Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX42TVP692YDTK031X36K3

The clatter of ice against glass was a familiar symphony, a backdrop to the low murmur of Soho patrons unwinding after dark. Aurora Carter, Rory to those who knew her well enough, leaned against the polished oak of The Raven's Nest. Her delivery uniform, a garish splash of red and gold from the Golden Empress, felt out of place amidst the muted tones and strategically placed shadows of Silas’s establishment. She nursed a lukewarm beer, the chill a welcome contrast to the oppressive London heat lingering outside. The small crescent scar on her left wrist throbbed faintly, a phantom echo of scraped knees and childish tumbles. A shadow fell across the table, detaching itself from the general dimness. Rory looked up, her bright blue eyes widening with an involuntary gasp. The man who stood there was a ghost from another life, a life she’d meticulously packed away. “Laila?” the voice, deeper now, weathered but unmistakable, questioned. Rory blinked. Laila. It had been years since anyone had called her that. “Evan?” Her own voice was a breath, barely audible. He stepped closer, his hazel eyes, once full of a familiar warmth, now held a guarded curiosity. Gone was the boyish eagerness; in its place sat the hard lines of a man who had known the world’s rough edges. He’d filled out, his shoulders broader, bis frame more solid than she remembered. A faint stubble dusted his jaw, a stark contrast to the clean-shaven face of her youth. “You’re Laila?” he asked again, a hint of disbelief colouring his tone. “Aurora. Aurora Carter.” She offered him a small, tight smile. “Rory.” Evan’s lips curved into a slow smile, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Rory. Right. I forgot. Laila was… well, a long time ago.” He gestured to the empty stool beside her. “Mind if I join you?” She hesitated for a fraction of a second. Years of caution, of building walls, warred with a flicker of the old bond. “Not at all.” He sat, his movements economical, almost practiced. The same silver signet ring flashed on his right hand, though now it seemed to gleam with a harder, colder light. He ordered a whiskey, neat, the bartender a hulking man with a slightly crooked smile, his presence a quiet anchor in the room. “So,” Evan began, swirling the amber liquid in his glass, the ice cubes clinking softly, “what brings you to this corner of the world? Last I heard, you were headed to some distant land to find yourself.” Rory’s grip tightened on her beer bottle. Distant land. He’d always had a way of twisting her words, of making her dreams sound like an excuse. “Just London, Evan. Working.” “Working? And for who?” He took a sip of his whiskey, his gaze steady on hers. “A restaurant. Deliveries.” She felt a flush creep up her neck, the indignity of it all. He was probably still on his upward trajectory, the law degree a stepping stone to something significant. “A delivery person.” He let the words hang in the air, not with mockery, but with a sort of detached observation, as if cataloging a specimen. “You always were full of surprises, Laila.” “And you always did have a knack for seeing the less flattering angles.” Her attempt at humour fell flat, the old banter replaced by a brittle politeness. Evan chuckled, a low rumble that didn’t quite dispel the tension between them. “I remembered you as someone who aimed higher. Pre-Law, wasn’t it? Cardiff University’s finest.” “Circumstances change.” She fixed her gaze on the swirling patterns on the bar top. “People change.” “Indeed,” he agreed, his voice softer. “People certainly do.” He shifted on his stool, the slight limp in his left leg more pronounced as he adjusted himself. “This place is… different. Cosy.” “Silas’s place. He’s a friend.” Rory offered. “He owns the flat above the bar. I live there.” “The Spymaster’s humble abode.” Evan’s eyebrow arched. “Always knew you’d gravitate towards shadows, Laila. Or should I say, Rory.” “They’re just… contacts. Information.” She smoothed down the fabric of her uniform shorts. “It’s not as dramatic as all that.” “Isn’t it?” He leaned back, a thoughtful expression on his face. “I used to think your life was going to be all grand pronouncements, courtroom battles, a fierce advocate for justice. You had that spark, that fire in your belly.” He met her eyes again, and this time, something akin to genuine regret flickered within them. “I remember when you told me you were leaving. You wouldn’t say why. Just that you had to. That you couldn’t stay.” The air crackled with unspoken words, with the memory of whispered arguments, of the chilling fear that had driven her from Cardiff, from Evan. He remembered the *leaving*, but not the *why*. “It was for the best, Evan.” Her voice was firm, a deliberate shield. “For both of us.” “Perhaps.” He drained his whiskey, signaling the bartender for another. “I often wondered, though. If I’d been different. If I’d seen… things earlier. If I could have made a difference.” The confession hung in the air, heavy and unexpected. Rory felt a prickle of movement beneath her skin, a sensation akin to the tremor of an approaching storm. She’d spent so many years burying the pain, the confusion, the sheer terror of those last months with him. Now, here he was, dredging it all up, softened by time, shrouded in a regret she hadn’t anticipated. “You didn’t know, Evan,” she said, her voice low but clear. “How could you have?” “That’s the thing, isn’t it?” He chuckled again, a dry, humourless sound. “We never do. Not until it’s all over. Not until the echoes start to fade and all that’s left is the silence.” He gestured with his glass. “This is a far cry from the life we planned, isn’t it, Rory?” She watched the green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest cast a faint, ethereal glow across his face, highlighting the new lines etched around his eyes. It wasn't just the years that separated them; it was the lives they had lived, the people they had become, or perhaps, the people they had been forced to become. The weight of time settled heavily between them, a tangible thing in the smoky air of the bar. There was so much left unsaid, so many paths not taken, so many regrets that had solidified into the very fabric of their beings. “A far cry,” she echoed, the words catching in her throat. The beer in her hand suddenly felt stale, the night stretching out before her, long and filled with the ghosts of a shared past.