Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTX50MYMG58WZXRW4NQ5AE1

The sharp crack of billiard balls colliding echoed through The Raven's Nest as Rory stepped inside, shaking rain from her leather jacket. Tuesday nights were usually quiet, which suited her fine. She'd spent the last three hours navigating London's flooded streets on her moped, delivering crispy duck and chow mein to customers who couldn't be arsed to venture outside themselves. She peeled off the jacket and draped it over her usual stool at the bar's far end, away from the handful of regulars nursing their drinks in contemplative silence. The overhead lights cast amber pools across scarred wood, and the walls—plastered with faded maps of Prague, Istanbul, Beirut—absorbed what little remained of the day's grey light filtering through rain-streaked windows. "Rough shift?" Silas emerged from the back room, his slight limp barely noticeable after all these years. He'd already poured her usual—a proper whisky, none of that blended rubbish. "I've had worse." She wrapped both hands around the glass, letting the warmth seep into her frozen fingers. "Mrs. Patterson tipped me five quid because I climbed four flights of stairs." "The woman's a saint." "The woman's lonely and I reminded her of her granddaughter." The door swung open behind them. Cold air rushed in, carrying the smell of wet pavement and exhaust fumes. Rory didn't turn—not until Silas' expression shifted, his features arranging themselves into something carefully neutral. That particular mask meant complications. She swiveled on her stool. Eva Thornton stood in the doorway, frozen like she'd walked into the wrong film. Her blonde hair—once a choppy, rebellious cut they'd done together in Eva's mum's bathroom—now fell in expensive layers past her shoulders. She wore a charcoal peacoat that probably cost more than Rory's monthly rent, and her boots looked like they'd never met an actual puddle. "Rory?" The name landed between them like a stone in water. "Eva." Seven years. Seven bloody years since Eva had stood in their Cardiff flat, mascara streaking down her face, begging Rory to come to London. Since she'd promised they'd get through everything together. Since Rory had finally agreed, packed her life into three suitcases, and taken the train east. Eva moved forward, tentative. "I didn't know you—I mean, I didn't know this place was yours." "It's not. I just drink here." "Right. Of course." Eva's fingers worried the strap of her leather handbag. Designer, naturally. "You look good. Different." Rory resisted the urge to touch her hair. She'd cut it short after the first month in London, after Eva had stopped returning her calls. Black instead of the auburn it used to be, easier to maintain when you spent half your life on a moped in the rain. "You look successful." The word came out sharper than intended. Eva flinched, barely, but Rory caught it. Seven years of friendship before the silence—you didn't forget someone's tells. Silas cleared his throat. "What can I get you, miss?" "Gin and tonic, please. Hendrick's, if you have it." "We have it." Of course they had it. Silas kept a fully stocked bar despite the Nest's deliberately shabby exterior. Eva perched on a stool two down from Rory's—close enough for conversation, far enough to maintain distance. Safe distance. Rain hammered against the windows. Someone fed coins into the ancient jukebox in the corner, and Leonard Cohen's gravelly voice filled the spaces between them. "I work around the corner," Eva said. "At Pemberton & Ross. The solicitors? I made junior partner last month." "Congratulations." "Thanks. It's—yeah. Busy. Lots of late nights." Rory sipped her whisky and said nothing. Eva had always filled silences, uncomfortable with the gaps in conversation. Some things hadn't changed. "What about you? What are you doing these days?" "Delivering Chinese food." Eva's face did something complicated. "That's—are you enjoying it?" "It pays the rent." "But you were going to finish your law degree. You were brilliant at it, Rory. Better than me, and I barely scraped through." "Plans change." Silas set Eva's drink in front of her with more force than necessary, the ice cubes rattling. He caught Rory's eye for just a moment—a question. She gave the smallest shake of her head. Not now. Eva took a long pull from her gin. "I'm sorry." "For what?" "Don't do that. Don't make me spell it out." Rory turned to face her fully for the first time. Eva's makeup was immaculate, her nails perfectly manicured, but she had new lines around her eyes. Worry lines. The kind you earned through sleepless nights and stress. "You told me to come to London. You said you'd help me get settled, find a solicitor for the restraining order. You said we'd get through it together." "I know." "You stopped answering my calls after two weeks." Eva's knuckles whitened around her glass. "My father found out." The words dropped like lead. Rory felt something cold and familiar settle in her chest—the same feeling she'd had that first month alone in London, sleeping on Silas' couch because she couldn't afford a deposit, jumping every time someone knocked. "Found out what?" "That I'd helped you leave. Evan's father and mine belong to the same club. Do business together." Eva laughed, bitter. "Turns out loyalty to old university friends doesn't supersede potential merger opportunities." "So you just cut me off." "He threatened to pull funding for my articles. I was three years into my training contract, Rory. I couldn't—" She stopped, scrubbed a hand across her face. The gesture ruined her foundation, left a streak across her cheekbone. "I should have chosen differently. I know that." Silas moved away, busying himself at the far end of the bar. Giving them space. "I needed you." Rory's voice came out rough. "I was terrified. I had no money, no job prospects, no idea if Evan would find me. And you just vanished." "I'm sorry." "You keep saying that." "Because I mean it." Eva's eyes shone in the amber light. "Every day for seven years, I've meant it. I wrote you letters I never sent. Looked for you on social media, but you'd deleted everything. I thought about coming to Cardiff, but I didn't know if you'd even stayed in London." "I stayed." "I can see that." The jukebox shifted to something instrumental, all mournful saxophone and brushed drums. One of the regulars coughed wetly in the corner. "You got what you wanted though," Rory said. "Junior partner at twenty-seven. That's impressive." "Is it? I defend corporations that dodge taxes and exploit workers. I work eighty-hour weeks. I can't remember the last time I had a conversation with someone that wasn't about billable hours or case precedent." Eva drained her gin. "I sold out before I was old enough to know what I was selling." "At least you're warm and dry." "At least you can look at yourself in the mirror." The words hung between them—sharp, honest. Eva signaled Silas for another drink. He poured it in silence, and this time added one for himself. "I was angry," Rory admitted. "For a long time. Thought about all the things I'd say if I saw you again. Practiced the perfect cutting remarks." "I deserve them." "Maybe. But I'm tired, Eva. I'm so bloody tired of carrying it all." Eva's second gin sat untouched. "I could help now. If you wanted to finish your degree. I have connections at several universities. I could write references, help with costs—" "I don't want your guilt money." "It's not—" Eva stopped. "No. You're right. That's exactly what it is." Outside, the rain intensified. Water streamed down the windows, distorting the sodium glow of street lamps into abstract smears of light. "I like my life," Rory said quietly. "It's simple. I work, I come here, I sleep. No ambitions eating me alive. No compromises that cost pieces of my soul." "No old friends either." "No. No old friends." Eva's phone buzzed. She glanced at it, grimaced. "That's work. Client emergency." She pulled out a business card, set it on the bar between them. "My direct line. If you ever—I mean, you probably won't, but. Just in case." Rory picked up the card. Thick stock, embossed lettering. Eva Thornton, Junior Partner. She slipped it into her pocket without comment. Eva stood, left two twenties on the bar. "Keep the change," she told Silas. Then, to Rory, "I really am sorry. About all of it." "I know." That seemed to surprise Eva. She hesitated, opened her mouth, closed it again. Finally, she turned and walked out into the rain, the door swinging shut behind her with a quiet click. Silas waited a full minute before speaking. "You alright?" Rory stared at the door, at the green neon sign reflected in wet glass. "Yeah. I think I am."