Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVP5YF67ZE5E054F8P377AG

The distinctive green neon sign above the entrance hummed, bleeding an unnatural emerald light through the rain-streaked window of The Raven's Nest. Inside the dimly lit Soho pub, dust motes danced in the sparse illumination hanging over the mahogany bar. Rory sat on a worn leather stool. She scraped her thumbnail across the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. Her windbreaker carried the thick, lingering scent of fried garlic and soy sauce from her shift delivering for the Golden Empress. Silas stood across the counter, wiping down the wood with a rag. His silver signet ring clacked rhythmically against the glass he polished. The grey streaks in his auburn hair caught the low amber light. He moved down the length of the bar, favoring his right side, a slight limp in his left leg disrupting his otherwise smooth, authoritative gait. He slid a rocks glass toward Rory. Amber liquid sloshed against the brim. The brass bell above the door chimed. A rush of damp October wind swept into the room, rattling the frames of the black-and-white photographs and antique maps plastered across the walls. Rory kept her bright blue eyes fixed on the condensation weeping down her glass. Footsteps fell heavy against the floorboards, lacking the shuffle of a regular patron. The newcomer stopped behind Rory. A scent of expensive bergamot perfume pierced the stale aroma of spilled ale and old paper. "Aurora?" Rory stiffened. The syllables carried a crisp Welsh lilt, polished round the edges by years of corporate elocution. She turned. Her straight, shoulder-length black hair brushed the collar of her nylon jacket. Gemma stood two feet away. She wore a tailored camel hair coat, belted tight at the waist. Raindrops beaded on the silk scarf draped around her neck. Her posture mirrored the rigid mannequins in the high-end boutiques of Mayfair. Rory offered a flat, unblinking stare. "It is you." Gemma stepped closer, her gaze dragging down the cheap synthetic fabric of Rory's windbreaker, lingering on the faded takeout logo embroidered over her chest. "My god. I haven't seen you since second year. You just vanished." "I moved to London." "You abandoned your flat in Cardiff in the middle of the night. You left your textbooks on the kitchen table." Gemma pulled out the stool next to Rory and lowered herself onto the cracked leather. "Brendan and Jennifer called my parents. They thought you were dead. We all did." Silas materialized from the shadows near the taps. He set a fresh coaster in front of Gemma, his hazel eyes locking onto her for a fraction of a second before sweeping the rest of the room. He didn't ask for her order. "Gin and tonic." Gemma tapped a manicured fingernail against the wood. Silas turned his back. The clinking of bottles resumed. "I sent an email," Rory shifted her weight, rolling the heavy glass between her palms. "Three weeks later. A blank message with an attachment saying you were fine." Gemma gripped the edge of the bar. "You threw away the Pre-Law program. You were top of the class, Rory. We were supposed to take the bar together. Look at you now." "I have a job." "You deliver takeout." "It pays the rent." Silas set the gin and tonic over the coaster. He retreated to the far end of the counter, picking up a newspaper and leaning against the heavy oak bookshelf that concealed the back room. Gemma took a sip. Her nose wrinkled at the sharp taste of the cheap well gin. She set the glass down and leaned forward. The ambient light carved hollow shadows under her cheekbones. She looked older, burdened by the endless hours of billable corporate litigation. "I made junior partner at Hughes & Davies last month." "Congratulations. You always wanted that." "I had to work twice as hard to fill the vacuum you left," Gemma shot back. Her knuckles whitened around the glass. "You had a natural mind for it. Out-of-the-box thinking, the professors called it. You could dissect a tort case in ten minutes. I stayed up until four in the morning memorizing precedents just to keep pace with you." Rory took a slow pull of her whiskey. The alcohol burned a familiar, jagged path down her throat. She set the glass down, her movements deliberate and precise. "Cardiff is a long time ago." "It's three years ago, Aurora." Gemma let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "It's not a lifetime." "It feels like one." "Because of Evan?" The air in the bar thickened. Rory dug her nail back into the crescent scar on her wrist. The ambient hum of the neon sign outside felt deafening. Silas turned a page of his newspaper. The rustle of paper cut through the silence. Gemma watched Rory's face. "He came looking for you," Gemma continued, her voice dropping. "He cornered me outside the library. He looked awful. Drunk. Said you stole money from him. Said you lost your mind." "Evan said a lot of things." Rory kept her voice entirely level. "He smashed your apartment windows. The police came. After that, he packed up and went back to Swansea." Gemma reached out, hovering a hand over Rory's arm before pulling it back, unsure of the boundary. "You could have told me. You could have stayed. I would have let you sleep on my sofa." "I didn't need a sofa." "You needed help. Instead, you fled." Gemma gestured to the dim, empty bar. "To this. Hiding in Soho. Smelling like an industrial kitchen. You let him steal your future." Rory stood up. The wooden stool scraped violently against the floorboards. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a crumpled ten-pound note, and slapped it onto the damp mahogany. "He didn't steal my future," Rory leaned over the bar, bringing her face inches from Gemma's. "He forced me to find a new one. A real one. You sit in your glass office drafting NDAs for oil companies. You think that degree makes you significant." Gemma shrank back, her eyes widening at the cold, hard edge in Rory's tone. The bubbly, driven girl from the university library was gone, replaced by someone entirely unrecognizable. Someone dangerous. "I didn't come in here to insult you," Gemma whispered. "I miss my friend." "Your friend stayed in Cardiff." Rory grabbed her empty windbreaker, turning her back on the bar. Silas looked up from his newspaper. He offered a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Rory, wait." Gemma stood, leaving her coat unbelted. "I come to London every other Tuesday for client meetings. Let me buy you a proper dinner. Somewhere nice." Rory paused at the door. Her hand gripped the tarnished brass handle. The neon light bled across her knuckles. She looked over her shoulder, her blue eyes devoid of the warmth Gemma sought. "Don't come back to this bar, Gemma. It's not the sort of place for junior partners."