Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYABA7ZP36Y7XER9VWZPPGY

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest cast a sickly glow across the rain-slicked pavement. Rory hunched deeper into her threadbare coat, pulling the collar higher. Another delivery for Yu-Fei – General Tso’s chicken and a large portion of egg fried rice, just the ticket for a soggy Tuesday evening. She pushed open the heavy oak door, the scent of stale beer and vaguely floral cleaning fluid hitting her like a physical force. The bar was, predictably, quiet. A couple nursed pints in a darkened corner. A lone figure hunched over a chessboard, oblivious to the world. Silas, perched behind the bar polishing glasses, looked up, his hazel eyes crinkling slightly. “Rory. Late as always.” He didn’t bother with a smile, just a nod of acknowledgement. “Traffic was murder,” she mumbled, heading towards the counter. “Yu-Fei’s got a hungry customer.” She set the insulated bag down with a thump and reached for her wallet. Before she could pull it out, a voice cut through the murmur of the bar. “Rory? Is that really you?” She froze, her hand hovering over her purse. The voice… it was familiar, achingly so, yet warped by time and something else she couldn’t quite place. Slowly, she turned. Standing near the dartboard, leaning against the wall with an easy confidence she didn't remember, was Liam Davies. Liam, with the boyish grin and perpetually ruffled brown hair she remembered from countless late-night study sessions and stolen kisses under the Cardiff University clock tower. But this wasn't the Liam she knew. His hair was cropped short and slicked back, revealing a sharply defined jawline. He wore a tailored suit, the kind that cost more than her entire month's rent, and a silver watch glinted on his wrist. His eyes, once warm and hazel, now held a cold, assessing quality. "Liam," she breathed, the name feeling foreign on her tongue after all these years. "Wow. I...I didn't expect to see you here." He pushed himself off the wall and moved closer, his movements deliberate, almost predatory. “Small world, isn’t it? Though I can’t say I expected to see you either. Last I heard, you were… delivering food?” His tone was laced with a subtle mockery. Rory bristled. "It pays the bills.” She met his gaze, refusing to back down. “What are you doing here?” “Business,” he replied smoothly. “I’m in finance now. Mergers, acquisitions, that sort of thing.” He gestured vaguely. “London’s the place to be.” Silas cleared his throat, his gaze fixed on a spot somewhere beyond Liam’s shoulder. Rory noticed his hand tightened around the glass he held. “So, finance,” Rory echoed, testing the word on her tongue. “Quite a change from debating Roman law.” Liam’s lips curled into a tight smile, devoid of genuine warmth. “People change, Rory. Life happens.” A silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Rory avoided his gaze, focusing on a chipped tile on the floor. She remembered Liam vividly – the nervous energy, the quick wit, the shared dreams of changing the world. He was supposed to be a human rights lawyer, fighting for the underdog. Instead, he was… this. "You look well," he continued, his voice smooth as polished stone. “You too,” she replied, her voice carefully neutral. “The suit suits you.” He chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. “It’s part of the uniform. Keeps the sharks at bay.” He paused, his eyes searching her face. "What about you? Still chasing those law degrees?" She swallowed, the memory of fleeing Cardiff, of Evan, a bitter taste in her mouth. “I… I didn’t finish.” His eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of something—pity? Disappointment?—crossing his face. "A shame. You always were the brighter of the two of us." The backhanded compliment stung. “I found other things to occupy my time.” "Like delivering Chinese food?" He didn't mean it as a joke. Rory felt a surge of anger, hot and sudden. "There's nothing wrong with honest work, Liam.” She straightened her shoulders, meeting his gaze head-on. "At least I can look myself in the mirror." He didn't respond immediately, studying her with an intensity that made her skin crawl. “Times change, Rory. Morality is a luxury few can afford.” "Is that what they teach you in finance?" Rory challenged, her voice trembling slightly. Liam’s expression hardened. "You wouldn't understand." “Try me." He hesitated, then let out a sigh, as if bored by the entire conversation. "Let’s just say some compromises are necessary to achieve… certain goals." "What goals?" Rory pressed, unable to resist the pull of the unspoken words hanging between them. He looked past her, towards Silas, who was now pointedly wiping down the already immaculate bar. “Nothing you need to concern yourself with. I just… I was curious. About what you’d been up to. After all, we were quite close once, weren’t we?” The question hung in the air, laced with a sadness that surprised Rory. She remembered a time when those words would have carried a weight of shared intimacy, now they felt like a cruel mockery of what had been lost. "We were," she agreed quietly. "A long time ago." The silence returned, heavier than before. Liam shifted his weight, his gaze darting around the bar. "I should be going," he said finally, his voice losing some of its polished edge. "A business dinner. Important clients." He turned to leave, then paused, looking back at her over his shoulder. “It’s good to see you, Rory,” he said, the words sounding empty even to his own ears. “Take care of yourself.” Rory watched him go, his tailored suit disappearing into the London rain. She felt a strange pang of grief, not for the man he was, but for the boy they both once knew, the boy who was swallowed by time and ambition. Silas slid a glass of amber liquid across the counter. "Whiskey?" "Please," Rory murmured, picking up the glass. She swirled the liquid, the scent of peat and smoke filling her nostrils. "He's changed," Silas observed, his voice low. “He has." Rory took a long sip of the whiskey, the warmth spreading through her chest. “We both have.” Silas remained silent, his gaze fixed on the spot where Liam had stood. Rory caught his eye, and for a moment, she saw a flicker of something—pity, perhaps, or understanding—in his hazel depths. "Some things," Silas said finally, his voice barely a whisper, "are better left buried."