Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXE18GM7VWYZ0NJTRVVG6W

The green neon sign above the door hummed, a low, electric vibration that synced with the throbbing in Rory’s temples. She leaned against the polished mahogany of the bar, the wood cool against her forearms. The Raven's Nest was quiet, save for the clinking of glass and the low murmur of a couple in the corner booth. Silas stood opposite her, drying a tumbler with a dishcloth. His movements were precise, practiced. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the light as he set the glass down. "You look like you’ve been run over by a lorry. Repeatedly." Rory scoffed, turning her coaster in slow circles. "Just the usual. Soho traffic on a Friday. A BMW almost took off my wing mirror on Wardour Street." "Road rage. The modern equivalent of dueling pistols." "Less fatal, more tedious." She signaled for another drink. Silas grabbed a bottle of whisky, the amber liquid splashing against the ice. The heavy oak door creaked open. A gust of wind whipped the rain inside, scattering the damp silence of the room. Rory didn't look up immediately, too focused on the condensation on her glass. Silas paused, his eyes narrowing slightly toward the entrance before he resumed his work. A man stepped to the bar, shaking out an umbrella. He wore a trench coat, belted tight, and underneath, a suit that screamed expense and caution. He smelled of stale rain and expensive cologne. "Double scotch. Neat." The voice hit Rory like a physical blow. It was deeper than she remembered, roughened by time or cigarettes, but the cadence—the specific way he rounded his vowels—was unmistakable. She froze, her hand tightening around her glass. Silas poured the drink, sliding it across the surface. The man reached for it, his fingers brushing the wood. As he turned, his gaze swept past Rory, then snapped back. The blood drained from his face. "Rory?" She forced herself to breathe, to unclench her jaw. She hadn't heard that name in years. Not like that. Not with that inflection. "Hello, Callum." Callum stared at her, his glass hovering halfway to his lips. He looked older. The baby fat of their university days had been shaved away, leaving cheekbones that looked sharp enough to cut. His hair was shorter, styled with a severity that bordered on military, and there were lines etched around his eyes that hadn't been there when they were drunk on cheap wine in Cardiff student halls. "I... I heard you moved to London." He blinked, as if expecting her to vanish. "Evan said you just took off." "I did." Silas moved silently down the bar, removing a dirty ashtray, giving them space but keeping his ears open. Callum took a drink, the liquid disappearing in one gulp. He set the glass down with a heavy thud. "That was three years ago." "Time flies." "Does it?" He shifted his weight, looking her up and down. She knew what he saw. The black hair tied back severely, the heavy boots, the jacket that had seen better days. The small crescent scar on her left wrist was visible as she adjusted her grip on the bar. He noticed it. His eyes lingered on the pale mark. "You look different." "So do you. The suit looks expensive. Corporate law finally swallowed you whole?" "Corporate litigation." He corrected her automatically, a habit from their debate team days. "It pays the bills." "It looks like it pays for a lot more than bills." Callum signaled Silas for a refill. Silas poured, his face impassive. "I'm getting married next month," Callum said. The words hung in the air between them, heavier than the smoke. Rory nodded once. "Congratulations. Who’s the lucky victim?" "Her name is Elena. She’s a surgeon." "Clean. Respectable. Everything we swore we’d never become." He laughed, a short, dry sound. "Yeah. Turns out stability isn't the enemy I thought it was when I was twenty-two." "And I suppose sleeping in a king-sized bed beats a futon in a rented flat." "Rory, come on. You don't have to do this." "Do what?" "Act like you’re some kind of... outlaw." He gestured at her clothes. "I saw you outside, unloading boxes from that scooter. The Golden Empress, right? You’re a delivery driver." "It’s honest work." "You were top of our cohort in Con Law. You were supposed to take Silk. We were going to change the system, remember? Not drop off noodles." "The system didn't want changing, Callum. It wanted grinding." She picked up her glass, the ice clinking softly. "I got tired of being the meat in the grinder." He looked down at his hands. "Evan told me you had a breakdown." Rory’s grip on the glass tightened. "Evan wouldn't know a breakdown if it smashed him in the face." "He said you got erratic. Paranoid." "I got clear." They fell into a silence that stretched thin and taut. The jazz track playing overhead ended, seguing into something slower, sadder. Silas polished the counter near Rory’s elbow, his presence a grounding anchor. "I looked for you," Callum said quietly. "After you left. I called your mum." "That must have been a fun conversation." "She wouldn't tell me where you were. Just that you were safe and I shouldn't go looking for ghosts." "Smart woman." "She told me you weren't the same person who left Cardiff." Callum turned to face her fully, his searching. "She was right. You’re harder. Sharp around the edges." "Survival does that." "It’s not just survival, is it?" He reached out, then stopped, his hand hovering over the bar. "You’re carrying a gun, aren't you?" Silas stopped polishing. The air in the room dropped five degrees. Rory didn't flinch. She met Callum’s gaze, her blue eyes cool and unreadable. "You’ve been watching too many spy films, Callum. I carry mace. And a heavy maglight." "Your hand was on your hip when I walked in. Old reflex." "Reflexes are good. Keeps you from getting hit by cars on Wardour Street." He didn't look convinced. He looked sad. "We used to talk about everything. Philosophy, justice, what kind of parents we’d be. Now I can’t even tell if you’re lying to me." "I’m not lying." "You’re just not telling me the truth." He finished his second drink and stood up, digging a wallet from his coat. He tossed a twenty-pound note on the counter, far more than the cost of the drinks. "I have a dinner reservation. Elena is waiting." "Go. Enjoy your stability." Callum buttoned his coat. He hesitated, looking at the exit, then back at her. "If you ever... if things get too hard. You don't have to stay in the dark, Rory." "I like the dark. It’s quieter." He let out a breath, shaking his head. "Goodbye, Rory." "Bye, Callum." He walked out, the bell chiming again as the door swung shut. The wind didn't blow in this time. The seal held. Rory stared at the empty space where he had stood. The twenty-pound note sat on the wood, crisp and clean. Silas reached out and slid the note back toward her. "He didn't recognize me," Silas said, his voice low and gravelly. "He wasn't looking for you. He was looking for a ghost." "And did he find her?" Rory picked up the note, crumpling it in her fist. "No. He found a barmaid who rides a scooter." She downed the rest of her drink, the burn doing little to numb the hollow ache in her chest. The taste of the past was bitter, like old copper. Silas poured her another, no questions asked. "Good riddance to bad memories, then." Rory swirled the amber liquid. "Yeah. To the past." She drank, the silence of the bar rushing back in to fill the void left by the living.