Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR1HVNR059ADFD99RCSPA5

rain lashed against the front window of The Raven’s Nest, blurring the Soho streetlights into streaks of fractured luminescence. Inside, the distinctive green neon sign above the entrance cast a sickly, aquatic glow over the empty tables near the door. It was a Tuesday, the dead hour between the after-work rush and the late-night regulars, and the bar smelled of stale hops and lemon floor polish. Aurora Carter sat on a stool at the far end of the mahogany counter, peeling a damp raincoat off her shoulders. Underneath, she wore her work shirt, the embroidered logo of the Golden Empress restaurant just visible beneath a grey hoodie. She smelled like ginger, garlic, and exhaust fumes. "Quiet night," she murmured, tracing the rim of her glass of water. Behind the bar, Silas Blackwood was drying a highball glass with the methodical precision of a man who had once disarmed explosives for a living. The silver signet ring on his right hand clicked rhythmically against the crystal. He didn't look up, but his hazel eyes flicked toward the door as a shadow passed the frosted glass. "Rain keeps the tourists away," Silas said, his voice a low rumble. "And the locals are all drowning their sorrows closer to the tube station. You done for the night, Rory?" "Last delivery was to a fourth-floor walk-up in Covent Garden. No lift, no tip," she said, though her tone lacked real complaint. It was stating a fact, the way a soldier lists inventory. "I’m done." The heavy oak door groaned inward, bringing with it a gust of wind and the frantic rhythm of the downpour. A man stepped inside, shaking a dripping umbrella. He was tall, dressed in a charcoal wool coat that probably cost more than Rory’s bicycle, with polished brogues that were currently soaking up the grimy London puddle water. Silas set the glass down. He shifted his weight, favoring his right leg to spare the left—the one with the bad knee from Prague. He watched the newcomer with a gaze that was polite but entirely predatory. The man turned, brushing wet hair from his forehead, and scanned the room. When his eyes landed on the end of the bar, he froze. Rory felt the recognition hit her like a physical blow to the chest. Her heart hammered a frantic rhythm against her ribs, but her face remained composed, a mask of cool detachment she had perfected over the last year. "Laila?" the man breathed, using the name she hadn’t heard since she crossed the Severn Bridge. Rory stiffened. She didn’t look at Silas, but she could feel the older man’s attention sharpen. She swiveled her stool slowly. "Hello, Julian." Julian numbly collapsed his umbrella and walked toward the bar, his movements hesitant, as if approaching a wild animal. He looked older than she remembered, though it had only been two years. The lines around his eyes were deeper, and he carried himself with the heavy, slumped posture of a junior associate drowning in case files. "I... I didn’t think I’d see you here," Julian said, stopping three feet away. He looked out of place among the black-and-white photographs and the peeling maps of Cold War Europe that lined Silas’s walls. "I heard you were in London. But London’s a big place." "It is," Rory said. Her voice was steady, but her thumb automatically went to her left wrist, rubbing the small crescent-shaped scar there. It was a nervous tic she thought she’d broken. "What are you drinking?" Silas asked. The interruption was smooth, cutting through the tension like a blade. Julian blinked, startled by the bartender’s presence. "Oh. Scotch. Neat. Whatever you have that’s decent." "I have decent," Silas said dryly, turning to the shelves. Julian turned back to Rory, his eyes sweeping over her. He took in the damp black hair plastered to her neck, the worn hoodie, the faint smear of bike grease on her chin. He looked for the Pre-Law student with the perfectly pressed blouses and the annotated textbooks. He found a woman who looked like she’d been in a street fight with the city and was currently holding her ground. "You look different, Laila," he said softly. "It’s Aurora now. Or Rory," she corrected him. "And yes. I suppose I do." "Your mum... Jennifer... she still asks about you at the market," Julian said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "She tells everyone you’re doing a clerkship in the City. She says you’re too verify busy to visit." Rory let out a short, hollow laugh. She picked up her water, the ice clinking. "Is that the story? A clerkship?" "I knew it wasn't true," Julian said. He took the glass Silas slid toward him, drinking half of it in one burn. "I saw Evan last month." The name sucked the air out of the room. Rory’s hand tightened around her glass until her knuckles turned the color of old parchment. "He’s making partner soon," Julian continued, seemingly oblivious to the shift in atmospheric pressure. Or maybe he wasn't. Maybe he wanted to twist the knife to see if the nerve was still live. "He told everyone you had a breakdown. Said the pressure of the exams got to you. Said you ran off to join a circus or something equally mad." "I didn't run off to join a circus, Julian," Rory said, her bright blue eyes cold. "I ran off to stay alive." Julian flinched. He looked down at his drink, swirling the amber liquid. "We all knew he was... intense. But you had a plan, Laila. You were top of the class. You had the internship at Davies & Moore lined up. You threw it all away." He gestured vaguely at her hoodie, at the bar, at the neon gloom. "For this?" "For this," she confirmed. "Is it worth it?" he asked, and there was genuine confusion in his voice. To him, success was linear. It was measured in billable hours, square footage, and the approval of men like Brendan Carter. "Delivering noodles? Living in... where are you living?" "Upstairs," she said. Julian looked at the ceiling, then back at her, his expression curdling into pity. "God, Laila. You were going to be a barrister. You were the smartest person in that lecture hall. Now you’re living above a pub in Soho." "It’s a bar," Silas interjected from the shadows of the register. His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a gavel. "And she pays her rent on time, which is more than I can say for some of the barristers who come in here." Rory offered Silas a fleeting, grateful glance. She turned back to her old friend. "I have a job, Julian. I have a flat. I have friends who don't care about my father's reputation." She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping. "And when I go home at night, the door locks from the inside. And no one has a key but me." Julian set his glass down. The pity in his eyes shifted to something unreadable—perhaps envy, perhaps discomfort. He adjusted his expensive cuffs. "It’s a waste. That’s all I’m saying. You had brilliance, Laila. You’re squandering it." "I’m using it," she said. "Just not the way you want me to. I solve problems every day. I navigate a city that tries to chew people up. I’m thinking on my feet, not quoting precedent from a hundred years ago." She thought of the logic puzzles she solved to optimize her routes, the way she read people at doorways to know if she should keep her helmet on or take it off, the keen observation she’d picked up from Silas. She wasn't arguing cases, but she was awake. She was present. "If you ever want to come back," Julian said, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a business card. "I can make some calls. Smooth things over with the faculty. Even with your dad." Rory looked at the card. It was cream-colored, heavy stock, with raised lettering. It represented safety. It represented a salary, a mortgage, Sundays in Roath Park, and a life mapped out in straight, unbroken lines. It also represented the cage. She didn't take it. "Keep it, Julian," she said gently. "I'm not lost. I don't need to be found." The silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the relentless drumming of the rain. Julian looked at her for a long moment, trying to find the girl who used to sit next to him in Constitutional Law, the girl who wore pearls and worried about grades. He couldn't find her. He realized, with a start, that she was dead. "Right," he said, clearing his throat. He put the card back in his pocket. He placed a ten-pound note on the bar. "Well. Good luck, Rory." "Take care of yourself, Julian." He buttoned his coat, popped his umbrella open before he even hit the door, and stepped back out into the night. The bell chimed, a cheerful sound that seemed at odds with the departure. Rory sat still, staring at the empty space where he had stood. The adrenaline of the encounter began to fade, leaving a dull ache in her limbs. Silas walked over, picked up Julian’s glass, and dropped it into the soapy water of the sink. He didn't ask if she was okay. He knew the question was redundant. Instead, he reached under the counter and pulled out two clean tumblers and a bottle of Irish whiskey—the good stuff he kept for himself. He poured a finger for her, and a finger for himself. "Top of the class, hm?" Silas asked, sliding the glass to her. Rory picked it up, watching the amber liquid catch the green neon light. "Ancient history, Si." "Intelligence is never history," Silas said, leaning against the back bar, his bad leg relieved of duty. "It’s just inventory. You use it where you are." Rory took a sip. The whiskey burned, a clean, sharp heat that chased away the damp chill of the rain and the cold shadow of the past. She looked around the bar—the cryptic maps, the dark wood, the sanctuary Silas had built from the wreckage of his own former life. She realized Julian was wrong. She hadn't fallen. she had climbed down from a burning building and walked away. "He looked miserable," Rory observed quietly. "Men in suits often are," Silas replied. "They confuse the cage for the castle." Rory smiled, a genuine expression that reached her bright blue eyes. She rested her chin on her hand, the scar on her wrist hidden beneath her sleeve, no longer needing to be touched. "I'm glad I wasn't home," she said. "You are home," Silas said. He picked up a rag and went back to polishing the brass rail, his movements rhythmic and sure. Rory turned on her stool to watch the rain streak against the glass, blurring the world outside into abstract art. She took another sip of whiskey, savouring the taste of smoke and survival.