Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYJSHEZE9XS7BBTXW9KHRE

Soho rain tasted of grit and diesel, a stark difference from the clean, cold bite of a storm rolling off the Bristol Channel. It fell in sheets, drumming against the neon green sign that buzzed with an irritable electric hum above the door. Aurora Carter shoved her shoulder against the wood, the bell overhead announcing her arrival with a brassy clatter that barely cut through the low fog of jazz and cigarette smoke. She stripped off her sodden helmet, her black hair plastered to her neck. Water dripped from the hem of her oversized jacket, pooling on the floorboards that Silas insisted on waxing despite the parade of wet boots that assaulted them nightly. Behind the mahogany counter, Silas Blackwood polished a highball glass with the rhythmic precision of a machine. He didn’t look up. The faint hitch in his step as he moved to the optics rail was the only betrayal of the damp weather gnawing at his bad knee. "Rough night on the road?" Silas asked, his voice a gravel rumble that matched the bass in the speakers. "Traffic on Dean Street is a nightmare. Some tourist got clipped by a black cab." Rory tossed the helmet onto a stool and shook her hair out like a wet dog. "Yu-Fei wants the thermal bag back by ten, but I told him I’m taking five." "Take ten. You look like you’ve been dragged through the Thames." Rory snorted, wiping rain from her eyes. She turned to scan the room, looking for an empty booth to collapse into. The Raven’s Nest was mostly empty, a sanctuary for the lost and the lurking, walls lined with monochrome photos of places that didn't exist anymore. Her gaze swept past the regular melancholy drinkers and snagged on a figure in the corner booth. The woman sat with a posture that screamed 'billable hours.' Her trench coat was dry, beige, and draped impeccably over the cracked leather of the seat. She nursed a glass of white wine as if she were dissecting it for evidence. Rory froze. The air in her lungs turned to cement. The woman looked up. Recognition hit like a physical blow, widening eyes that had once mirrored Rory’s own back in lecture halls and coffee shops. "Laila?" The name was a ghost. A dead thing Rory had buried under three years of silence and a Greater London postcode. Rory didn’t move. Her feet seemed nailed to the floorboards. "It’s Rory now." Tessa Williams stood up. She looked exactly the same and entirely different. The messy bun from university was gone, replaced by a sharp, architectural bob. The charity shop sweaters had evolved into tailored silk. She looked like the future Rory was supposed to have. "Rory," Tessa tested the word, her mouth curling around it like it was something sour. "My god. We thought... honestly, we didn't know what to think." "I see the bar exam went well." Rory walked over, the instinct to flee warring with the sudden, crushing weight of gravity. She gestured to the silk blouse. "You look expensive." "I made associate at Davies & Moore." Tessa remained standing, a barrier of professional success between them. "I’m in town for a deposition. I just... I saw the sign. Brendan always talked about a place like this. I didn't think I’d find you in it." Rory flinched at the mention of her father. She hooked a thumb toward the bar. "I live upstairs. Work delivery. Help out here." Tessa’s gaze dropped to the helmet on the stool, then back to Rory’s wet jacket and the fraying seams of her jeans. The assessment was clinical. It wasn't pity: it was confusion. "You were top of the class, Laila. You were the only one who understood constitutional law without needing the cheat sheets." Tessa sat down slowly, gesturing to the empty seat opposite her. "Sit down. Please. Unless you have to rush back to... Yu-Fei?" Rory took the seat. The leather creaked under her. She kept her hands under the table, thumb rubbing the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a nervous tic she hadn't shaken since childhood. "I didn't vanish, Tess. I left." "You left a note on the kitchen counter and blocked our numbers." Tessa took a sip of wine, her knuckles white against the stem. "Eva cried for a month. Brendan called me every week for a year asking if I’d heard from you." "I couldn't stay." "Because of Evan?" The name hung between them, heavier than the smoke in the air. "Because of all of it," Rory said, her voice dropping. "Because I was suffocating. The degree, the firm, the house in the suburbs. It was all laid out like a corpse on a slab. I didn't want to be a barrister, Tess. I wanted to breathe." Tessa laughed, a sharp, brittle sound. "So you’re breathing diesel fumes in Soho? This is the grand escape?" "It’s mine," Rory snapped. The blue of her eyes hardened. "I pay my rent. I answer to no one. I don't have to defend corporate landlords evicting pensioners." "No, you just deliver their kung pao chicken." The insult landed effortlessly. Silas appeared at the table, a shadow falling over the tense tableau. He placed a tumbler of whiskey in front of Rory—no ice, top shelf—and looked at Tessa with eyes that had seen governments fall. "Another round?" Silas asked, his tone devoid of hospitality. Tessa looked at the bartender, then at Rory. She sensed the wall closing ranks. "No. I’m fine." Silas limped away, the drag of his leg a rhythmic scuff against the floor. Rory wrapped her hands around the glass, absorbing the cold comfort of the crystal. "Look," Tessa softened, leaning forward. The aggression bled out, leaving only the ache of a friendship amputated without anesthesia. "I miss you. We all do. It’s just... seeing you like this. It’s a shock. You had so much potential." "I still have potential," Rory said, watching the amber liquid in her glass. "It just looks different than you thought it would." "Does it?" Tessa reached across the table. Her hand, manicured and soft, covered Rory’s rough, rain-chapped one. She pulled Rory’s hand out from under the table. The sleeve of Rory’s jacket rode up. The crescent scar on her wrist caught the dim light. Tessa’s thumb brushed over it, a memory of a fall from a tree when they were ten, when Laila Carter had been fearless and loud. "You look tired, Laila." "I’m working." "You’re hiding." Tessa withdrew her hand. She opened her purse, a sleek leather clutch that probably cost more than Rory’s motorbike, and pulled out a business card. She slid it across the sticky table. "I’m at the hotel on Wardour Street until Thursday. If you want to talk. Really talk. Not this defensive crouch you’re doing." Rory looked at the card. *Tessa Williams, Senior Associate.* The font was serif, serious, permanent. "I’m not coming back to Cardiff, Tess." "I’m not asking you to paint the guest room." Tessa stood up, gathering her coat. She looked around the bar again, taking in the gloom, the damp, the solitude. "But you can't stay here forever. This place... it feels like a waiting room." "Maybe I’m waiting for something." "Or maybe you’re just wasting time." Tessa buttoned her coat, shielding herself against the world Rory lived in. "It was good to see you. Even if it was just Rory." She didn't wait for a goodbye. The door opened and closed, admitting a gust of wind and the rumble of a passing bus. The bell clattered, then fell silent. Rory stared at the business card. The white cardstock was already absorbing a ring of moisture from the table, the sharp edges blurring. Silas returned, carrying a rag. He wiped the table where Tessa had been, erasing the circle of condensation left by her wine glass. He didn't touch the card. "Old friend?" he asked, not looking at her. "Something like that." "She thinks you’re broken." Rory took a drink. The whiskey burned, a clean, honest fire that settled in her chest. "She thinks I’m lost." Silas stopped wiping. He leaned his weight on his good leg, looking at the door where the rain continued to lash against the glass. "People who walk straight lines always think the ones taking the scenic route are lost, Rory. Doesn't mean they're right." Rory picked up the card. She ran her thumb over the raised lettering, feeling the texture of a life she could have had. A life of security, praise, and slowly dying of boredom in a wig and gown. She looked at her wrist, at the crescent scar, then at the photos on the wall—spies, traitors, heroes, people who lived in the shadows because the light was too blinding. She crumpled the card in her fist. "I need to get the thermal bag back to Yu-Fei," she said, her voice steady. "Finish your drink first," Silas said, moving back to his station. "The rain isn't letting up anytime soon." Rory smoothed the crumpled paper on the table, looked at it one last time, and swept it into the ashtray. She took a sip, the warmth spreading through her limbs, watching the green neon sign flicker against the dark.