Run: 2026-02-17-01KHMTYW9M3G0H4VGJ40RATJKD

The green neon sign of The Raven's Nest cast sickly shadows across the wet pavement as Rory pushed through the heavy oak door, shaking raindrops from her black hair. The familiar warmth of the pub wrapped around her like an old coat—all whiskey fumes and the lingering ghost of cigarettes from decades past. Maps covered every inch of the dark walls, their edges curled with age, punctuated by black-and-white photographs of forgotten faces in forgotten places. She hadn't expected to find anyone she knew here, especially not at half past nine on a Tuesday. The Nest was her sanctuary precisely because it existed outside the orbit of her old life. But there, hunched over a pint at the far end of the mahogany bar, sat a figure that made her stomach clench with recognition. Marcus Webb. He'd aged badly. The rugby-player shoulders had rounded into something softer, defeated. His once-golden hair had thinned to wisps across a scalp that caught the amber light from the overhead fixtures. When he lifted his head at the sound of her footsteps, she saw that his face had taken on the puffy, florid quality of a man who'd made peace with drinking alone. "Christ," he said, his voice rougher than she remembered. "Rory Carter." "Hello, Marcus." Silas emerged from behind the bar, his hazel eyes taking in the scene with the practiced assessment of someone who'd spent decades reading rooms. He moved with that slight hitch in his left leg, the old Prague injury that never quite healed right. His silver signet ring caught the light as he reached for a clean glass. "Friend of yours?" Silas asked, his tone carefully neutral. "University," Rory said, not taking her eyes off Marcus. "We studied together." "Studied together." Marcus laughed, a sound like gravel in a jar. "That's one way to put it." Rory felt heat creep up her neck. She'd hoped never to have this conversation, never to see that particular look in someone's eyes again—the mixture of hurt and accusation that came with being left behind. But here was Marcus, her study partner, her debate team co-captain, the boy who'd kissed her after their mock trial victory in their second year. The boy she'd abandoned when Evan entered the picture. "Drink?" Silas offered, his weathered hands already moving toward the bottle of Jameson. "Please." Rory slid onto the stool two seats down from Marcus, maintaining distance but acknowledging his presence. The space between them felt charged, full of things unsaid. Marcus took a long pull from his pint, wiping foam from his lips with the back of his hand. "You look good, Rory. Different, but good." She knew what he meant. The girl he'd known at Cardiff had worn her ambition like armor, all sharp edges and fierce certainty. She'd been going to be a barrister like her father, going to change the world one case at a time. That girl wouldn't have been caught dead in the delivery uniform she'd stuffed in her bag, wouldn't have been living above a bar in Soho, serving noodles to strangers. "Thanks," she said, accepting the whiskey from Silas. The glass was cool against her palm. "You're looking..." She searched for something kind to say and came up empty. "Like hell?" Marcus supplied. "Yeah, I know." He rotated his pint glass, watching the amber liquid swirl. "Divorce'll do that to you. Well, divorce and redundancy and finding out your best friend from university disappeared into thin air without so much as a goodbye." The accusation hung between them like smoke. Rory took a sip of whiskey, feeling it burn down her throat. She could feel Silas watching from the corner of her eye, pretending to clean glasses while cataloging every word, every gesture. It was what he did—collect information, file it away for later use. "I had to leave," she said finally. "Had to?" Marcus's voice rose slightly. "Christ, Rory, you just vanished. One day you were there, the next your flat was empty and no one knew where you'd gone. Eva wouldn't tell me anything except that you were 'sorting yourself out,' whatever the hell that meant." Rory's finger traced the rim of her glass. The small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist caught the light, a pale reminder of childhood clumsiness. How could she explain to Marcus about Evan's hands around her throat, about the way he'd isolated her from everyone she cared about, about the night she'd finally found the courage to run? "It's complicated," she said. "Everything's complicated when you're twenty-two," Marcus shot back. "That doesn't mean you abandon everyone who gives a damn about you." The words hit harder than she'd expected. She'd told herself that leaving Cardiff was about survival, about escape. But sitting here now, looking at what Marcus had become, she wondered if she'd simply been a coward. If she'd run from more than just Evan's fists. "I heard you made partner," she said, deflecting. "At Harding and Associates." Marcus's laugh was bitter. "Made partner, lost partner. Turns out Sarah didn't much care for the hours, or the drinking, or the fact that I couldn't stop talking about this brilliant girl I'd known at university who'd just disappeared one day." He drained his pint and signaled to Silas for another. "Funny how that works, isn't it? You lose someone and suddenly they're all you can think about." Rory felt something twist in her chest. She'd thought about Marcus too, especially in those first months in London when everything felt foreign and frightening. She'd wondered if he'd gotten the job at the Crown Prosecution Service he'd wanted, if he'd married Sarah like he'd planned, if he still argued cases in his sleep the way he had when they'd shared those marathon study sessions. But wondering wasn't the same as reaching out. Wondering didn't require courage. "I'm sorry," she said, and meant it. "Are you?" Marcus leaned forward, his bloodshot eyes intense. "Because I've spent three years wondering what I did wrong. Three years thinking maybe if I'd been smarter, or funnier, or if I'd kissed you that night after the Morrison case instead of waiting for the 'right moment' that never came." "Marcus—" "I know about Evan." The words stopped her cold. Marcus was studying her face with the same intensity he'd once brought to cross-examinations. "Eva let it slip about six months after you left. She was drunk, angry that I kept asking questions. She told me you'd gotten mixed up with some controlling bastard who made your life hell." Rory's hand tightened around her glass. The familiar panic began to rise in her chest, the feeling of being seen, exposed, vulnerable. "So I get it," Marcus continued, his voice softer now. "I understand why you ran. What I don't understand is why you couldn't trust me enough to help." The question hung in the air between them, heavy with years of accumulated hurt. Rory looked around the bar—at the maps on the walls showing places she'd never been, at the photographs of strangers who'd lived full lives in black and white. This was her world now, small and contained and safe. "Because I was ashamed," she said finally. "Because I was supposed to be this brilliant, unstoppable force, and instead I'd let someone... diminish me. Make me small." She met his eyes. "And because I knew you'd try to fix it, and I couldn't bear the thought of you seeing me broken." Marcus was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. "You were never broken, Rory. Hurt, maybe. Scared. But never broken." Silas had moved to the other end of the bar, giving them the illusion of privacy while remaining close enough to intervene if needed. Rory wondered what he made of this scene—the ghost of her past confronting the reality of who she'd become. "What are you doing now?" Marcus asked. "I deliver food," she said. "For a Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. It's not much, but it's honest work." "And you're happy?" The question caught her off guard. Happy seemed like such a foreign concept, something for other people with simpler lives. But as she considered it, she realized that she was something close to content. She had her flat above the bar, her job with Yu-Fei, her carefully constructed life that belonged entirely to her. "I'm safe," she said. Marcus nodded as if that answer made perfect sense to him. "I used to dream about you," he said. "For the first year or so after you left. I'd dream we were back in the library, working on some case, and you'd look up at me with that expression you got when you'd figured out something brilliant. And then I'd wake up and remember you were gone." "I'm sorry," Rory said again, because it was all she had to offer. "Yeah." Marcus stood, pulling on his coat. "Me too." He left money on the bar and walked toward the door, his footsteps echoing in the quiet space. At the threshold, he paused. "For what it's worth," he said without turning around, "I think you would have been an incredible barrister." Then he was gone, leaving only the sound of rain against the windows and the weight of everything that could have been. Silas moved closer, refilling her glass without being asked. "Old flame?" "Something like that." Rory stared at the door where Marcus had disappeared. "Someone I used to be." "The person you used to be isn't gone," Silas said quietly. "She's just... evolved." Rory lifted her glass in a mock toast. "To evolution, then." "To survival," Silas corrected, and they drank to the weight of time and the courage it took to keep moving forward.