Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMQY01MNZV0GY6PVGK2QXZJ

The green neon sign above the entrance buzzed with a low, insectile hum, casting a sickly emerald glow over the wet pavement of Soho. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of aged wood, polished brass, and the faint, metallic tang of rain clinging to coats. Aurora Carter sat in her usual corner booth, the one shadowed by a large-scale map of the London Underground from 1948. She traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist with her thumb, a nervous tic she had never managed to unlearn. The skin there was pale, raised slightly against the rest of her hand, a permanent reminder of a childhood accident that felt like it belonged to someone else entirely. She was off the clock. The delivery bag from the Golden Empress was stowed under the seat, smelling faintly of sesame oil and soy. At twenty-five, Rory felt older than the reflection in the darkened window suggested. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair was tucked behind her ears, exposing the sharp line of her jaw. Her eyes, bright blue and often too observant for her own good, scanned the room without really seeing it. She was waiting for no one, which was why her stomach tightened when the door opened and the bell chimed. The man who stepped out of the London drizzle shook his umbrella with a familiarity that suggested he belonged here. He wore a suit that cost more than Rory made in three months of delivery shifts. When he turned, the overhead light caught his face, and the air left Rory's lungs in a sharp hiss. It was Rhys. They had studied Pre-Law together at Cardiff University, back when she was still Brendan and Jennifer Carter's daughter, back before Evan, before the flight to London. They hadn't seen each other in three years. Rhys spotted her instantly. There was no moment of uncertainty, no squinting against the dim light. He walked over, his shoes clicking on the floorboards, and stopped at the edge of the booth. He looked exactly as he should have: successful, polished, unbroken. Rory, he said. His voice was warm, but it carried the weight of a question. Rhys, she replied. She didn't stand. Standing felt like an admission that she needed to measure herself against him, and at five foot six, she knew she would come up short. Sit. He slid into the booth opposite her. The leather creaked. Up close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the only evidence that time had passed for him too. You look well, he said. London suits you. It was a polite lie. They both knew it. Rory was wearing a black turtleneck and jeans, her delivery jacket draped over the seat beside her. She looked like someone who spent her nights navigating traffic on a moped, not someone who was destined for the barristers' chambers her father had envisioned. And you look like you're running the place, Rory said, nodding at his suit. Chambers, actually. Junior barrister. He paused, swirling the condensation on his pint glass. I heard you dropped out. I left. Right. Left. He took a sip of his beer. Your father asked about you. At the Christmas party. Last year. Rory felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach. Her father, Brendan, with his Irish brogue and rigid expectations. Her mother, Jennifer, worrying in Welsh. They thought she was still studying. They thought she was safe. I've been busy, she said. Busy enough to hide? Rhys didn't say it with malice. He said it with the gentle curiosity of someone who genuinely wanted to understand the puzzle she had become. We all heard rumors, Rory. About Evan. About why you ran. I didn't run. I relocated. Semantics. He leaned forward, his elbows on the table. You were going to be brilliant. You were the sharpest mind in our year. Now you're... here. Here was a dimly lit bar in Soho called The Raven's Nest. Here was a flat above the bar where the pipes clanked at night and the landlord watched everything with hazel eyes that missed nothing. Here was safety, bought at the price of her old life. Here is quiet, Rory said. Before Rhys could respond, a shadow fell over the table. Silas Blackwood approached from the bar, moving with the deliberate, measured pace of a man who conserves energy. He wore a crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing forearms that looked like they had seen more than just pouring drinks. There was a slight limp in his left leg, the result of an old knee injury that never quite healed right, but he carried himself with a quiet authority that made the room feel smaller. He placed a fresh glass of water in front of Rory without being asked. His silver signet ring glinted on his right hand as he set it down. His grey-streaked auburn hair was neatly trimmed, matching the beard that framed a face lined with secrets. Everything alright, Rory? Silas asked. His voice was low, a rumble that barely traveled beyond the booth. His hazel eyes flicked to Rhys, assessing, cataloging. Everything's fine, Si, Rory said. Old friend from university. Silas held Rhys's gaze for a second longer than was comfortable. It was the look of a former MI6 agent evaluating a potential threat. Then he nodded, once. Let me know if you need anything. He turned and walked back toward the bar, the limp visible only if you were looking for it. Rhys watched him go. He seems protective, Rhys noted. He's the landlord. And a friend. He looks like he's seen things. We all have, Rory said. She picked up the water glass. The condensation was cold against her palm. You didn't come here to talk about my father, Rhys. Or my career. No. He sighed, the sound heavy in the quiet space between them. I came here because I'm in London for a case. And I wanted to see if you were real. Real. The word hung in the air, mingling with the dust motes dancing in the light from the old black-and-white photographs on the walls. Photos of spies and soldiers, people who had lived lives of consequence and danger. Rory looked at her reflection in the water. She saw the bright blue eyes that had once looked at case law textbooks and now looked at street maps to find the fastest delivery route. She saw the scar on her wrist. She saw the woman who had fled an abusive ex named Evan to find sanctuary in a spymaster's bar. I'm real, she said softly. You're different. People change. Not like this. Not overnight. He reached across the table, his hand hovering over hers before pulling back. I missed you, Rory. We all did. The law firm... it wasn't the same without you challenging us. Regret is a heavy thing. It sits in the chest like a stone. Rory thought about the life she had left in Cardiff. The safety of expectation. The predictable trajectory. Then she thought about Evan's hands, the shouting, the fear that had driven her to Eva's phone call, the desperate flight to London. She thought about Silas, who had given her a roof and no questions asked. I can't go back, Rhys. I know. He finished his beer and set the glass down. I just wanted you to know that you're not forgotten. He stood up, buttoning his suit jacket. He looked like a man returning to a world of order and rules, a world Rory had voluntarily exited. He paused, looking down at her. Take care of yourself, Rory. You too, Rhys. He walked out into the night, the bell chiming again as the door closed. The green neon sign buzzed outside, casting its emerald glow over the empty booth. Rory sat alone, the silence of the bar rushing back in to fill the space he had occupied. Silas was wiping down the counter, the cloth moving in steady, rhythmic circles. He didn't look at her, but she knew he was waiting. She traced the scar on her wrist again, feeling the raised skin under her thumb. The weight of time was there, in the quiet, in the dust, in the life she had built from the ashes of the one she had lost. It was enough. It had to be.