AI Aurora pushed through the heavy oak door of The Raven's Nest, the green neon sign above buzzing faintly like a trapped hornet. The Soho night clung to her jacket—damp air laced with exhaust and fried batter from her last delivery run for Yu-Fei Cheung. Her shoulder-length black hair stuck to her neck in limp strands, and she rubbed at the small crescent scar on her left wrist, an old tic surfacing as fatigue gnawed at her bones. At twenty-five, the days blurred into a grind: parcels shuttled across London, dodging traffic, climbing endless stairs to flats that smelled of curry and regret. The flat above Silas's bar was her lifeline—cheap rent, a lock that worked—but she rarely ventured downstairs. Tonight, though, the silence up there pressed too hard. She needed the murmur of voices, the bite of whiskey to dull the edges.
The bar enveloped her in its familiar dimness. Old maps yellowed on the walls, their curling edges framing black-and-white photographs of stern faces from wars long faded. A few patrons hunched over their drinks: a woman in a trench coat nursing a gin, a couple whispering in the corner booth. Behind the scarred mahogany bar stood Silas Blackwood, tall and unyielding at six-foot-one, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the low light from the pendants overhead. His neatly trimmed beard matched the streaks, and his hazel eyes flicked up as she approached, sharp as ever despite the slight limp that dragged his left leg when he moved. The silver signet ring on his right hand glinted as he polished a glass with a rag that had seen better decades.
"Rory," he said, voice low and gravelly, carrying that quiet authority honed from years in shadows she could only guess at. "Haven't seen you down here in weeks. Flat treating you alright?"
She slid onto a stool, the leather creaking under her five-foot-six frame. Her bright blue eyes met his, cool and assessing. "Leaks less than my old place in Cardiff. Pint of the usual, Si. And whatever's strong enough to erase a shift of Deliveroo rejects."
He nodded, no questions, pulling a handle with practiced ease . Foam crowned the glass as he slid it over, the ring tapping the wood. Silas had been her landlord for eight months now, a retired spook turned barkeep who'd rented her the flat without references or fanfare. Mentor, some might call him, but Rory preferred landlord—boundaries kept things simple. She sipped, the bitter hop cutting through the grease on her tongue.
The door swung open again, admitting a gust of chill and the sharp click of heels on the floorboards. Rory glanced over, casual at first, then froze. The woman who stepped in was a ghost in tailored wool: blonde hair cropped sharp to her jaw, a charcoal coat draped over a silk blouse that screamed boardrooms, not back alleys. Eva. Childhood friend from Cardiff days, the one who'd texted frantically six months after Rory's split from Evan: *Get out. London. My couch. Now.* Haven't seen her since the night Rory arrived, shell-shocked, crashing on that very couch before Silas's ad caught her eye.
Eva scanned the room, her green eyes—once wide with mischief—now narrowed, calculating . She looked... polished. Successful. Thirty pounds lighter, maybe, or just the armor of time. No trace of the girl who'd chain-smoked Marlboros behind the university library, plotting escapes from Pre-Law lectures.
Their gazes locked. Eva's lips parted, then curved into a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Rory Carter. Bloody hell."
Rory's grip tightened on the glass. "Eva. Fancy seeing you in a dive like this."
Eva approached, heels punctuating each step, shedding her coat to reveal the blouse tucked into slim trousers. She smelled of jasmine and city money—perfume that cost more than Rory's weekly take. Silas raised an eyebrow but said nothing, pouring a gin tonic without being asked and sliding it Eva's way. Old habits; he'd seen enough reunions to know the script.
Eva claimed the stool beside Rory, her posture straight, manicured nails tapping the bar. "Soho, darling. I'm in meetings all week—some property deal near Carnaby. Thought I'd slum it for old times' sake." She sipped, eyes roving Rory's faded jeans, the food stains on her jacket, the faint shadows under those bright blue eyes. "You look... good. London suits you."
Liar, Rory thought, but her voice stayed even, cool-headed as always. "Suits some better than others. What brings the big-shot back? Last I heard, you were climbing ladders at that firm in the City."
Eva laughed, a tinkling sound that echoed false against the maps on the walls. "Still am. Partner track now. Weddings, divorces—the usual circus. But you... God, Rory, it's been what? Two years? Since you bolted from that prick Evan."
"Almost three." Rory traced the scar on her wrist, the skin pale under the bar light. Childhood accident, bike crash on the Taff Trail. Eva had been there, bandaging it with spit and a laugh. Now, the memory felt distant, like someone else's life.
Silas lingered at the far end, wiping down a spill, his limp evident as he shifted weight . He watched without watching—spymaster's curse.
Eva leaned in, voice dropping. "I was worried sick after you ghosted uni. Brendan called me, raging about you dropping Pre-Law. Said you'd shacked up here." She gestured vaguely at the ceiling. "Delivery gig? That's temporary, right? You're too sharp for that. Remember those mock trials? You shredded the opposition."
Rory's jaw tightened. Sharp. That's what they all said—her father the barrister, her mother the teacher, Eva the enabler. Out-of-the-box thinker, cool under fire. But London had sanded those edges. Evan’s fists had done the rest. "Temporary pays the rent. And Evan's ancient history."
"Is he?" Eva's eyes sharpened, probing. She'd changed— the wild girl who'd urged Rory to ditch the textbooks for pints now radiated control, every hair in place, no room for cracks. Back in Cardiff, Eva had been the flame: parties till dawn, boyfriends swapped like outfits. Rory the anchor, plotting their futures over tea. But Eva's flame had forged her into this—sleek, untouchable. Rory wondered if the change was armor or atrophy.
"Water under the bridge," Rory said, sipping deeper. The pint warmed her chest, loosening the knot. "You look like you've conquered the world. Husband? Kids? Or just the law?"
Eva's smile faltered, just a flicker . She swirled her gin. "No husband. Fiancé bailed last year—some cliché about my hours. Kids? Please. Too busy building an empire." She paused, gaze drifting to the photographs on the wall: soldiers in trenches, spies in trilbies? "But you... Rory, you were supposed to be right there with me. We had plans. London, the two of us, taking it by storm."
The words hung, heavy with the unsaid. Rory felt the weight settle—the years since Cardiff, the flat above the Nest her cage rather than conquest. Eva had pushed her here, yes, but Rory had run. From Evan’s bruises hidden under sleeves, from her father's disappointment, from the girl who'd dreamed of courts before doubt crept in. Regret coiled unspoken : What if she'd stayed? Fought for the degree, for the life scripted in her parents' eyes?
"You saved me," Rory said finally, voice steady . "That text. 'Get out.' I did."
Eva's hand brushed Rory's arm, lingering on the scar. "I knew he'd hurt you bad. Saw it in your eyes that weekend you crashed at mine. But this?" She nodded at the bar, the dimness, Silas polishing glasses with his ring flashing. "This isn't you. The Rory I knew wouldn't deliver egg rolls. She'd argue her way to the top."
Tension crackled, the air thickening like the fog outside. Silas caught Rory's eye, his hazel gaze questioning—stay or bolt?—but she held ground. "People change, Eva. You most of all. Used to drag me to those grimy pubs off St. Mary's Street. Now you're Carnaby deals and partner track. What's that cost you?"
Eva recoiled slightly , nails digging into her glass. "Cost? Freedom, Rory. Security. What you threw away." Her voice cracked, the polish slipping. "I pushed you here because I couldn't save myself back then. Cardiff was suffocating me too—dead-end job, parents on my case. Thought we'd do it together. But you vanished into this..." She waved at the Nest, the maps whispering secrets. "Delivery runs. Hiding above a bar."
Rory's pulse thrummed. Hiding. Truth stung like whiskey burn. The flat was sanctuary , Silas her silent sentinel , but nights alone replayed Evan's rage, her father's lectures: *Buck up, Aurora. Ellis blood doesn't quit.* Unspoken regret surged— for the friendship frayed by distance, for the paths diverged not by choice but fracture . Eva had changed into steel; Rory into survival.
"Not hiding," Rory murmured. "Surviving. And you? Empire look lonely from up there?"
Eva stared into her drink, the green eyes dimming. Silence stretched, broken only by the clink of glasses elsewhere, Silas's rag scraping wood. His limp carried him closer, refilling without a word—easing tension like a pro.
"I miss it," Eva whispered at last. "Us. The chaos. Before I became this." She gestured at herself, the silk , the sheen. "Regret pushing you so hard? Maybe. Thought it'd save us both."
Rory nodded, the scar itching fierce now. Time's weight pressed: three years stolen, regrets buried like the Nest's secrets behind that bookshelf. "Miss you too. But we're not those girls anymore."
Eva slid cash across the bar—crisp twenty, no coins. "Dinner soon? Real catch-up. My treat."
Rory hesitated, then pocketed the warmth of possibility. "Yeah. Soon."
Eva stood, heels clicking retreat. The door swung shut, neon buzzing farewell. Silas leaned in, voice soft. "Old ghosts?"
"Something like that." Rory drained her pint, the bitterness lingering. Upstairs waited—silence , scars, the grind. But for a moment, in the dim glow of maps and memory, regret felt shared, lighter. Time hadn't erased them; it had merely reshaped the frame. She slipped a note to Silas for the tab and climbed the stairs, the flat's door clicking shut on the night below.
(Word count: 1427)