Run: 2026-02-17-01KHNF82BCHPAV4GYSB28BFC2H

The rain drumming against The Raven's Nest's windows had driven most of the evening crowd away, leaving only the dedicated drinkers and those with nowhere better to be. Aurora Carter fell into neither category as she descended the narrow stairs from her flat, but the sound of Silas polishing glasses had drawn her down like a siren song. She needed the distraction. "Thought you'd be asleep by now," Silas said without looking up. His silver signet ring caught the green neon bleeding through the windows as he worked a spot from a tumbler. "Early delivery tomorrow, isn't it?" "Couldn't sleep." Rory slid onto a barstool, her fingers automatically finding the crescent scar on her wrist. The habit annoyed her, but tonight she let it be. "Mind if I help myself?" "You know where everything is." She moved behind the bar with practiced ease, reaching for the bottle of Jameson on the second shelf. The familiar ritual of pouring steadied her hands, though her mind kept circling back to the text message glowing on her phone upstairs. One word: "Sorry." From a number she didn't recognize but somehow knew. "Make it two," Silas said, setting the clean glass aside. They drank in comfortable silence, the old maps on the walls seeming to shift in the dim light. Prague, Istanbul, Hong Kong—cities that held Silas's secrets, though he never spoke of them directly. Rory had learned not to ask. The bell above the door chimed, bringing in a gust of wet air and a figure in a sodden overcoat. Silas barely glanced up, but Rory's hand froze halfway to her glass. "Christ," she breathed. Marcus Chen stood in the doorway, water dripping from his coat onto the worn floorboards. Five years had carved new lines around his eyes and added silver to his temples, but the apologetic half-smile was achingly familiar. He looked like he'd stepped out of a boardroom rather than her memories—expensive coat, leather shoes that probably cost more than her monthly rent, the kind of watch that whispered rather than shouted its price. "Hello, Rory." The way he said her name, careful and measured, made her chest tighten. She'd imagined this moment countless times—usually while delivering takeaway through London's maze of streets, her mind wandering to what she'd say if she ever saw him again. Now, faced with the reality, words scattered like startled birds. "Marcus." The name felt foreign on her tongue. "What are you doing here?" "I heard you were in London. Working at the Golden Empress." He approached the bar slowly, as if she might bolt. Smart man. "Yu-Fei mentioned it when I was arranging catering for a client dinner." Of course. Even now, their worlds couldn't help but intersect through the invisible threads of the city's Chinese community. Rory reached for the Jameson again, needing something to do with her hands. "Drink?" The question came out harder than intended. "Whatever you're having." Silas had vanished into the back room with the practiced discretion of someone who'd spent decades reading situations. The bookshelf clicked shut behind him, leaving them alone with the rain and the weight of everything unsaid. Rory poured with deliberate precision, using the ritual to study him without seeming to. The boy who'd shared her lecture halls at Cardiff had been all nervous energy and grand plans, sketching business ideas on napkins and staying up until dawn debating constitutional law. This man moved with careful deliberation, each gesture considered. "Investment banking," he said, answering her unasked question. "Merged two startups, sold them, ended up at Barclays. The whole cliché trajectory." "You always said you'd never wear a suit to work." "I said a lot of things." He accepted the glass, their fingers brushing. She pulled back too quickly, whiskey sloshing. "I heard about Evan. That he—I'm sorry." The scar on her wrist seemed to pulse. "That's not why I left Cardiff." They both knew it was a lie, but Marcus had the grace not to challenge it. He'd been there the night she'd met Evan, had warned her with the kind of gentle concern that had made her bristle at twenty. Pride was such a stupid, expensive thing. "I should have reached out," he said. "When I heard you'd left. Should have done something." "I had Eva. I was fine." "Were you?" The question hung between them like an accusation. Rory thought of those first months in London, sleeping on Eva's couch and jumping at shadows, learning the city's rhythms while trying to forget Cardiff's. Of Silas offering her the flat with gruff kindness, of Yu-Fei teaching her Mandarin curse words during the lunch rush. She'd rebuilt herself piece by piece, but Marcus had known her before the breaking. "I'm a delivery driver," she said, the words coming out like a challenge. "Part-time. Cash in hand. That what you wanted to hear?" "I wanted to hear you were safe." The simplicity of it caught her off-guard. She'd expected pity or disappointment, the kind of well-meaning concern that felt like judgment. Instead, there was only relief in his eyes, as if he'd been carrying the question for years. "Why now?" she asked. "Five years, Marcus. Why tonight?" He turned the glass in his hands, watching the amber liquid catch the light. "My firm's acquiring a restaurant chain. Due diligence turned up the Golden Empress in the supplier network. When I saw your name on the employee records..." He shrugged, a ghost of his old self in the gesture. "I've been sitting in my car outside for an hour, trying to talk myself out of coming in." "What changed your mind?" "The rain." He smiled, and for a moment she saw the boy who'd shared her umbrella that first week at university, both of them too proud to admit they were lost. "Seemed like a sign." Rory found herself smiling back, surprising them both. "You always were superstitious." "And you always were practical. Delivery driver suits you better than barrister ever would have." The old ease crept back as they talked, filling in the gaps with careful honesty. His marriage to a colleague that had ended after eighteen months. Her discovery that she actually enjoyed the freedom of courier work, the way London revealed itself one delivery at a time. They danced around the deeper currents—her father's disappointment, his mother's death two years ago—but even the careful conversation felt like coming home. "I have a meeting in the morning," Marcus said finally, though neither of them had touched their drinks in the last hour. "But maybe—" "Yu-Fei needs someone to handle the corporate accounts," Rory said quickly, before she could think better of it. "She mentioned it last week. If your firm's looking to expand their catering options..." "I could stop by tomorrow afternoon. After two?" "I'll be there." They stood awkwardly, the space between them loaded with possibility and old hurt. Marcus reached for his coat, then paused. "That night, when Evan showed up at your flat and I called the police—" "Don't." The word came out sharper than intended. "Just... don't." He nodded, understanding flickering across his face. Some things were better left buried, even between old friends. Especially between old friends. After he left, Rory stayed at the bar, staring at the untouched whiskey. Silas emerged from the back room with impeccable timing, sliding back into his spot without comment. "Old friend?" he asked mildly, resuming his glass polishing. "Something like that." "The ones who knew us before are always the hardest." His hazel eyes held depths she'd never fully fathomed. "They carry the map of who we were." Rory thought about Marcus's careful smile, the way he'd said her name like an apology. Five years was a long time, but maybe not long enough. Or maybe, she thought as she headed back upstairs, it was exactly long enough. The text message was still glowing on her phone. "Sorry." She deleted it without checking the number, then typed a new one to Eva: "You'll never guess who walked into the bar tonight." Outside, the rain had stopped, leaving the streets gleaming under the green neon glow of The Raven's Nest. Tomorrow, she'd deliver noodles and navigate London's twisted streets. Tomorrow, Marcus would walk back into her life through the proper door, with proper reasons. Tonight, she poured out the whiskey and went to bed, the crescent scar on her wrist nothing more than old skin remembering old wounds.