Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTXKPH0TDJDNKAH1ES08EF7

The green neon sign of The Raven's Nest cast an emerald glow across Rory's face as she pushed through the heavy door, seeking refuge from the October rain. Water dripped from her black hair onto the worn wooden floor. She hadn't planned on coming here tonight, but the delivery run had taken her past Soho, and something about the familiar weight of loneliness had drawn her in. The bar was nearly empty, save for a couple in the corner booth and a figure hunched over a whiskey at the far end. Maps and faded photographs lined the walls like ghosts of forgotten places. Rory slid onto a barstool and waited for Silas to emerge from the back room. "Christ, is that really you?" The voice froze her blood. She turned slowly, and there he was—Gareth Williams, though she barely recognised him. The lanky boy she'd known at Cardiff had filled out, his once-wild brown hair now cropped short and professionally styled. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her monthly rent. But it was his eyes that unsettled her most. The mischievous spark she remembered had been replaced by something harder, more calculating. "Gareth." She kept her voice level, though her heart hammered against her ribs. "Bloody hell, Rory Carter. What are the odds?" He abandoned his drink and moved toward her, that familiar easy grin spreading across his face. "You look..." "Different?" "I was going to say good. Really good." His gaze swept over her delivery jacket, the worn jeans, the practical boots. "Though not quite what I expected from the girl who was going to change the world." She felt the familiar heat rise in her cheeks. "People change, Gareth. Plans change." "Don't they just." He slid onto the adjacent stool, close enough that she caught his cologne—expensive, nothing like the cheap aftershave he'd worn as a student. "What brings you to this particular den of iniquity?" "I live here. Upstairs." His eyebrows shot up. "Above a bar? How very bohemian of you." The condescension in his tone made her jaw tighten. "And you? Still in Cardiff, or did the big city finally tempt you away?" "London, actually. Have been for three years now. Corporate law, Hutchinson & Associates. You might have heard of us." She hadn't, but she wasn't about to give him the satisfaction. "Congratulations." "Thanks. Though I have to say, when I heard you'd left Cardiff so suddenly... well, we all wondered what had happened to the great Aurora Carter. The girl who was going to take on the establishment, fight for justice, all that." The words hit like physical blows. She gripped her hands together to hide the trembling in the crescent scar on her wrist. "Life happened." "Ah yes, life. That inconvenient thing that gets in the way of our grand plans." He signaled to the bartender who'd emerged from the back—not Silas, but a younger man she didn't recognize. "Two whiskeys, neat. The good stuff." "I didn't order anything." "My treat. Consider it a reunion drink." He leaned back, studying her with those changed eyes. "So what do you do now? Apart from living above bars, I mean." Heat flooded her face. "I deliver food." The silence stretched between them like a taut wire. She watched his expression shift, saw him process this information and file it away under 'disappointment' or perhaps 'amusing anecdote for dinner parties.' "Delivery. Right. That's... that's good. Honest work." "Don't." "Don't what?" "Don't patronize me, Gareth. We may not have seen each other in five years, but I still know that tone." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "Just making conversation, Rory. Christ, you're defensive." The whiskey arrived, amber liquid in heavy glasses. She didn't touch hers. "You know," Gareth continued, taking a generous sip, "I always thought you'd be the one to make it. You had that fire, that passion. Remember the protests? The way you'd stand up in seminars and absolutely eviscerate Professor Henley's arguments about corporate liability?" She remembered. She also remembered the night they'd spent together after one of those seminars, when passion had meant something entirely different. When they'd talked until dawn about changing the world, about justice, about all the things they'd do once they escaped the suffocating bubble of university life. "That was a long time ago." "Was it? Sometimes it feels like yesterday to me." His voice had gone softer, more like the boy she'd known. "I think about those days sometimes. When everything seemed possible." "And now?" He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Now I help corporations minimize their tax burden and navigate environmental regulations with the least possible impact to their bottom line. Not exactly what I had in mind when I was twenty and full of righteous anger." "But you're successful." "Oh yes. Very successful. Partnership track, corner office, all the trappings." He drained his glass and set it down with deliberate care. "Funny how success can feel like its own kind of prison sometimes." The admission hung between them, unexpected in its honesty. For a moment, she glimpsed the boy she'd once known beneath the expensive suit and practiced charm. "What happened to you, Rory? Really. You just... vanished. One day you were there, fighting with Evan about something or other, and the next..." He shrugged. "Gone." Her stomach clenched at the mention of Evan's name. The memories threatened to surface—the raised voices, the controlling behavior that had slowly strangled her spirit, the final night when she'd fled with nothing but a bag of clothes and Eva's promise of refuge in London. "Sometimes leaving is the only option." "That's cryptic." "It's honest." He studied her face, and she forced herself not to look away. Whatever he saw there made him nod slowly. "We all have our reasons, I suppose. Our necessary compromises." He touched his signet ring—not silver like Silas's, but gold with some family crest. "Though I have to say, you were the last person I expected to find delivering takeaway in Soho." "And you were the last person I expected to find defending corporate interests in Mayfair." "Touché." He smiled, and for an instant it was genuine, unguarded. "We really are a pair, aren't we? The idealistic law students who were going to save the world." "Maybe we still are. Just... taking different routes." "Are we?" The question carried weight, as if he genuinely wanted to know her answer. Before she could respond, the door chimed and Silas limped in from the rain, his grey-streaked hair damp and his hazel eyes immediately cataloguing the scene. His gaze lingered on Gareth with the subtle intensity of a man accustomed to reading people, cataloguing threats and opportunities. "Evening, Rory." His voice carried its usual quiet authority. "Wasn't expecting you tonight." "Unplanned visit." She felt oddly grateful for his presence, though she couldn't say why. Gareth stood, extending a manicured hand. "Gareth Williams. Old friend of Rory's from university." Silas shook the offered hand, his silver ring catching the bar's dim light. "Silas Blackwood. I own this place." "Pleasure. Lovely establishment. Very... atmospheric." The politeness felt forced, two men sizing each other up across an invisible divide. Silas moved behind the bar with economical movements despite his slight limp, pouring himself two fingers of something that definitely wasn't on the shelf for customers. "Well," Gareth said, the moment stretching uncomfortably. "I should probably get going. Early morning tomorrow, and the partners don't appreciate tardiness." He pulled a business card from his wallet, placing it beside Rory's untouched whiskey. "My direct line. In case you ever want to catch up properly. Maybe over something better than bar whiskey." She stared at the crisp white card without touching it. "Maybe." "It was good seeing you, Rory. Really." He paused at the door, his hand on the brass handle. "For what it's worth, I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for." The door closed behind him with a soft thud, leaving only the sound of rain against the windows and the distant murmur of the couple in the corner booth. Rory finally picked up the whiskey and drained it in one burning gulp. "Old friend?" Silas's voice was carefully neutral. "Something like that." She slid the business card across the bar toward him, watching as his experienced fingers turned it over, reading not just the printed information but the story it told. "Expensive cardstock. Embossed lettering. Hutchinson & Associates—they handle acquisitions for some interesting clients." He looked up at her with those knowing hazel eyes. "The kind of firm that pays very well for very specific services." "Meaning?" "Meaning your old friend has traveled quite far from whatever he used to be." She thought about the boy who'd shared her passion for justice, who'd held her close and whispered about the future they'd build together. Then she thought about the man who'd just left, with his calculating eyes and casual condescension. "We all have, haven't we?" Silas said nothing, but his silence felt like understanding. Outside, the rain continued to fall, washing the neon-lit streets clean for another night's possibilities and regrets.