Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQMV2A1F5SB50XC4BMZYE1

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest hummed with a low-frequency buzz that Rory felt in her teeth. It was a Tuesday, the kind of night where Soho felt less like the beating heart of London and more like a collection of damp alleyways and overpriced gin. Rory adjusted the strap of her delivery bag—empty now, smelling faintly of the Golden Empress’s star anise and fried garlic—and stepped inside. The bar was a cavern of amber light and dust motes. Silas was behind the mahogany, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the glow of the overhead pendant lamps. He didn’t look up immediately, but the rhythm of his movement changed, a subtle acknowledgement of her presence. He was polishing a highball glass with the methodical precision of a man who used to service firearms. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the light as he set the glass down. "The usual, Rory?" Silas asked, his voice a gravelly baritone that anchored the room. "Please, Silas. My knees feel like they’re made of wet cardboard tonight," she said, sliding onto a stool at the far end of the bar. Silas moved to the taps, his left leg dragging just a fraction of an inch—a ghost of Prague that never quite left him. He didn’t pity his limp, so Rory didn’t either. She watched his hands, steady and calloused. He was the most constant thing in her life lately, a quiet sentinel who asked no questions about the black-and-white photographs of forgotten sailors or the maps on the wall that dated back to the Cold War. He placed a cold pint in front of her. Rory reached for it, her left sleeve riding up just enough to reveal the small crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. She caught movement in the peripheral of her vision—a man sitting three stools down who had been staring at his own reflection in a puddle of spilled stout. He looked up when she spoke, and for a heartbeat, the air in the bar seemed to thin. "Rory?" The name didn’t sound like it belonged in London. It didn’t sound like the name she used for Yu-Fei’s delivery logs or the name on her lease upstairs. It sounded like Cardiff. It sounded like rain on a slate roof and the smell of old law books in her father’s study. Rory turned slowly. The man was in his mid-twenties, wearing a charcoal wool coat that looked expensive but lacked character. His hair was cut in a sharp, professional fade, a stark contrast to the thick, unruly curls she remembered. His face was leaner, the boyish softness of his jaw gone, replaced by the hard, weary lines of someone who spent their life under fluorescent office lights. "Caleb," she said. The word felt heavy, a stone she’d forgotten she was carrying. Caleb stood, his movements hesitant. He looked her over—her shoulder-length black hair, her practical boots, the faint scent of takeout that clung to her jacket. "I thought... I heard you’d gone to London, but Eva wouldn't say where. Christ, Rory. It’s been four years." "Five," she corrected gently. "Five since the graduation party." Silas didn't move, but his hazel eyes shifted toward Caleb, measuring the threat level or perhaps just the emotional weight of the intruder. Finding neither to be immediately dangerous, he went back to wiping the bar, though he stayed within earshot. "Five," Caleb repeated, pulling out the stool next to her. "You look... different." "I’m older, Caleb. That tends to happen when time passes." "No, I mean..." He gestured vaguely at her, at the bar, at the grit of Soho pressing against the windows. "You were going to be a barrister. Your dad had that spot lined up at the chambers in Gray’s Inn. I went there for a brief last month, actually. I asked after you. They acted like I was asking about a ghost." Rory took a long pull of her beer, letting the cold bitterness settle her nerves. "I decided against the law. Turns out, I’m better at finding my way through the city than I am through a legal brief." Caleb flinched at the dismissal. He looked down at his drink. "We all thought... we thought something had happened. When you left Cardiff without a word, when you stopped answering the phone. Evan was a mess, Rory. He looked for you for months." At the mention of the name, Rory’s fingers tightened around her glass. She felt the phantom prickle of anxiety at the base of her neck, the old instinct to check the exits. Silas slowed his cloth on the bar. He had heard the tension. "Evan was a mess because he lost his favorite audience," Rory said, her voice dropping to a cool, flat register. "Let’s not rewrite history, Caleb. You knew what it was like." Caleb had the grace to look ashamed. He traced a circle in the condensation on the bar. "I knew you fought. I didn't know it was... that bad. I just thought you were one of those couples that thrived on the drama. We were kids. We were idiots." "I wasn't a kid," Rory said. "I was twenty and I was drowning. There’s a difference." The silence that followed was filled by the low jazz playing from the speakers and the muffled sound of a taxi horn outside. Caleb looked around the Nest, his eyes landing on a map of 19th-century Istanbul pinned behind the bar. "Is this where you’ve been? Hiding in a cellar in Soho?" "I’m not hiding," Rory said, though the lie tasted like copper. "I’m living. I work. I have a flat upstairs. I’m quiet. It’s a good life." "You were the smartest person in our year," Caleb said, his voice rising with a sudden, sharp frustration. "You could have done anything. Now you’re... what? Delivering noodles? Living above a pub? Don't you regret it? Don't you miss the way things were supposed to be?" Rory looked at him—really looked at him. She saw the expensive watch, the manicured nails, and the way his eyes darted nervously, as if he were constantly checking a mental schedule. He was exactly who he was supposed to be. He was the success story their parents talked about over Sunday roast. And he looked miserable. "I miss the person I thought I’d be," Rory admitted, her voice softening. "I miss the girl who thought the world was a series of logical arguments you could win if you just cited the right precedent. But I don't miss the weight of expectations. I don't miss the fear." She leaned closer, her bright blue eyes locking onto his. "Tell me, Caleb. Do you like the law? Do you like the three-piece suits and the billable hours and the way your heart hammers when you realize you’ve traded your entire youth for a title?" Caleb didn't answer. He took a gulp of his drink, his throat bobbing. The silence was his confession. "I saw your mother," he said after a moment, his voice thick. "In the supermarket in Penarth. She looked... grey. She said she hears from you occasionally, but that you never give an address. She thinks you’re ashamed of how you left." Rory felt a sharp pang of guilt, a familiar needle in her heart. "I’m not ashamed. I’m just... I had to prune the tree so it would stop dying, Caleb. Sometimes that means cutting off the branches that look healthy, too." "I'm a branch now?" Caleb asked, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. It was a sad, fragile thing. "You’re a memory," Rory said. "A good one, mostly. But you belong to a version of me that doesn't exist anymore." Caleb stood up, buttoning his coat. The movement was stiff, formal. He looked around the bar one last time, his gaze lingering on Silas, who was now leaning against the back counter, arms crossed, watching them with the detached curiosity of an apex predator. "I have a train to catch," Caleb said. "I’m heading back to Cardiff tonight. My sister’s getting married this weekend." "Tell her I said congratulations," Rory said, knowing he wouldn't. Knowing the name 'Rory Carter' was a taboo subject in those circles now, a cautionary tale about the girl who threw it all away. Caleb hesitated. He reached out as if to touch her hand, then saw the way she didn't move, the way she remained perfectly still and contained within her own orbit. He pulled back. "I’m glad you’re alive, Rory. Truly." "I’m more than alive, Caleb," she said. "I’m here." He nodded, a sharp, jerky movement, and walked toward the door. The green neon glow swallowed him as he stepped out into the London night, the bell above the door chiming a lonely note. Rory sat still until the sound of his footsteps faded. She felt the heavy silence of the bar settle back over her, comfortable and familiar. Silas moved down the bar, picking up Caleb’s half-finished glass. "Friend of yours?" Silas asked. "An old ghost," Rory replied. She looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the rows of amber bottles. Her face was the same, but the eyes were different—sharper, less searching. "They have a habit of showing up when the weather turns," Silas said, pouring a small measure of rye whiskey into a fresh glass and pushing it toward her. "On the house." Rory took the glass. The silver ring on Silas’s hand caught the light again, a reminder of secrets kept and lives left behind. He didn't ask her why she was crying, mostly because she wasn't—not on the outside. She just leaned her head back, listened to the hum of the neon, and waited for the feeling of being hunted to pass, replaced by the quiet, cold certainty of being exactly where she had chosen to be.