Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY7RQVG2NQ4MCYQZECJ9KXM

The rain hammered against the green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest, smearing the light into blurry streaks on the slick Soho pavement. Rory wiped condensation from the glass, watching the city bleed past. A slow Tuesday. Yu-Fei had given her the night off, a small mercy given the weather. She’d come up for a quiet pint, maybe lose herself in the chipped Formica of the bar. The bell above the door chimed, a discordant jingle slicing through the low murmur of conversation and the jazz spilling from the speakers. She barely glanced up, automatically reaching for a coaster. “Rory?” The voice was hesitant, edged with something brittle. She turned, slowly, and her hand froze mid-air. He was…different. Daniel. It had to be. The bone structure was the same – the high cheekbones, the strong jaw – but the boy she remembered, all easy smiles and reckless energy, had been sanded down, replaced by something sharper, something guarded. His hair, once a tousled mess of brown, was cropped short, streaked with silver at the temples. He wore a dark suit that looked expensive, the kind that spoke of boardrooms and power. The easy confidence she remembered had been replaced with a careful assessment, his eyes, the same warm brown she recalled, scanning her with a practiced precision that made her skin prickle. “Dan?” she breathed, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. It had been…eight years? At least. Since the disastrous art school leaving party, since the words she hadn’t been able to say had lodged themselves in her throat like splinters. He managed a wry smile, a ghost of the one that used to crinkle the corners of his eyes. “Guilty as charged. Didn't think I'd find you…here.” He gestured around the dimly lit bar, taking in the worn maps and faded photographs that lined the walls. “It’s a good place to disappear,” she said, the words sounding more pointed than she intended. She deliberately didn’t offer a hug. Not yet. “What brings *you* to Soho?” He shrugged, pulling a stool up to the bar a couple of seats down. Silas, polishing glasses behind the counter, gave them a knowing glance but remained silent. He was always good at reading a room. “Business. A conference at a hotel nearby. Thought I’d…see what was still around.” His gaze flickered over her, taking in her worn jeans, her black t-shirt, the faint crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist she always tried to hide. He didn't comment on it, but she knew he’d seen. “Not much,” Rory said, offering a tight smile. “Unless you’re looking for overpriced cocktails and regret.” He chuckled, a short, humorless sound. “Sounds about right. You haven’t changed much.” She snorted, a genuine, unfiltered reaction. “Oh, really? Last I checked, I wasn't running some multinational corporation.” “I’m a consultant,” he corrected, his jaw tightening, “Not a CEO. And it’s not multinational. Yet.” “Right. Consultant.” She waved for Silas, ordering a Guinness. “Doing what, exactly? Polishing the image of oil companies?” A flicker of something like pain crossed his face, quickly masked. “Data analytics. Security. It’s…complicated.” “Complicated usually means ethically dubious.” “That’s a cynical view, Rory.” “Realistic.” She took a sip of her Guinness when Silas set it down, savoring the rich, dark taste. It didn't quite settle the knot in her stomach. “So, data analytics. Fancy. I’m a delivery driver.” “For Yu-Fei?” he asked, a hint of surprise in his voice. “I remember you loved her food.” “Still do. Pays the bills.” She deliberately kept her tone light, avoiding eye contact. It was easier to navigate this conversation from behind a shield of practicality. “And the flat above Silas’ bar? Still?” “Still.” A silence descended, thick and uncomfortable. The jazz seemed to amplify, each saxophone note a painful reminder of a shared past. Rory traced the damp rim of her glass, the cool condensation a welcome distraction. “I always wondered…” Daniel began, then stopped, running a hand through his already neatly-groomed hair. “What?” she prompted, her voice barely a whisper. “What happened after… everything. After art school.” He spoke carefully, as if afraid of disturbing something fragile. Rory’s grip tightened on her glass. “Life happened. I moved. Found a job. You know.” “No. I don’t know. I tried to find you. A few times.” “You could have.” The accusation slipped out before she could stop it. He flinched, his gaze dropping to his hands, which were clasped tightly in front of him. “I did. But then… things got complicated. My father… he got sick. And then after that…” He trailed off. “After that you decided to become a high-powered consultant and forget about all your starving artist friends?” she finished, the bitterness stinging. His head snapped up, his eyes flashing. “That’s not fair. You think I wanted this?” “Then what did you want, Dan? Because the Dan I knew wouldn’t have ended up… this." “I wanted to provide. I wanted stability. I wanted to take care of my mother.” He said it with a quiet desperation that chipped away at her anger. “You were always so quick to dismiss my family. Say we were…traditional, stifling.” “Because you were! You were suffocating under their expectations.” She remembered the late-night conversations, fueled by cheap wine and shared dreams of escaping their predetermined paths. “You wanted to paint, Dan. You were brilliant. And then you just…gave up.” He stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “And you? You ran. You always ran. From everything.” The words hit her like a physical blow. She forced herself to meet his gaze, refusing to look away. “I ran from an abusive relationship. I ran from a life that was falling apart. I ran for my own goddamn survival.” “Evan… I heard about that.” His voice was low, laced with regret. “I should have been there.” “You were busy building your empire.” Silas cleared his throat, a subtle attempt to diffuse the tension. He placed a small plate of peanuts between them. “Enjoy yourselves, you two. It's been a long time.” They ignored him. “I’m sorry,” Daniel said, his voice barely audible. “For everything. For not being there. For…not reaching out. For becoming someone you wouldn't recognize.” Rory looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the exhaustion in the lines around his eyes, the weight of responsibility etched on his face. She saw the ghost of the boy she once knew, buried beneath layers of ambition and regret. “We all change, Dan,” she said softly, the anger slowly draining away, replaced by a hollow ache. “Sometimes not for the better.” He nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on the swirling foam of her Guinness. “I thought…maybe we could grab coffee tomorrow? Talk properly?” Rory hesitated. The prospect of delving into the wreckage of their past was terrifying. But something in his eyes – a plea for understanding, a flicker of the old connection – made her consider it. “I work tomorrow,” she said, her voice noncommittal. “Right. Of course.” Another silence descended, less fraught this time, but no less painful. The rain continued to fall, washing away the light, mirroring the slow erosion of their shared history. Rory finished her Guinness, the taste now bitter on her tongue. Daniel reached into his pocket and pulled out a card. He slid it across the bar towards her. “My number. If you change your mind.” She didn't pick it up. She didn’t need it. She knew, with a chilling certainty, that some bridges were better left burned. She looked at him one last time, a silent goodbye passing between them. He stood, adjusted his suit jacket, and turned to leave. As he reached the door, he paused, glancing back at her with an expression she couldn't decipher. Then he was gone, swallowed by the rain and the London night. Rory finally reached for the card, her fingers brushing against the cool, smooth surface. She didn’t need to read it to know what it said. She already knew everything.