Run: 2026-02-19-01KHVPNNWKPQ7XRJ8RB40KX4A1

The distinctive green neon sign buzzed outside The Raven's Nest, bleeding emerald light through the rain-streaked window. Inside, shadows clung to the corners of the ceiling. Framed black-and-white photographs of unnamed soldiers and yellowed ordnance maps from the Blitz covered the brickwork. Rory pressed her thumb against the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. She traced the pale groove, feeling the pulse beneath the skin. The aroma of sesame oil and burnt garlic clung to her clothes, a steadfast reminder of her six-hour delivery shift navigating the slick streets of Soho. She shrugged off her Golden Empress windbreaker, leaving the wet yellow vinyl draped over the adjacent stool. Behind the bar, Silas shifted his weight, favoring his good leg. A silver signet ring clicked against the side of a heavy tumbler. He ran a cotton cloth over the glass, his hazel eyes fixed on a spot far beyond the rows of liquor bottles. His grey-streaked auburn hair caught the faint amber glow of the antique pendant lamps above. The front door groaned on heavy iron hinges. A rush of cold, damp air swept into the room, rattling the beer taps. A man stepped across the threshold. He swiped rainwater from the lapels of a charcoal wool suit. He unbuttoned the jacket, revealing a tailored waist-coat and a crisp poplin shirt. Rory gripped the edge of the mahogany counter. Three years ago, Declan Hughes wore stained Cardiff University hoodies. He subsisted on instant noodles. He argued corporate malfeasance until his voice turned hoarse. The man standing by the entrance looked like an imposter wearing Declan’s skin. Deep tracks ran beneath his eyes. Grey streaked the hair at his temples. He carried the posture of a man dragging an iron vault strapped to his shoulders. Declan scanned the empty booths. His gaze caught the movement of the bar towel in Silas’s hand, then slid down the length of the polished wood until it landed on Rory. He froze. The heavy door clicked shut behind him, plunging the entryway back into shadow. Declan crossed the floorboards. His leather-soled shoes produced sharp, rhythmic thuds. He stopped one stool away from Rory. Rory dropped her hand from her wrist. She met his stare. Her bright blue eyes swept over his expensive silk tie. Declan parted his lips, exhaling a breath smelling of peppermint and expensive gin. "Aurora." Rory tilted her chin. "Declan. It's Rory now." Silas stepped forward, bracing a hand on the counter. His neat beard twitched as he assessed the newcomer. He set a cardboard coaster onto the wood with a flick of his wrist. Declan placed a hand on the back of the empty stool between them. He stared down at her frayed black t-shirt and the scuffed waterproof boots resting on the brass rail. "A double Macallan. Neat." Declan addressed Silas. "Put her drink on my tab." Rory tapped the brass rail with her boot. "I pay for my own pints." Silas reached for a bottle on the top shelf, poured the amber liquid, and slid the glass across the varnished wood. Declan picked up the tumbler. He brought it to his lips and drained half the glass in one motion. A shudder grabbed his neck. "Brendan had the Cardiff police dragging the River Taff for weeks." Declan set the glass down. "Your mother stopped speaking to people. We all assumed you ended up at the bottom of a quarry." "I took a train." "You vanished." "I packed a bag. I bought a ticket at Central Station. I left." Declan gripped the tumbler, his knuckles turning white. "In the middle of third year. Two months before the Pre-Law finals. You threw away everything." Rory swirled the remnants of her ale. "I threw away a path I never chose, laid out by a father who viewed me as a prop for his legacy. And I survived Evan." Declan flinched. The muscles in his jaw knotted. He broke eye contact, shifting his focus to an aged map of the London Underground taped behind the register. "Evan told the faculty you suffered a nervous breakdown." Rory leaned closer. "He fractured my collarbone and gave me a concussion. You knew. You saw the bruises." "He claimed you fell off your bike." "You saw the hand-shaped marks on my arm, Dec. You looked right at them." The ambient noise of the pub rushed to fill the void between them. Tires hissed over the wet asphalt outside. Silas reached beneath the register and depressed a hidden latch. The heavy oak bookshelf behind the counter swung backward with a metallic click. He carried an empty liquor crate into the clandestine back room, leaving them alone beneath the pendant lights. Declan unclasped his watch—a heavy platinum Rolex. He placed it on the counter. The metal snapped against the wood. Declan stared at the face of the watch. "I make three hundred thousand pounds a year." "Congratulations. You own a flat in Kensington." "I own nothing." He dragged a hand down his face, pulling at the skin. "The firm owns me. I drafted a settlement out of court yesterday for a chemical conglomerate. They tipped carcinogenic waste into a municipal water supply in Yorkshire. Six children developed leukemia." Rory studied the sharp angles of his face. The righteous fire that once defined him during late-night debates at the student union had turned to ash. "I negotiated their payout." Declan swallowed hard. "I got the conglomerate a protective order to seal the findings. I saved them twenty million pounds. The partners bought me a bottle of Dom Pérignon." Rory pushed her pint glass aside. She rested her forearms on the bar. "You planned to work civil rights. Pro bono." Declan picked up the glass and downed the rest of the scotch. "I sit in a beige room for fourteen hours a day. I find loopholes for monsters. I stood in front of a mirror this morning. I stared at my reflection until my eyes watered. I didn't recognize the man looking back." Rory picked up a napkin. She folded the paper into a neat square, pressing the crease with her thumbnail. "You chose the paved route. Brendan Carter wrote you a letter of recommendation. You took the chambers pupilage, you chased the tailored suits, and you shed your morals along the way." Declan pointed at the yellow vinyl jacket. "And you deliver takeaways. You possess a brilliant legal mind. You solved the Montgomery tort case in ten minutes during our first year. Now you run food." Rory tossed the folded napkin onto the coaster. "I breathe oxygen. I wake up without checking the locks three times. I walk down Soho without scanning the shadows for Evan. I pay my rent. I live." "You waste your intellect." "You sold your soul." The accusations hung over the dark oak bar. Declan slumped forward. The tailored suit crinkled at the shoulders. He looked small. "I envy you." Rory narrowed her bright blue eyes. She pointed a finger at his chest. "Do not romanticize my life. I escaped a man who intended to beat me to death. I abandoned a mother to a narcissist. I scrape by on tips and deliver noodles in the freezing rain." Declan reached out, his fingertips grazing the edge of the platinum watch. "You dictated your own terms. I put on the golden handcuffs. I locked them myself. Every time I cash a cheque, I feel another piece of my humanity rot." "Then quit." "I have a mortgage. I have a partner who demands weekends in Milan. I have expectations." Rory straightened her spine, shaking her straight black hair out of her eyes. "Expectations are a ghost story. You can walk out of Vanguard tomorrow. You can buy a ticket at Central Station." "I lack your courage." Declan rested his forehead in his palms. The polished mahogany reflected his broken posture. Rory remained still. She offered no platitudes. The ghosts of Cardiff stood between them, a graveyard of abandoned dreams and hollow victories. Silas emerged from the hidden back room. He pulled the bookshelf closed until the latch engaged. He plucked up his towel and resumed wiping the brass taps. Rory lifted her eyes to the photograph of a nameless soldier on the wall. The man in the picture stared ahead, frozen in time, marching toward a war he would never return from. Declan dragged his hands through his pristine hair, ruining the expensive styling. He turned his head sideways, resting his cheek against the cool wood of the bar.