AI The low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses provided a constant soundtrack to the usual Friday night at The Raven's Nest. Aurora Carter, or Rory as she preferred, wiped down the sticky counter with practiced ease . The scent of stale beer and lemon polish clung to the air, a familiar perfume that had been her constant companion for the past year. A delivery drone buzzed outside, a reminder of her day job and the precarious balance she maintained. Tonight felt heavier than most, a dull ache settled behind her ribs that had nothing to do with the cheap gin she sometimes sampled after closing.
A figure detached itself from the shadows near the back booth, moving with a deliberate, measured gait. Silas Blackwood, his silver signet ring glinting under the low lights, approached her, a rare smile crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes. "Busy night, Rory."
"Always on a Friday, Si," she replied, her voice a little rougher than she intended. She resisted the urge to check her reflection in the polished surface of the espresso machine. "Anything I can get for you?"
He waved a dismissive hand. "Just surveying my kingdom. Though I swear that chap in the corner has been nursing the same pint for three hours." He gestured with his chin towards a man hunched over a dark tap, his face obscured by the brim of a fedora.
Rory followed his gaze, a flicker of recognition sparking in her mind. The posture, the angle of the head. "He looks familiar ," she mused, her brow furrowing .
As if summoned, the man slowly turned. The fedora offered little concealment now. Rory’s breath hitched. The familiar sharp jawline, the unnerving stillness that had once captivated and terrified her. Evan.
Her hand instinctively went to her left wrist, tracing the faint crescent scar hidden beneath her sleeve. The air crackled with unspoken history, a sudden, suffocating tension that had nothing to do with the bar’s usual atmosphere.
Evan's eyes, dark and hard, met hers. A slow smile, devoid of warmth , spread across his lips. "Aurora Carter. Well, well. Fancy meeting you here." His voice, deep and resonant, cut through the din.
Rory forced a breath, the air catching in her throat. "Evan." The name felt foreign on her tongue, a ghost from another life. She straightened her shoulders, a shield of practiced indifference rising around her. "Small world."
He chuckled, a low rumble that sent an unsettling shiver down her spine . "Remarkably so. Still slinging drinks, are we?" His gaze swept over her, taking in the simple black uniform, the smudges of lipstick on her collar. It was a predatory assessment, the kind that had made her flee London in the first place.
Silas watched the exchange, his expression unreadable , his gaze sharp and observant. He took a slow sip of his amber liquid, his slight limp barely noticeable as he shifted his weight .
"I manage," Rory said, her voice tight . She turned back to the espresso machine, busying herself with a pointless wipe. Her knuckles were white. "What brings you to Soho?"
"Just passing through," Evan said, his eyes never leaving her. "Heard this was a place to… network." He emphasized the word, his tone laced with a knowing irony. "They say it's a hub for… interesting people."
"It's a pub, Evan," Rory countered, keeping her back to him. The scent of his cologne, a sharp, musky mixture, pricked at her senses. It was the same scent that had permeated her small London flat, a constant, suffocating reminder of his presence.
"Is it?" He pushed himself away from the table, the chair scraping on the floor. He began to walk towards her, his movements fluid and unsettlingly confident. Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel Silas’s quiet attention, a silent anchor in the rising tide of her panic.
"You've changed, Rory," Evan said, stopping a few feet from the bar. He leaned a hip against it, his arms crossed. The worn leather of his jacket creaked. His hair, once a tousled mess, was now meticulously slicked back, revealing a sharp widow's peak. He looked like a predator who had shed its camouflage.
"We all have," she replied, finally turning to face him. She met his gaze head-on, a flicker of defiance in her bright blue eyes. "Life happens."
"Life? Or choices?" His smile widened, revealing a flash of teeth. "You ran, Rory. You always did have a talent for running."
The accusation hung in the air , heavy and sharp. She remembered the slammed door, the hurried packing, the tearful goodbye with Eva. The sheer terror that had propelled her onto a train, leaving behind fragments of her life. And him.
"I made a different choice," she said, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands . "One that suited me better."
Evan let out a soft, disbelieving laugh. "Suited you better? Working for old man Cheung, delivering noodles? Is this the grand ambition Aurora Carter always carried?" He gestured vaguely with his chin towards the street beyond the bar’s entrance.
Rory’s jaw tightened. The simple black uniform felt less like a disguise and more like a brand. "It pays the bills. And it’s honest work."
"Honest?" He scoffed. "Since when was anything about you ever truly *honest *, Rory? You were always playing a part. Laila. Aurora. Malphora. Which one are you now?"
The aliases tumbled out of his mouth, each one a jab, a reminder of the carefully constructed facade she’d worn for so long. She felt a blush creep up her neck. She hadn't expected him to remember. Or worse, to dredge it all up.
Silas cleared his throat, a low, deliberate sound. "Evening, Evan, isn't it? Haven't seen you around these parts in a while." His voice was mild, yet it carried an implicit authority that made Evan pause.
Evan’s eyes flickered to Silas, a flicker of suspicion in their depths . He recognized the man, perhaps, or sensed the quiet force behind him. "Silas. Still holding court?"
"Someone has to," Silas replied with a small nod. He looked at Rory, a silent question in his expression.
Rory looked from Silas to Evan, the chasm between her past and present widening with every passing second. Evan, a constant shadow she thought she'd outrun. Silas, the steady, quiet presence that grounded her. She felt a weariness settle deep in her bones, a regret for the innocence she'd lost, and for the choices that had led her to this unexpected, uncomfortable reunion.
"I don't play parts anymore, Evan," she said, her voice softer now, but firm . She stepped away from the counter, moving to stand beside Silas. It was a small gesture, but it felt like an alliance declared . "This is me."
Evan’s eyes narrowed , a flicker of something unreadable passing over his face. Anger? Disappointment? Or perhaps something more akin to amusement. He pushed himself off the bar, a slow, deliberate movement.
"We'll see about that, Aurora," he said, his voice dropping to a low growl . "We always do." He turned and walked back towards the shadowy booth, his fedora casting a long, distorted shadow on the floor. The weight of his gaze lingered on Rory’s back long after he had settled back into his seat.
Rory exhaled slowly , the relief leaving her weak-kneed. She leaned against the cool wood of the bar, the familiar scent of lemon polish now a comforting presence. She glanced at Silas, who gave her a subtle nod. The unspoken understanding passed between them, a silent acknowledgment of the storm that had just brushed past, and the shelter she had found.