Run: 2026-02-19-01KHTYR66R5A7B8X4D03G1AEX8

The door chime of The Raven's Nest barely registered above the low murmur of evening conversation when Rory glanced up from her pint. She'd come down from her flat seeking the familiar comfort of Silas's domain after another soul-crushing day of delivering lukewarm takeaway across London's grey sprawl. The bar's dim lighting and weathered photographs usually offered sanctuary from the world's sharp edges. Then she saw him. Marcus Sullivan sat hunched over a whisky at the far end of the bar, his once-golden hair now thin and prematurely grey. The boy who'd scaled Cardiff's rooftops with her, who'd shared stolen cigarettes behind the university library, who'd sworn they'd conquer the world together—that boy had been replaced by something hollowed out and careful. "Marcus?" He turned at her voice, and for a heartbeat his face lit up with the smile she remembered. Then something shuttered behind his eyes. "Bloody hell. Rory Carter." His Welsh accent had flattened into something more polished, more London. "What are the chances?" She approached slowly, reading the tension in his shoulders. "About the same as finding you in a Soho dive, I'd say. Last I heard you were making waves at some posh firm in Canary Wharf." "Was." He gestured to the empty stool beside him. "Past tense being the operative phrase." She perched on the edge of the seat, maintaining distance. Up close, she could see the fine lines around his eyes, the way his expensive suit hung loose on a frame that had lost weight it couldn't afford to lose. "Want to talk about it?" "Not particularly." He drained his glass and signalled Silas for another. "What about you? Last thing I remember, you were dead set on following your old man into law." "Also past tense." She traced the rim of her pint glass. "Turns out I'm better at delivering Chinese food than defending the innocent." Marcus laughed, but it came out bitter. "Christ, we really buggered it up, didn't we? Remember when we had it all sorted? You were going to be the barrister who actually gave a damn, and I was going to be the investment banker with a conscience." "Banker with a conscience. There's an oxymoron for you." "Yeah, well. Turns out conscience is a luxury you can't afford when you're drowning." Silas appeared with Marcus's refill, his hazel eyes taking in the scene with practiced discretion. He'd been in intelligence long enough to recognise the particular weight of old friendships under strain. "Drowning?" Rory kept her voice neutral, but her grip tightened on her glass. Marcus stared into his whisky like it held answers. "Started small. Client entertainment, they called it. Just a bit of powder to keep the long hours bearable. Then the hours got longer, the deals got bigger, and the powder got... necessary." The admission hung between them like smoke. Rory felt something crack in her chest—not surprise, exactly, but the confirmation of fears she'd buried deep. "Marcus—" "Don't." His voice carried an edge she'd never heard before. "Don't give me the concerned friend routine. We both know where that leads." "Where it leads?" "To you disappearing again. Just like you did with Evan." The name hit her like a slap. She'd never told Marcus about the bruises, the way Evan's hands left marks that makeup couldn't quite cover. But Marcus had eyes, had always been too perceptive for his own good. "That was different." "Was it? You vanished overnight, Rory. One day we're mates, the next you've fled to London without so much as a goodbye text. Left the rest of us to wonder what we'd done wrong." She wanted to explain about the hospital visits disguised as clumsiness, about the way Evan's apologies came with flowers and promises that lasted exactly until the next time. Instead, she found herself studying the photographs on the wall behind Marcus—black and white faces from decades past, frozen in moments of supposed happiness. "I couldn't stay." "You couldn't trust us, you mean." The accusation stung because it carried truth. She'd been so deep in shame, so convinced that leaving was the only solution, that she'd never considered the collateral damage of her silence. "Eva knew," she said quietly. "Eva helped me get out." "Eva." Marcus's laugh held no humour. "Of course she did. Saint Eva, always ready to rescue everyone except herself." "What's that supposed to mean?" But Marcus was already reaching for his wallet, pulling out notes with the mechanical precision of someone who'd practised the gesture of leaving. "Doesn't matter now, does it? We all made our choices." "Marcus, wait—" He stood, swaying slightly. The whisky or exhaustion, she couldn't tell which. "You know what the worst part is? I used to think about calling you. When things got bad, when the walls started closing in. I'd look up your number, start dialling, then remember how easy it was for you to cut us all off." "It wasn't easy." "Wasn't it?" He buttoned his coat with deliberate care. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looked pretty bloody effortless." She watched him move toward the door, each step measured and careful. He paused at the threshold, one hand on the brass handle, and for a moment she thought he might turn back. Might bridge the gap that six years and poor choices had carved between them. "Take care of yourself, Rory." The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving her alone with the weight of everything unsaid. Silas materialised beside her, his presence solid and reassuring. "Old friend?" "Used to be." She pushed her half-empty pint away. "We had all these plans, you know? We were going to change the world." "Plans have a way of surviving contact with reality about as well as battle strategies do." She looked up at him, taking in the silver threading through his beard, the lines that spoke of harder choices than she'd ever had to make. "Any regrets about how yours turned out?" Silas considered this, his signet ring catching the bar's amber light as he wiped down glasses. "Plenty. But regret's just another word for experience, isn't it? The trick is learning to carry the weight without letting it crush you." Through the window, she could see Marcus's silhouette disappearing into the London night, shoulders hunched against the October chill. Six years ago, they'd been invincible. Now they were just two people who'd learned that growing up meant growing apart, that some distances couldn't be measured in miles.