AI Rain battered the pavement of Soho, turning the grimy asphalt into a sleek, reflective river that caught the green bleed of the neon sign above the door. Inside The Raven’s Nest, the air hung heavy with the scent of damp wool, stale tobacco, and the sharp, piney bite of gin. Aurora Carter leaned her elbows on the polished mahogany of the bar, chin resting in her palms, watching the few scattered patrons nurse their sorrows.
She wasn't supposed to be working tonight, but Silas’s knee was acting up—the old injury from Prague swelling with the drop in barometric pressure. He was in the back, likely nursing a whiskey and pretending to do inventory while staring at ghosts. So she stood sentinel , her straight black hair forming a curtain around her face, shielding her from the inquisitive glances of a tourist couple near the window.
The brass bell above the door chimed, a cheerful sound that clashed with the gloom .
A man shook a dripping umbrella onto the mat, the movement sharp and precise. He wore a charcoal overcoat that cost more than Rory made in six months of delivering noodles for the Golden Empress. He turned, smoothing the lapels, and the dim amber light caught the sharp angle of his jaw.
Rory’s breath hitched, locking in her throat.
For a second, she considered ducking behind the taps. The impulse to flee, so carefully cultivated over the last three years, flared in her chest like a struck match. But his eyes swept the room and landed on her. There was a pause, a microscopic calibration of reality, before his polite detachment shattered .
"Aurora?"
The name sounded foreign. Too formal. Too clean for this place where maps on the walls charted dead empires and the photos captured men who no longer existed.
She straightened, forcing her spine against the edge of the back counter. "Hello, Marcus ."
Marcus wavered , then approached the bar. He moved differently now. In Cardiff, he had shambled, weighed down by backpacks full of tort law textbooks and the crushing expectation of his father’s firm. Now, he cut through the space with the arrogance of a man who billed by the minute.
He stopped, placing a hand on the wood. A gold watch peeked from under a crisp white cuff. "I thought I was hallucinating. The firm has me in London for a deposition, I took a wrong turn looking for a cab, and... Jesus. Aurora Carter."
"Just Rory now." She reached for a rag and began wiping down a spot that was already clean. The circular motion gave her hands something to do; otherwise, they might shake. "What can I get you?"
Marcus blinked, the professional veneer slipping. "A drink? I don't know. Scotch. Neat. Whatever you have that burns."
She turned to the shelf, her fingers finding the bottle of Glenfiddich by muscle memory. She could feel his eyes on her back, dissecting the changes. The flannel shirt, the worn denim, the tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there when they used to study in the university library until dawn.
She poured the amber liquid into a heavy tumbler and slid it across the wood.
He took it but didn't drink. "Three years, Rory. Not a text. Not an email. You just vanished. We thought..." He trailed off, looking around the dimly lit bar, taking in the peeling wallpaper and the scent of old dust. "We thought something happened to you. Something worse than leaving."
"I needed to leave."
"Without saying goodbye to me?"
"Especially without saying goodbye to you."
The words hung between them, heavy and wet. Marcus took a drink, wincing as it went down. "Because I represented the path? Or because I was friends with Evan?"
The name made the scar on her left wrist itch. It was a phantom sensation, a reminder of the crescent-shaped mark and the night the glass table shattered . "You weren't friends. You were peers. There's a difference."
"I sat next to him in Constitutional Law." Marcus swirled the ice he hadn't asked for, realizing too late the drink was neat. He stared into the glass. "He’s a junior partner now. Did you know that? engaged to a girl from the valleys. Very wholesome. Very public."
Rory’s grip on the rag tightened until her knuckles turned the color of old parchment. "I don't keep up with the alumni newsletter."
"I do." Marcus looked up, his eyes searching hers, looking for the bright-eyed girl who debated ethics with ferocious idealism. He didn't find her. He found someone harder, a woman who looked at the door every time it opened. "I asked him about you once. About a month after you disappeared. We were at a mixer."
"I don't want to know."
"He laughed," Marcus continued, ignoring her. "He said you weren't cut out for the pressure. Said you were fragile."
"I'm sure that made everyone feel better."
"It made me want to punch him." Marcus sighed, a long exhale that deflated his expensive posture. "But I didn't. I laughed along. Because I needed the reference."
Rory stopped wiping the counter. She looked at him, really looked at him, for the first time since he entered. The lines around his eyes were deeper. There was a grayness to his skin that spoke of eighty-hour weeks and vitamin D deficiency. He had the success they had both clawed for, and he looked miserable .
"We make our choices," she said, her voice soft .
"Do we?" He gestured to the bar, to the empty stools, to the rain slashing against the window. "Is this a choice, Rory? Serving drinks to strangers in Soho? You were the smartest person in our year. You argued circles around the professors. You were going to be a barrister. You were going to change things."
"I am changing things."
"What things?"
"Kegs. Ashtrays. The playlist." A dry smile touched her lips, but it didn't reach her bright blue eyes. "I have peace, Marcus . Most days."
He leaned in, the scent of expensive cologne warring with the bar's musk. "Do you? Make-believe names. Hiding in the dark. It’s not peace, it’s a holding pattern. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop."
"The shoe dropped three years ago. I'm just watching the ripples."
The door to the back room creaked open. Silas emerged, limping slightly , his hazel eyes scanning the room with the predatory grace of a feline. He saw Marcus , saw the proximity, and the tension in Rory's posture. He didn't intervene, but his presence shifted the air in the room. He moved to the far end of the bar and began polishing glasses, his silver signet ring clicking rhythmically against the crystal . A silent assertion of territory.
Marcus glanced at the older man, sensing the shift. He straightened, pulling his coat tighter. "Your boss?"
"My landlord. My friend."
"You have new friends." Marcus finished his drink in one swallow. The unspoken accusation stung more than the alcohol. *You replaced us.*
"Old friends are heavy," Rory said. "They remember who you were supposed to be."
Marcus stared at the empty glass. He reached for his wallet, pulling out a sleek black card. "Let me take you to dinner. Real dinner. Not... whatever you eat here. We can talk. Properly. I can help you, Rory. If you’re in trouble. If it’s money, or legal—"
"Put it away." Her voice was sharp, cutting through the ambient jazz playing low on the speakers.
"I just want to help."
"You want to fix it," she corrected. "You want to patch up the hole in your conscience because you laughed at Evan’s joke three years ago. You want to buy me a steak and convince me to come back and finish my degree so the world makes sense again. So that the bright girl didn't end up pouring whiskey in a dive."
Marcus froze, the card hovering halfway to the counter. His face flushed, a slow burn of shame creeping up his neck. He lowered his hand, sliding the wallet back into his pocket. "Is it really that simpler to hate me than to admit you made a mistake?"
"I don't hate you, Marcus ." She looked at her wrist, thumb mesmerizing index finger over the crescent scar. "And I didn't make a mistake. I survived. There’s a distinct difference that they don't teach in torts."
He stood there for a long moment, the silence stretching, filled only by the hum of the refrigerator and the distant siren of a police car navigating the labyrinth of London streets. He looked at her, truly seeing the stranger wearing his friend's face. The softness was gone , replaced by a brittle resilience that frightened him.
"I miss you," he whispered. It was an admission of defeat.
"I know." Rory picked up his glass, dunking it into the soapy water of the sink. "I miss who I was, too. But she didn't make it out of Cardiff."
Marcus nodded slowly . He buttoned his coat, the fabric stiff and unyielding. He tapped the bar twice—an old signal from the library, meaning *time to go *. "If you ever... if you change your mind. I'm in the directory."
"Goodbye, Marcus ."
He turned and walked to the door. He didn't look back. The bell chimed again, a cheerful farewell, and then he was swallowed by the London night, just another silhouette against the rain.
Rory stood motionless, her hands submerged in the warm, soapy water. The heat seeped into her skin, but it couldn't reach the cold knot in her stomach .
Silas moved down the bar, his limp pronounced as he favored his left leg. He didn't ask who the man was. He didn't ask if she was okay. He simply placed a clean, dry glass in front of her and poured a measure of the good stuff—the bottle he kept under the counter for himself.
"Rain's coming down harder," Silas murmured, his voice gravel and smoke.
Rory pulled her hands from the water, drying them on a towel. She picked up the glass. "Yeah. It'll wash the streets clean by morning."
"Ideally." Silas drank from his own glass, his eyes fixed on the door where Marcus had exited. "But some stains set deep."
Rory took a sip, the whiskey burning a path through the numbness. She traced the rim of the glass, listening to the relentless drumming against the pane. "He made associate."
"Poor bastard," Silas said.
Rory let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding , a short, sharp sound that might have been a laugh if there had been any humor in it. She turned away from the door, away from the street, and looked at the map on the wall behind the bar. It was an old naval chart, full of dragons and warnings of deep water. "Yeah. Poor bastard."