Run: 2026-02-20-01KHY8JKSPTAZ69Q399GHBS0NN

The neon green of The Raven’s Nest bled into the rain-slicked pavement outside, a sickly glow against the grey London evening. Rory shivered, pulling her worn delivery jacket tighter. Another Golden Empress order, another scramble through the city’s veins. She pushed open the heavy oak door, the familiar scent of stale beer, aged wood, and something faintly metallic, like old coins, washing over her. Silas was behind the bar, polishing a glass with a practiced circular motion. His auburn hair, threaded with silver, gleamed faintly under the low lighting, and she noticed the slight hitch in his step as he moved, the permanent reminder of that Prague operation she’d only ever heard whispers about. “Rory,” he said, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners. “Late run?” “Yu-Fei’s dumplings are always worth the wait,” she replied, dropping her delivery bag onto a nearby stool. “Rough night out there. Feels like the whole city's weeping.” He chuckled, a dry, quiet sound. “London has a way of doing that. What can I get you?” “Just a pint of something dark.” She leaned against the bar, grateful for the relative warmth. The bar wasn’t busy; a couple of older men nursing whiskeys in a corner booth, a solitary figure hunched over a newspaper. The usual Thursday night crowd. She took a long swallow of the stout, the bitter taste settling comfortably at the back of her throat. Then she saw her. Across the room, near the fireplace, a woman was laughing. A low, throaty laugh that tugged at something deep within Rory’s memory. The woman turned, her face illuminated by the flickering light, and Rory felt the pint she’d just drunk abruptly harden in her stomach. It was Elara. Elara Davies. They hadn’t spoken in fifteen years. Fifteen years since that summer in Cardiff, since whispered secrets and shared dreams, since… everything. Rory hadn’t even known if she was still alive. Elara was… different. Gone was the messy, vibrant tangle of auburn curls, replaced with a sleek, sculpted bob the color of polished obsidian. Her clothes – a tailored pantsuit of deep indigo – were expensive, impeccable. No trace remained of the vintage dresses and Doc Martens that had defined her. The hesitant, almost apologetic posture she’d always carried was gone, replaced by a radiating confidence, a stillness that suggested money and power. She was talking animatedly to a man in a suit that probably cost more than Rory’s entire flat. He was handsome, in a severe, polished way – the kind of man who smiled with his teeth, not his eyes. Rory felt a strange, detached observation settle over her. It was like looking at a photograph of someone she used to know, a person from a past life. Silas noticed her staring. “Old acquaintance?” he asked, his voice low. Rory nodded, unable to speak. “She seems to have… flourished,” Silas observed, his gaze following Elara’s. Flourished. That was one way to put it. Transformed was probably closer to the truth. Elara caught Rory’s eye. For a moment, she simply looked, her expression unreadable. Then a slow, almost hesitant smile spread across her face. She excused herself from the man in the suit and began to walk toward them. Rory’s heart hammered against her ribs. The crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist throbbed, a familiar ache triggered by sudden anxiety. She gripped the pint glass tighter. “Rory?” Elara asked, her voice deeper, more resonant than Rory remembered. There was a slight accent, unfamiliar, layered. Not the Welsh lilt of their childhood. “Elara,” Rory managed to say, the word sounding foreign on her tongue. “It’s been… a long time,” Elara said, extending a hand. Her nails were perfectly manicured, a deep crimson. Rory shook it, the brief contact sending a jolt through her. “It has,” Rory agreed. “You… you look good.” A pathetic, inadequate compliment. Elara’s smile widened. “And you. Still delivering, I see.” There was a slight… amusement in her tone. Not unkind, but… distant. “Pays the bills,” Rory said, forcing a shrug. “What about you? What brings you to The Raven’s Nest?” “Business,” Elara said, vaguely. “I’m in London for a conference. A rather… lucrative conference.” She glanced at her companion, who seemed to be engaged in a rather intense conversation on his phone. “Lucrative how?” Rory pressed, the question escaping before she could filter it. She immediately regretted it. Too intrusive. Too… Rory. Elara’s eyes narrowed slightly. “That’s not really something I discuss with old acquaintances, Rory.” The air thickened. The easy familiarity of their youth, a phantom limb, vanished. Rory felt a pang of something sharp and bitter— regret, perhaps? “Right,” Rory mumbled, taking another gulp of her stout. “Sorry.” “It’s lovely to see you,” Elara said, her voice carefully neutral. “It really is. But I must be going. This conference…” “So, you’re… what do you do now?” Rory asked, clinging to the remnants of their past connection. Elara paused, considering. “I’m in asset management.” Asset management. Rory pictured spreadsheets, boardrooms, power lunches. A world away from the art history lectures and late-night talks about escaping Cardiff. “Right,” Rory said again, feeling utterly adrift. “That sounds… important.” “It is,” Elara said, her smile brittle. “Very important. It requires a certain… dedication.” There was a silent beat. Rory wondered if Elara, too, felt the weight of the years, the chasm that had opened up between them. “Do you… ever go back to Cardiff?” Rory asked, desperate to find some common ground. Elara’s expression clouded over briefly, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Not really. It’s… small. I’ve moved on.” The words hung in the air, cold and definitive. A stark declaration of their divergent paths. Rory felt a shiver crawl down her spine, unrelated to the London rain. “I see,” Rory said quietly. Elara glanced at her watch. “Well, I really must run. It was… nice seeing you.” “You too,” Rory said, the words lacking any genuine warmth. Elara offered a final, formal nod and turned to rejoin her companion. As she walked away, Rory noticed a flash of gold on her finger – a large, intricate ring. A ring that screamed wealth and status, a symbol of a life Rory couldn't even begin to imagine. Rory watched her go, a dull ache in her chest. She thought of their shared dreams, their whispered promises. Promises of changing the world, of escaping the mundane. Elara had escaped, alright. But had she changed the world, or simply traded one set of expectations for another? Silas cleared his throat. "She's a striking woman,” he said, carefully. Rory didn't respond. She stared into the dark depths of her stout, the bubbles rising like lost memories. The rain continued to beat against the windows, a relentless, melancholic rhythm. She thought of Evan, of why she’d left Cardiff in the first place. Of the quiet, simple life she’d built for herself in London. It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't lucrative. But it was hers. And suddenly, feeling the weight of fifteen years and the vast gulf between them, being Rory Carter, delivery person, felt a lot better than being Elara Davies, asset manager.