Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQEKH7S4ZWYXNXR38X1DEQ

The dregs of her ale tasted like metal and quiet regret. Rory swirled the last of it in her glass, watching the foam cling to the sides in a lacy lattice. Outside, Soho exhaled a damp November breath against the windows of The Raven's Nest, blurring the green neon sign into a hazy, absinthe-colored watercolor. The bar was her sanctuary, the one place the city’s relentless churn seemed to pause. It smelled of Silas’s pipe tobacco, spilled beer, and old paper from the maps that covered the walls, a geography of forgotten places. Silas was at the far end of the polished oak bar, his back to her. He moved with the careful economy of a man who knew his own limitations, the slight drag of his left leg a quiet testament to a life lived before this one. He polished a glass until it squeaked, his silver signet ring catching the dim light. He didn’t need to look at her to know she was there. They existed in a comfortable orbit, a silent understanding that had been her anchor for the past three years. She lived in the small flat above, insulated from the world by the low murmur of the bar and Silas’s steady presence. Rory traced the rim of her glass, the condensation cool against her fingertip. A long day of deliveries for the Golden Empress had left a familiar ache in her calves and the lingering scent of five-spice and ginger in her coat. It wasn't the life she’d planned back in Cardiff, poring over torts and case law, but it was a life. More importantly, it was *her* life, pieced together from the wreckage of another. The bell above the door chimed, a dissonant note in the bar’s low hum. Rory didn’t look up. It was early yet, the lull before the evening regulars would shuffle in to stake their claims on the worn leather stools. Footsteps, confident and crisp, echoed on the floorboards. They were the steps of someone who didn't belong here, someone not steeped in the Nest’s particular brand of weary stillness. They carried the sharp, ambitious clip of the world outside, the world she spent her days navigating on a rattling scooter. “Just a whiskey,” a voice said. “Macallan, if you have it. Neat.” The voice. It wasn't the words, but the cadence, the faint lilt of a South Wales accent ironed out but not entirely erased. It snagged on something deep inside her, a tripwire she hadn't realized was still armed. Her heart gave a hard, painful knock against her ribs. Slowly, as if moving through water, she lifted her head. He stood with his back to her, passing a credit card to Silas. He wore a dark, impeccably tailored suit, the kind that cost more than her last three months' rent. His hair was shorter than she remembered, darker, styled with a casual precision. He was broader in the shoulders, taller, it seemed. Time had sculpted him from a lanky, sharp-edged boy into a man. Silas set the glass and the whiskey bottle on the bar. The man turned, and his eyes—the same pale, forget-me-not blue—found hers. For a beat, there was only blank surprise. Then, a slow, dawning recognition that curdled the air between them. His mouth opened slightly. “Aurora?” The name felt like a stranger’s coat, heavy and ill-fitting. No one called her Aurora anymore. Not since Cardiff. “Evan,” she said. Her own voice was a rasp, tight and thin. He took a step toward her, then another, his expensive shoes silent now on the worn wood. He stopped a few feet away, a ghost in a bespoke suit. “My God. Rory Carter. What are the odds?” Her hands were cold. She curled them into fists on her lap, digging her fingernails into her palms. “The odds of running into someone from Cardiff in a city of nine million? Pretty slim.” A smile touched his lips, but it didn't reach his eyes. “You look… good. Really good.” His gaze swept over her—worn jeans, a faded band t-shirt under her leather jacket, her straight black hair tucked behind her ears. She knew what he saw. He was comparing it to the girl he’d known, the one in tweed skirts and pearl earrings, her future neatly mapped out by their parents. “So do you,” she managed. It was true, in a sterile sort of way. He looked successful. Polished. Tamed. The frenetic, volatile energy that had once vibrated under his skin seemed to have been banked, smothered under layers of wool and confidence. “What are you doing here? In London, I mean,” he asked, leaning an elbow on the bar, a casual posture that felt entirely staged. “Last I heard, you were set to make partner at your dad’s firm before you were thirty.” The old bitterness, acrid and familiar, rose in her throat. “Plans change.” “Right.” He swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Well, I ended up finishing at King’s. I’m with a firm in the City now. Corporate law. It’s a grind, but…” He shrugged, a gesture meant to convey a humble satisfaction that instead screamed of pride. Of course he was. He had taken her life, the one she’d been running from, and worn it as his own. The irony was so thick she could have choked on it. She looked down at her hands, at the faint, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist from a fall off a bicycle when she was ten. An old, clean wound. Nothing like the ones he’d left. “Good for you,” she said, the words flat. An awkward silence stretched between them, filled only by the quiet clink of glasses as Silas worked. Evan seemed to search for a new topic, a safer one. “I, uh… I heard you and Eva fell out,” he said, his voice softer. Rory’s head snapped up. “Who told you that?” “Her mum mentioned it to my mum. Small town, you know.” He took a sip of his whiskey. “I was sorry to hear it. You two were inseparable.” *Because Eva was the one who put me on a train to London with nothing but a rucksack and fifty quid she stole from her mother’s purse. Because she was the one who saw the bruises I tried to hide.* Rory looked at him, at the smooth, unlined face, and felt a surge of cold fury. He had no right to say Eva’s name. He had no right to stand in her sanctuary and pretend they were just two old friends catching up. “We grew apart,” she said, clipping the words. “Yeah, that happens.” He stared into his glass. “Listen, Rory… about back then. I was an idiot. A kid. What I did, how I was… it wasn’t right. I’ve done a lot of growing up since then.” It was the apology she had once craved, the one she’d whispered to herself in the dark. But hearing it now, from this suave stranger, it felt like nothing. It was a line in a script, a strategic move to clear his conscience. It had nothing to do with her. “We were all kids,” she said, her voice hollow. “Still. I’m sorry.” He looked at her then, a performance of earnestness in his bright blue eyes. “I truly am.” She gave a single, sharp nod, refusing to give him the absolution he was looking for. She could feel Silas’s presence nearby, a subtle shift in the room’s gravity. He wasn’t looking at them, but she knew he was listening. He was always listening. “So what is it you do now?” Evan asked, the moment of contrition apparently over. “If not law?” Rory felt a prickle of shame, followed instantly by defiance. She lifted her chin. “I’m a delivery rider.” He blinked. “Oh. For…?” “A local restaurant.” She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of a name. Let him picture her hauling lukewarm pizza around the West End. “Right. Well. It’s good to have a job that keeps you on your feet,” he said, and the condescension in his tone was like a slap. He thought he had her figured out. The promising law student who’d crashed and burned, now serving him, the successful barrister, in some cosmic irony. He was wrong. He didn't know the first thing about the steel she'd forged in herself since fleeing Cardiff. He didn't know about the peace she'd found in the anonymity of the city, the strength in self-reliance. A large, warm hand settled gently on the bar next to her elbow. “Another pale ale, Rory?” Silas’s voice was low and calm, but it cut through the tension like a knife. He looked from her to Evan, his hazel eyes missing nothing. His gaze lingered for a moment on the rigid set of her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip she had on her empty glass. Rory drew in a deep breath, the first one that seemed to reach her lungs. The familiar scent of Silas’s pipe tobacco grounded her. “Please, Si.” Evan’s smile tightened. He looked at Silas, then back at Rory, taking in the easy familiarity between them. The balance of power had shifted. This was her territory. He was the intruder. “Well,” Evan said, draining his glass and placing it on the bar with a definitive click. “I should get going. Dinner reservation.” He pulled a wallet from his jacket. “It was… it was really good to see you, Aurora.” He used her old name again, a final, petty attempt to reclaim the boy she’d known, to put her back in a box he understood. It didn't work. “Goodbye, Evan,” she said, and her voice was steady. She watched as he walked away, his straight back and expensive suit a stark contrast to the shadowy, worn comfort of the Nest. The bell chimed his exit. For a long moment, Rory stared at the door, her reflection a pale ghost in the glass. He was gone. A piece of her past had materialized out of the ether, and now it had vanished again, leaving only ripples behind. Silas placed a fresh, foaming pint in front of her. He didn't ask who the man was. He didn't ask if she was okay. He just polished the bar with a clean cloth, his presence a silent, solid wall at her back. Rory reached for the glass, her fingers trembling slightly. As she wrapped her hand around the cool pint, her thumb brushed against the raised crescent of her scar. A simple mark from a simple time. A permanent reminder that some wounds heal, and some you just learn to carry. She took a long, slow drink of her ale. It tasted like coming home.