AI Rain slicked the pavements of Soho, turning the neon glow of the street into a smeared palette of electric greens and bruised purples. Aurora Carter shook her umbrella, sending a spray of droplets against the brickwork of The Raven’s Nest. The green neon sign hummed, a low-frequency vibration that rattled in her teeth. She pushed inside.
The air in the bar tasted of stale hops and the expensive cedarwood tobacco Silas favored. It was a Tuesday, the dead hours where the only patrons were those hiding from the world or themselves. Silas leaned against the mahogany bar, his silver signet ring tapping a rhythmic code against a coaster. He gave her a nod, the grey streaks in his auburn hair catching the dim amber light.
Aurora climbed onto a leather-bound stool, her damp black hair clinging to the collar of her jacket. Before she could speak, the heavy oak door groaned open again. A man stepped in, shedding the storm like a molting skin. He was tall, his silhouette jagged against the street's glare. He moved with a heavy, deliberate gait that stopped short of a limp, his eyes scanning the room with a hunger that didn't belong in a pub.
The man froze. He stared at the woman on the stool. Aurora felt the air leave her lungs, her fingers curling instinctively around her left wrist, thumb brushing the crescent-shaped scar.
"Laila?"
The name was a ghost, a remnant of a life she’d buried under the floorboards of her flat upstairs. Aurora didn't turn. She watched him in the mirror behind the bar, framed by bottles of single malt and dusty gin.
"I don't go by that anymore, Evan. Not for a long time."
Evan stepped into the pool of light. The boy she’d known in Cardiff had been soft edges and nervous laughter. This man was carved from harder stone. A jagged line of grit defined his jaw, and his eyes, once the color of shallow water, had deepened into something murky. He looked at her like he was trying to solve a puzzle with half the pieces missing.
"You changed your hair. Cut it all off."
"I changed everything. My hair was just the easiest part."
Silas slid a glass of water toward Aurora, his gaze lingering on Evan. He didn't move away. He stayed close, a silent sentinel with a predator ’s stillness, his hazel eyes tracking the tension in Evan’s shoulders.
"Rough night to be out, mate. What can I get you?"
Evan didn't look at Silas. He pulled out the stool next to Aurora, the wood scraping harshly against the floorboards.
"I'll have whatever she's having. Make it a double."
"She’s having water. I suggest you do the same if you’re looking to talk. My floors are freshly waxed."
Evan let out a dry, rasping laugh that didn't reach his eyes. He sat down, his presence an intrusive heat next to Aurora's cold shoulder. He smelled of rain and something metallic.
"I saw your father in Cardiff last month, Rory. He’s drinking more. Spends his Saturdays at the club talking about the barrister who didn't want the robe."
"My father’s habits aren't my concern. Why are you in London?"
"Business. The kind that doesn't let you sleep in the same bed two nights in a row. I looked for you, you know. After you left. Eva wouldn't say a word. Loyal to a fault, that one."
Aurora finally turned her head. She studied the lines around his mouth, the way he clutched the edge of the bar until his knuckles turned white . He looked like a man who had spent the last three years running through thorns.
"You look tired, Evan. You look like you've been hollowed out."
"Time does that. Or maybe it’s the lack of anchor. You were always the one who kept me level."
"No. I was the one you used to stay afloat while you were drowning. There’s a difference."
Silas moved to the far end of the bar, though his ears remained tuned to their frequency. He began polishing a glass with a white cloth, a slow, methodical motion.
Evan reached out, his hand hovering near the sleeve of Aurora’s jacket. She didn't flinch, but the air between them curdled.
"I heard about London. The Golden Empress. Delivery girl? That’s a long fall for a girl who was supposed to be arguing before the High Court."
"I like the rain. I like the anonymity of a helmet and a bike. Nobody expects anything from a girl with a thermal bag. It’s quiet."
"Quiet isn't you. You were fire. You were the girl who screamed at the sea because it was too loud."
"That girl died in a flat in Cardiff. I’m the one who took the bus out of town while she was still cooling."
Evan winced, a flicker of the old vulnerability crossing his face before the mask hardened again. He looked at the maps on the wall, the black-and-white photos of a London that no longer existed.
"I went back to our spot. The cliffs at Penarth. Someone’s built a fence now. You can't even get down to the water without a key."
"Everything gets locked up eventually. It’s safer that way."
"Is that what this is? Safety? Hiding above a bar in Soho with a man who watches you like you’re a national secret?"
"Silas is a friend. He’s the only person who hasn't asked me to be someone I'm not."
Evan finally took a sip of the water Silas had set down. He made a face like it was poison.
"I suppose I deserved that. I spent years trying to shape you into a mirror. I just wanted to see something good when I looked at you."
"That was your mistake. I was never a mirror. I was a person you were breaking. Every time you pressed, I cracked. Look at my wrist, Evan. That wasn't a childhood accident, regardless of what I told my mother."
She pulled back her sleeve, exposing the crescent scar. In the green neon light of the Nest, it looked like a silver coin embedded in her skin. Evan’s gaze dropped to the mark. His confidence seemed to leak out of him, his shoulders slumping.
"I don't remember it happening like that."
"Memory is a convenient editor. You remember the sunsets and the way I laughed. I remember the sound of the door locking and the way the air felt too thin to breathe."
The bar fell into a heavy silence . The only sound was the hum of the neon and the distant hiss of a bus passing on the street outside. Silas stopped polishing the glass. He leaned his weight on his good leg, his presence a stabilizing weight in the room.
"You should go, Evan. London doesn't suit you. It’s too big to find what you’re looking for, and too small to hide."
Evan stood up. He looked smaller now, the bravado stripped away to reveal the fraying edges of a man who had lost his way years ago. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a crumpled photograph. He laid it on the bar. It was a polaroid, faded and yellowing at the corners. Two people on a beach, their hair wind-whipped, eyes bright with a future they couldn't possibly imagine.
"I carry this. It’s the only thing I have that hasn't changed."
"Leave it. I don't want it."
"I know. But I can't take it back where I’m going."
Evan turned and walked toward the door. He didn't look back. The bell above the entrance chimed, a lonely, high-pitched note that stayed in the air long after he had vanished into the London fog.
Aurora didn't touch the photo. She stared at the water in her glass, watching the way the green light refracted through the liquid.
"He's gone, Rory."
Silas walked over and picked up the photograph. He didn't look at it. He slid it into the trash bin beneath the counter with the same clinical efficiency he used for everything else.
"He’s been gone since the day I left Cardiff, Silas. He just didn't realize he was a ghost until tonight."
"You okay?"
Aurora rubbed her wrist, the scar cool beneath her fingertips. She looked at the door, then at the maps on the wall. The world felt vast, terrifying, and remarkably empty.
"I’m hungry. Is there any of that shepherd’s pie left?"
"In the back. Always is."
Silas reached for a plate, his limp slightly more pronounced as he moved toward the kitchen. Aurora stayed on her stool, her reflection in the mirror looking back at her—black hair, bright blue eyes, and a face that finally belonged to no one but herself.
She picked up the glass of water. It was cold and clear. She drank it all, feeling the sharpness of it in her throat, a reminder that she was still here, still breathing, even when the past tried to drag its muddy boots across her floor.
The rain picked up, hammering against the windowpanes of The Raven's Nest. It was a cleansing sound.
"Silas?"
He poked his head out from the kitchen doorway.
"Make it a large portion. I’ve got a long shift tomorrow."
"You got it, kid."
She watched him disappear again. The bar felt warmer now. The ghosts had been exorcised , or at least acknowledged, and the silence that followed wasn't heavy anymore. It was just a quiet room in a big city, exactly where she needed to be.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone, checking the delivery app. Three orders already lined up for the morning. She swiped through them, the familiar names of streets and restaurants a map of her new life.
She didn't think about the beach at Penarth. She didn't think about the cliffs or the boy with the soft edges. She thought about the weight of the thermal bag on her shoulder and the way the wind felt against her face when she crossed the Thames at dawn.
The door opened again, a group of tourists spilling in, loud and damp and searching for a story to tell. Aurora slid off her stool, moving toward the back room where Silas was waiting .
"Watch the step, folks," Silas called out, his voice returning to its professional, barman's rasp . "The floor is freshly waxed."
Aurora smiled. She caught her reflection one last time before stepping into the shadows of the hallway. The black-haired girl didn't look back. She just kept moving.
The green neon hummed on, a steady heartbeat for a city that never stopped, a light for those who were lost and those who had finally found a way to be found.
She seated herself at the small table near the bookshelves. The secret door was closed , hiding the maps and the secrets of the Spymaster, leaving only the smell of home-cooked food and the comfort of walls that didn't move.
Silas brought the plate out, the steam rising in white plumes. He set it down without a word, his silver ring catching the light as he patted her shoulder. It was a grounding touch, a silent agreement that the night was over and the morning would be whatever they made of it.
"He won't come back," Silas said, leaning against the table.
"I know. He saw what he needed to see."
"And what was that?"
"That Laila is dead."
Aurora took a bite of the pie. It was hot and salty and grounded her in the present.
"The delivery bike's chain is loose," she said between mouthfuls. "I'll need to tighten it before I head out tomorrow."
"I'll have a look at it after we close. You focus on the eating."
They sat in the companionable silence of people who had survived their own histories. Outside, London continued its restless shift, a million stories tangling and untangling in the dark, but inside the Nest, the air was still.
Aurora finished her meal, scraping the last bit of gravy from the plate. She felt heavy in a good way, weighted down by reality instead of regret.
"I'm going up to bed, Si. Don't let the tourists drink all the good stuff."
"Not a chance. Sleep well, Rory."
She climbed the narrow stairs to her flat, the wood groaning under her feet. Each step was a distance put between her and the man at the bar. When she reached her door, she didn't look back down the stairs. She unlocked the deadbolt and stepped into her own space, a room filled with books she’d chosen and air she’d claimed.
She stood by the window for a moment, looking down at the street. A lone figure was walking away, head down against the rain, disappearing into the blur of the city. She watched until he was gone , a smudge of grey lost in the neon green.
She closed the curtains and turned on the lamp. The light was soft, amber, and entirely her own. She sat on the edge of the bed and unlatched her watch , her thumb lingering on the scar one last time. It didn't hurt. It was just a mark on a map, showing where she had been and why she could never go back.
The rain continued its rhythm, a steady pulse against the glass. Aurora pulled the covers up, the smell of the bar clinging to her hair, a scent that meant safety, meant Silas, meant a life she had built with her own two hands.
She closed her eyes, and for the first time in years, the silence of the night didn't feel like a threat. It felt like an invitation.