Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY85Q5NDC7TADTX41JTSZEQ

The green neon of The Raven's Nest bled across the rain-slicked pavement of Soho. Aurora Carter, damp from the drizzle and smelling faintly of sesame oil—a residue from her Golden Empress delivery—pushed open the door, the bell above jingling a tired welcome. The usual haze of old wood, cheap whisky, and something indefinably sharper, like old paper and secrets, hung in the air. Silas would have the fire stoked just so, two logs crackling reliably in the grate. She scanned the room. Familiar black-and-white photographs of war correspondents and faded maps of forgotten territories decorated the walls. Not a bad place to wait out a London downpour. She found a stool at the bar, the worn leather cool beneath her thighs. “Rough night?” Silas’ voice, a low rumble, came from behind the polished mahogany. He didn’t look up from wiping down the bar with a practiced hand. “You know it,” Rory said, leaning against the counter. "Yu-Fei's been swamped. Kung Pao chicken demand spikes with the rain, apparently." He finally glanced up, hazel eyes assessing her. He’d always been good at that – reading people. He didn’t smile. “Still delivering?” “Paying the rent. It’s honest work.” Rory traced the crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist, a nervous habit. A moment of silence stretched, punctuated by the hiss of the fire and the drumming of rain against the windowpanes. Then, a voice cut through the quiet. “Rory? Is that really you?” Rory froze. The voice held a cadence she hadn't heard in close to a decade. She turned, slow and deliberate, and her stomach dropped. Standing near the back, partially obscured by a cluster of potted ferns, was Elara Davies. Elara. She’d been impossibly bright, a supernova of intellectual energy eclipsing everyone around her at Cardiff University. Rory, content to be a quiet satellite, had orbited her orbit, absorbing her wit and enthusiasm like starlight. They'd envisioned conquering the world, side-by-side, armed with law degrees and righteous indignation. They had even picked out matching amethyst pendants – a symbol of their unshakeable bond. Rory still had hers, tucked away in a box of forgotten trinkets. But Elara…Elara was almost unrecognizable. Gone were the unruly curls the color of autumn leaves, replaced by a sleek, obsidian bob that framed a face sharpened by an almost unnerving stillness. The vintage dresses and Doc Martens that had been her uniform were traded for a perfectly tailored grey pantsuit. There wasn’t a single crease out of place. Even her glasses, once a quirky, horn-rimmed style, were now minimalist, silver-rimmed rectangles. “Elara,” Rory echoed, the name feeling foreign on her tongue. “It’s… Ms. Davies now,” Elara corrected, her voice clipped and precise, lacking any of the playful lilt Rory remembered. “Davies-Sterling, actually. But Elara will do, I suppose.” Silas watched them with knowing eyes, his movements slowing as he polished a glass with unnecessary care. He'd likely witnessed such reunions before. He’d seen the world change many times over. “You look… different,” Rory said, the understatement hanging heavy in the air. Elara offered a thin smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Time does that. As does a successful career in international arbitration.” Rory nodded, grasping for a point of connection. “Arbitration? I thought you were going into human rights law.” “Plans change,” Elara said, the words lacking any warmth. “Human rights are rather… messy. Arbitration is clean, precise. Black and white, Rory. Much more my speed now." “So, London?” “A strategic necessity. My firm has offices here. I’m here for a conference.” She glanced around the bar with a look of faint distaste. “Rather… quaint.” Rory bristled, a flicker of the old defensiveness rising within her. “It’s Silas' bar. It's been here for decades.” “Indeed,” Elara conceded, turning back to Rory. "It's lovely to see you Rory. Has it been... five years? Six?" Rory thought about Evan. About leaving Cardiff. About the sudden, overwhelming need to disappear. The lie came easily. “Something like that. I've been… busy.” Elara raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Doing what, exactly?" There was an almost surgical precision to her tone, dissecting Rory’s vague statement. Rory hesitated. Admitting she delivered Chinese food didn't exactly align with Elara’s current image. "Various things. Freelance work. Just… keeping busy.” Silas slid a glass of amber liquid towards Elara. "Scotch. I think you'll find it helps with the strategic necessities." Elara accepted it with a curt nod, taking a careful sip. "Thank you, Silas. You haven't changed a bit.” Her gaze drifted to the slight limp in his left leg. A flicker of something—recognition? Pity?—crossed her face before she masked it with a carefully neutral expression. Rory watched her, a strange mix of sorrow and resentment churning within her. She’d known Elara, truly known her, once. Now, she felt like she was looking at a meticulously constructed portrait of someone she vaguely remembered. "Remember that time we tried to organize a protest against the university's investment in arms manufacturers?" Rory asked, grasping for a shared memory, a lifeline to their past. Elara’s expression remained unchanged. “A youthful indiscretion,” she said coolly. “I’ve long since realized that systemic change is rarely achieved through shouting in the streets.” The silence returned, thick and suffocating. Rory felt a profound sense of loss, not just for the friendship they’d lost, but for the idealistic young women they’d both once been. “You seem… successful,” Rory said, the words laced with a bitterness she couldn't quite suppress. Elara inclined her head. “I am. I represent major corporations in complex international disputes. I make a considerable amount of money. And I have a lovely apartment overlooking Hyde Park.” She paused, her gaze hardening. “I have everything I ever wanted.” Rory looked down at her hands, calloused from gripping delivery bags. Everything she'd ever wanted hadn't involved corporate mergers and expansive views. It involved laughter, late-night talks fueled by cheap wine, the unwavering certainty of a shared purpose. “I’m glad for you,” Rory managed, the words tasting like ash. Elara took another sip of her scotch, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond Rory. “You should be.” She reached into her purse and withdrew a small, rectangular card. “Here’s my contact information. In case you ever need… arbitration services.” Rory stared at the card, embossed with the elegant logo of Davies-Sterling International Arbitration. It felt like a parting gift, a tangible representation of the chasm that had grown between them. “Thank you," Rory said quietly, tucking the card into her pocket. Elara finished her drink, placed the glass on the bar with a delicate clink, and rose to her feet. "I must be going. My schedule is rather demanding." “It was… good to see you, Elara,” Rory said, knowing that it hadn't been. Elara offered one last, brittle smile. "You too, Rory.” And then, she was gone, swallowed by the rain-slicked streets of Soho. Rory watched her disappear, the click of her heels fading into the urban hum. Silas placed a hand on her shoulder, his touch surprisingly gentle. “Some people change,” he murmured, his gaze fixed on the doorway where Elara had vanished. “Not always for the better.” He paused, then added, his voice low, “Don't let it make you question your own path, Rory. You've always had a better compass than she ever did.” Rory looked at him, a faint smile touching her lips. Yu-Fei would be calling soon, another order to deliver. It wasn’t a grand life, but it was hers. And at least she didn’t have to pretend she was something she wasn’t. She still had her amethyst pendant, tucked safely away, a silent reminder of a friendship lost and a life she hadn't traded away.