Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMR5BRQR3HNP3ZM05QXC881

The green neon sign above the door buzzed with a low, electric hum, a rhythmic vibration that Aurora Carter felt in her teeth more than she heard. She sat at the far end of the mahogany bar, a tumbler of lukewarm water sweating a ring onto the coaster beneath her palm. Outside, the London rain lashed against the frosted glass, blurring the Soho streetlights into smeary watercolors. The Raven’s Nest was quiet for a Tuesday, the usual post-work crowd having thinned out an hour ago. The air smelled of stale tobacco, lemon polish, and the sharp, yeasty tang of draft lines that needed cleaning. Silas Blackwood stood behind the bar, his large hands moving with a practiced, rhythmic efficiency as he wiped down the counter. The left leg dragged slightly as he shifted his weight, the old knee injury acting up in the damp weather. He didn’t complain, just moved with that heavy, deliberate silence of his, his eyes watching the door. Rory rubbed the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, the skin there smooth and puckered against her thumb. It was a nervous habit, one she’d picked up in the months after she’d fled Cardiff. She was tired. Her shift delivering for the Golden Empress had been a marathon of wet pavement and rude customers, her trainers soaked through, her thighs aching from the stairs of tenement blocks. "Rough night?" Silas’s voice was a low rumble, like gravel shifting in a stream. "Just the usual," she said, her voice raspy. "Rain makes everyone hungry and angry." Silas grunted, placing a bowl of mixed nuts in front of her. He twisted the silver signet ring on his right hand, a reflexive tic as he glanced toward the entrance. "Company coming." The heavy oak door groaned open, letting in a gust of wind and the smell of ozone. A man shook out a black umbrella, his silhouette backlit by the streetlamps. He was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing a trench coat that looked expensive and meticulously dry-cleaned. He stepped inside, scanning the room with the ease of someone who owned every space he occupied. Rory froze. The water in her glass rippled. It was Mark. Mark Hastings. They’d sat together in Contracts and Torts for three years at Cardiff. He was the one who had teased her about her meticulous notes, the one who had asked her to be his moot court partner. He looked exactly the same. Maybe a little greyer at the temples, maybe the lines around his eyes were etched a little deeper, but he still had that polished, predatory gleam of a high-achiever. He was still on the path. Mark turned, his eyes sweeping the dim room. They landed on her, and he did a double-take. A smile broke across his face—warm, surprised, the smile of a man who hasn’t had his teeth kicked in by life. "Aurora?" he asked, crossing the room with long strides. "My God, it is you." Rory forced her muscles to unclench. She straightened her spine, the cool mask she’d perfected over the last year sliding into place. "Hello, Mark." "It’s been what, two years? Three?" He reached out, gripping her shoulder in a way that was meant to be affectionate but felt possessive. He smelled of sandalwood and expensive scotch. "You look... well." "So do you," she said. It wasn't a lie. He looked thriving. He looked like success. Silas moved down the bar, silent as a ghost, his hazel eyes fixed on Mark with a flat, assessing gaze. He didn't speak, just polished a glass, his presence a bulwark at Rory’s back. "Drink?" Mark asked, already waving a hand at Silas. "Whatever she’s having, and a Glenfiddich for me. Neat." "I’m working," Mark said, leaning an elbow on the bar. He loosened his tie, a flash of vulnerability before he caught himself. "Just secured a partnership at the firm. Clerking for the High Court next month. The usual rat race." "Congratulations," Rory said. She meant it. There was a time when that was all she wanted, too. Before the walls of her flat in Cardiff had felt too small, before Evan’s voice had become a drone in her ear that wouldn't stop. "You kept on the track." "I did." He took the glass Silas slid toward him, nodding a terse thanks to the barman. He looked at Rory, really looked at her, his gaze flicking over her plain black t-shirt, the damp hair she’d tied back in a messy bun, the delivery jacket slung over the stool next to her. The divergence in their trajectories was physical. He was wearing a suit that cost more than her rent; she was smelling faintly of garlic oil from the restaurant. "What about you?" Mark asked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "Last I heard, you’d dropped off the grid. Your dad mentioned something about London? Did you finish the LL.M?" Rory felt the familiar tightening in her chest, the phantom pressure of expectations. "No. I didn't finish." Mark frowned, his brow furrowing. "Really? That doesn't sound like you. You were the smartest one in the cohort. You had that brass-tack logic, remember? You tore apart the judge’s ruling in the Evans case." "People change." "Do they?" He chuckled, shaking his head. "You don't just... lose that kind of drive, Aurora. You don't go from being a future barrister to..." He gestured vaguely at the room, at the maps on the walls, at the sticky bar top. "Whatever this is." "I deliver food," Rory said. Her voice was sharp, cutting through his pity. "I work for a restaurant in Chinatown. I live upstairs." She hooked a thumb toward the ceiling. "It’s honest work." "I didn't mean it like that," Mark said quickly, though his tone had shifted. It was the voice people used when they realized a former classmate had crashed their car. "It’s just... we all expected you to take silk, you know? You were the one." The weight of it pressed down on her. The ghost of the girl she was supposed to be stood right next to the woman she was. The girl with the bright future, the Irish barrister father, the spotless transcript. That girl had died in a messy apartment breakup, suffocated by fear and control. "I'm not that girl anymore, Mark," she said softly. Silas shifted his weight behind the bar, the floorboards creaking under his limp. He placed a heavy coaster down on the wood, the sound sharp in the silence. "Another water?" he asked Rory, his eyes telling her he was there, he was watching, he was a wall she could hide behind. "No," Rory said, standing up. She grabbed her jacket. "I should head up. Early start tomorrow." Mark looked disappointed, and confused, as if she had ruined the script of their reunion by refusing to be a tragic figure he could rescue. "You sure? It’s good to see you. We should grab coffee properly. Catch up on the old days." "There aren't any old days to catch up on," she said. She zipped her jacket, her fingers brushing the scar on her wrist. The tiny crescent moon. "That’s a bit bleak, isn't it?" Mark laughed, trying to lighten the mood. "We had some good times." Rory looked at him. He was safe. He was boring. He was everything she had run toward, and then away from. He didn't know about the shouting matches, the police reports she never filed, the midnight train to Euston with nothing but a backpack and a broken phone. He saw the change, but he didn't know the cost. "I'm happy, Mark," she said. It wasn't a lie, not really. She was tired, and her hands smelled like ginger and soy sauce, and her knee hurt when it rained, but she was free. "I like my life." He stared at her for a long moment, trying to find the ambitious girl in her blue eyes. He couldn't find her. "Well," he said, finishing his drink in one burn. "If you say so." He pulled a business card from his coat pocket—the cardstock was thick, creamy—and laid it on the bar. "If you ever get tired of the... bikes... give me a call. The firm is always looking for researchers with your head for detail." He hesitated, then touched her arm again, briefly. "Take care of yourself, Rory." "You too, Mark." He walked out, the door swinging shut behind him, cutting off the noise of the rain. The silence of the bar rushed back in, heavy and comfortable. Rory let out a breath she felt she’d been holding since she saw his face. She slumped against the bar. "He seemed nice," Silas said. His tone was neutral, but his eyes were sharp. "He's a prick," Rory said, a small, genuine smile touching her lips. "But he's a successful prick." Silas picked up the business card Mark had left. He held it between two fingers, looked at it with the same scrutiny he probably used to look at classified documents in a past life, and dropped it into the bin under the bar. "Dead weight," Silas grunted. Rory looked at the empty stool where Mark had sat, then at the familiar walls of the Nest, the maps of the world Silas had traversed and the photographs of the ghosts who had sat in these chairs before her. "Yeah," she said. "I think I prefer the view from here."