call running away?" Aurora stiffened. She remembered Julian as he used to be—nervous before exams, coffee-stained shirts, shared cigarettes in the rain outside the student union. He had been soft then. Now, he was calcified. The city and the profession had hardened him into the shape of a man who believed he understood how the world worked because he billed it by the hour. "I didn't run away," Aurora said, her voice steadying. "I left. There’s a difference." "Is there? Evan was looking for you for months." The name landed between them like shattered glass. Silas, who had been wiping down the counter a few feet away, went perfectly still. His back was to them, but Aurora knew he was listening, his posture shifting from bartender to sentry. Aurora traced the rim of her glass. "And what did you tell him?" "That we didn't know where you were. Which was true." Julian took a drink, the alcohol loosening him just enough to let the judgment seep through. "But you know, Aurora, you had a path. You had a trajectory. Your mother—Jennifer—she still asks about you when I run into her at the market. She tells people you’re doing 'consulting' in the city." "Let her tell them that," Aurora said, her throat tight. "Look at you," Julian said softly, leaning in. The scent of expensive cologne washed over her, masking the smell of the bar. "You’re delivering food. I saw the bike helmet on the seat. You were top of the class. You were brilliant. And you threw it all away because of a bad breakup?" The reduction of her trauma to a "bad breakup" made her blood run cold. It wasn't just the bruises Evan had left, or the way he’d isolated her. It was the suffocating cage of the life that Julian was now wearing like a trophy. She looked at Julian—really looked at him—and saw the dark circles under his eyes that the dim lighting couldn't hide. She saw the tremor in his hand that matched the one her father had. "I didn't throw it away," Aurora said. She picked up the small pile of pound notes and shoved them into her pocket. "I traded it in." "For what?" "For silence," she said. "For sleeping at night without checking the locks three times. For not having to argue cases I don't believe in for people I don't respect." Julian set his glass down hard. "You’re wasting your potential." "I'm using it to survive," she countered. "You think I’m failing because I’m not wearing a suit, Julian. But I look at you, and I see someone who hasn't taken a breath in three years." Julian opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. He looked at her, searching for the girl who used to panic about contract law seminars, and found a woman with eyes like tempered steel. The silence stretched, filled only by the scratching of a jazz record Silas had put on. "I have a meeting in the morning," Julian said finally, pulling a crisp twenty-pound note from a sleek leather wallet. He placed it on the bar, anchoring it with his glass. "If you ever want to... come back. To the real world. I can make some calls." He slid a business card toward her. Heavy stock, embossed lettering. Aurora looked at it, then at him. "I am in the real world, Julian. This is as real as it gets." He stood up, buttoning his coat, sealing himself back into his armor. "Good to see you, Aurora." "Bye, Julian." He walked out, the heavy door swinging shut behind him, cutting off the silhouette of his figure against the streetlights. The bar felt suddenly larger, the air easier to breathe. Silas walked over, picked up the twenty-pound note, and dropped it into the till. He then picked up the business card. He didn't ask. He just held it out to her, a question in his raised eyebrow. Aurora took the card. She ran her thumb over the raised ink, feeling the phantom weight of the life she could have had—the lofty ceilings, the billable hours, the slow, comfortable suffocation. She tore it in half, then in half again, dropping the pieces into the empty soda glass. "He tipped well, at least," Silas noted, though his eyes were warm. "He thinks he's paying for a tragedy," Aurora said, hopping off the stool. She felt light. The encounter hadn't broken her; it had just reminded her that the pieces she had reassembled were stronger than the original whole. "I'm going upstairs, Si. Lock up?" "Aye," Silas said, watching her head toward the door behind the bookshelf that led to the private stairs. "Sleep well, Rory." "I always do," she said, and for the first time in a long time, she meant it.