AI The rain in Soho never seemed to wash the streets clean; it merely slicked the grime into a reflective sheen, catching the neon green glow of the sign above The Raven’s Nest. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of beeswax and stale tobacco, a aroma that seemed to seep from the dark mahogany panelling .
Rory sat on a stool at the far end of the bar, a glass of cheap whiskey sweating a ring onto the coaster. She twisted the tumbler, watching the amber liquid swirl. Her shift at the Golden Empress had ended two hours ago, but the damp chill in her bones hadn't quite left . She pulled her sleeves down over her wrists, hiding the small, crescent-shaped scar.
Silas stood behind the bar, polishing a heavy crystal glass with a linen cloth. His movements were precise, practiced. He didn't look at her, but she felt the weight of his attention, a subtle pressure he always carried. He placed the glass on the shelf, the clink barely audible over the low hum of the refrigerator.
"You're staring," Rory said, not lifting her gaze from the drink.
"I'm observing."
"Same difference."
"There's a difference." Silas leaned against the back shelf, his left leg stiffening as he settled his weight . He wore his silver signet ring, the light catching the metal as he tapped his fingers against the wood. "You've been sitting there for forty minutes. The ice has melted. You're not drinking it, you're just punishing it."
"Just thinking."
"Dangerous habit."
The heavy wooden door creaked open, the sound cutting through the jazz playing softly from the corner speakers. A gust of wind blew in, carrying the scent of wet asphalt and exhaust.
Rory didn't turn around. She didn't care about the latest customer looking for a hideaway or a stiff drink. She heard the shake of an umbrella, the heavy thud of wet boots on the floorboards.
"Evening, Silas. Close the door, will you? It's freezing out there."
The voice hit Rory like a physical blow. It was a voice from another life, a life of lecture halls and libraries, of padded rooms and expensive arguments. It was smooth, confident, layered with an affected sincerity that made her stomach turn.
She spun the stool slowly .
Julian stood by the entrance, shaking droplets from a black trench coat. He looked older. The softness of university life had been carved away, leaving cheekbones that were sharper, eyes that were more guarded. His hair was styled with precision, and the suit underneath the coat cost more than Rory earned in three months. He held himself with the rigid posture of a man who spent his days convincing people he was right.
He looked up, his eyes scanning the room before landing on the bar. They locked onto hers. The recognition was instant, a flicker of shock followed by a slow, spreading smile that didn't quite reach his eyes .
"Rory?"
Silas stopped polishing. He watched the exchange, his body shifting imperceptibly, placing himself between the newcomer and his employee.
"Julian." The name felt foreign in her mouth. "I heard you moved to the City."
"Last year. Clerkship turned junior partnership." He walked to the bar, his gaze never leaving her face. "God, look at you. It’s been what, three years? Since the summer before our finals?"
"Four."
"Four." He signalled to Silas . "Whiskey, single malt. No ice. And put her drink on my tab."
"She's fine," Silas said. His voice was low, gravel grinding together.
Julian glanced at the bartender, dismissing him with a polite nod before turning back to Rory. "I'm buying, Rory. It’s the least I can do for an old friend. We lost touch. You just... vanished."
"I didn't vanish. I moved."
"To London. Eva told me." Julian leaned an elbow on the bar, invading her space. He smelled of sandalwood and expensive cologne. "She said you were taking a gap year. But a gap year doesn't usually last four years. Pre-Lace was practically handed to you. You had the mind for it. We all said you'd be on the bench before you were thirty."
Rory gripped the glass tighter. The condensation was slick against her palm. "People change."
"Do they?" Julian looked her up and down, taking in the cheap trousers, the faded t-shirt, the lack of makeup. "You look different. Harder. You used to be... softer."
"Maybe I was tired of being soft."
Silas placed a coaster on the wood in front of Julian and set the whiskey down with a heavy thud. He didn't move away.
Julian ignored the drink. He focused on Rory, his expression shifting to something resembling pity. It was a look he had probably perfected in court, designed to dismantle witnesses. "You know, I ran into Evan a few months ago. Back in Cardiff."
Rory’s breath hitched, just once. Silas’s eyes narrowed .
"He asked about you," Julian continued, oblivious to the sudden drop in temperature. "He wasn't in great shape. Said he made mistakes. We all make mistakes, don't we? But leaving the degree... leaving everything you worked for... that seems like a mistake you can't take back."
"I like my life," Rory said. Her voice was steady, but she could feel a vein throbbing in her temple.
"Do you?" Julian gestured around the dim room. "This? Delivering takeaway, living in a flat above a pub in Soho? It’s a bit of a fall from grace, isn't it? For the girl who had the highest GPA in the cohort."
"It's honest work."
"It's stagnation." Julian took a sip of his whiskey, savouring it. "We were going to change the world, remember? You and me, debating until sunrise in the student union. You had a fire in you then. This..." He waved a hand at her. "This is just embers."
"Embers can burn you just as well as a flame," Silas said quietly.
Julian finally looked at the older man, annoyance flickering across his face. "I'm talking to the lady."
"And she's listening. But I'm watching." Silas wiped the counter with a slow, deliberate motion. "She doesn't need you to audit her life choices, son. She needs a drink or she needs the door."
Julian chuckled, a dry, humourless sound. "Protective, isn't he? You always did collect strays, Rory. First that messed-up boyfriend, now... barkeeps."
Rory stood up. The movement was sudden, scraping the stool legs against the floor. She looked Julian in the eye, her bright blue gaze cold and unyielding. She didn't see the confident lawyer. She saw the boy who used to correct her grammar in the cafeteria, the man who turned a blind eye to bruises because they didn't fit his narrative of success.
"You don't know anything about my life, Julian. You see what you want to see. A tragedy. A warning tale."
"Isn't it?" He tilted his head, studying her like a specimen in a jar. "You're wasting that brain, Rory. It's tragic. And the worst part is, you know it. I can see it in your eyes. You're tired."
"I'm not tired of my life," she said, stepping closer to the bar, forcing him to lean back. "I'm tired of people like you. People who think they know where everyone belongs just because they're standing on the ladder."
"It's not a ladder, Rory. It's a structure . Without it, things collapse." He pulled a card from his breast pocket, smooth and white, embossed with gold lettering. He placed it next to her empty glass. "If you ever get sick of the damp. My firm handles a lot of pro bono work. We could use a researcher with your... background."
Rory looked at the card. It lay there, a white flag on a dark battlefield.
Silas reached out, his hand moving with the speed of a man who had spent years defusing situations. He picked up the card between two fingers, looked at the name, and dropped it into the bin behind the bar.
"Recycling's on Tuesday," Silas said.
Julian stared at the bin, then at Silas, his face flushing a dull red. He looked back at Rory, waiting for her to apologise, to laugh it off, to be the girl he remembered.
She didn't move. She didn't speak. She just watched him, her expression unreadable , her hands loose at her sides. The air between them felt heavy, filled with the dust of years they couldn't sweep away.
"Right," Julian muttered. He downed the rest of his whiskey, grimacing as it burned. "Well. It was... seeing you."
He turned and walked to the door, his coat flaring behind him. He didn't look back. The door swung shut, the latch clicking with finality.
Rory stood there for a long moment, staring at the space where he had been. The rain drummed harder against the glass, distorting the lights of the street outside.
"He seems pleasant," Silas said. He picked up the cloth again.
"He's successful," Rory said, sitting back down. The energy that had held her upright drained away, leaving her slumped against the bar. "That's all that matters to him."
"Success is a relative term."
"Is it?" She traced the rim of her glass. "He's right about one thing. I was good at it. The law. The arguing."
"You're still good at it. I've seen you talk down a delivery driver who wouldn't take 'no' for an answer."
Rory snorted, a short, sharp sound. "That's not the same."
Silas poured a measure of whiskey from a bottle on the bottom shelf—a bottle he kept for himself, not for the customers—and slid it over to her. "You didn't take the card."
"No."
"Why?"
She looked at the amber liquid in the new glass. "Because I don't want to be the person I was when I knew him. She was smart. She was ambitious. But she was scared."
"And now?"
Rory picked up the glass. She looked at her reflection in the mirror behind the bottles, seeing the dark circles under her eyes, the sharp angle of her jaw.
"Now I'm just delivering Chinese food."
"You're surviving," Silas said, his voice softening . "And there's a difference between surviving and stagnating. Don't let a man in a suit tell you otherwise."
Rory drank. The whiskey was smoky, peaty, grounding. It burned her throat, but it was a clean burn. Outside, the neon sign buzzed, a constant, electric heartbeat in the rainy London night. She sat with her memories, letting them settle like dust, heavy but manageable, and listened to the silence of the empty room.