AI Rory slammed the delivery bag onto the scarred oak counter, the zipper's rasp cutting through the bar's low hum. A pint glass teetered, foam spilling over in a lazy cascade. She wiped her hand on her jeans, ignoring the sticky residue, and scanned the room for Silas. The Raven's Nest pulsed with its usual Friday crowd—shadowy figures hunched over half-empty whiskies, the air thick with cigarette smoke that clung to the old maps pinned to the walls like forgotten secrets.
"Evening, love. Another round for the lads?" Silas emerged from behind the bar, his slight limp barely noticeable as he slid a rag across the surface. His hazel eyes flicked to the bag, then back to her face, the silver signet ring glinting under the dim lamps.
She nodded, unzipping the bag to reveal steaming containers of chow mein and spring rolls from the Golden Empress. "Yu-Fei's special tonight. Said to tell you it's on the house if you stop poaching his best delivery girl."
Silas chuckled, a low rumble that didn't reach his eyes. He uncapped a bottle of lager and pushed it her way. "Poaching implies I pay you more than minimum wage. Sit. You've been running all day."
Rory hesitated, her fingers tracing the small crescent scar on her wrist out of habit. The bar felt heavier tonight, the black-and-white photographs on the walls staring down like silent witnesses. She perched on a stool, the leather creaking under her weight , and took a swig. Bitter hops bit her tongue, grounding her.
That's when the door swung open with a force that rattled the green neon sign outside. A woman strode in, her heels clicking sharp against the floorboards. Tall, with cropped blonde hair that framed a face sharpened by angles Rory almost recognised. She wore a tailored black coat over a silk blouse, pearls at her throat like armour. Her eyes—dark, assessing—swept the room and locked on Rory.
"Rory Carter? Bloody hell, is that you?"
The voice hit like a gut punch, laced with a Cardiff lilt softened by years away. Eva. Childhood Eva, who used to braid Rory's hair with wildflowers and whisper dreams of escaping their sleepy town. But this Eva carried herself like she owned the shadows, her lipstick a slash of red that screamed success, or at least its illusion.
Rory's throat tightened. She set the bottle down, glass clinking hard. "Eva Ellis? What the—"
Eva crossed the room in three strides, enveloping Rory in a hug that smelled of expensive perfume and something sharper, like gin and city grit. "Look at you. Still got that scowl. God, it's been... what, five years? Since you bolted from uni."
"Seven," Rory corrected, pulling back. Eva's arms felt foreign, too firm, as if hugging strangers had become routine. Up close, fine lines etched around her eyes, and a faint bruise shadowed her jaw—makeup couldn't quite hide it . Rory's stomach twisted. "What are you doing in a dive like this? Soho's not exactly your scene anymore."
Eva laughed, a bright sound that turned heads. She signalled Silas with a flick of her fingers. "Whisky, neat. And whatever she's having." She slid onto the stool beside Rory, crossing her legs with practiced grace. "Business. Always business. You know me—chasing deals in the smoke. But you... still slinging takeaways? Thought you'd be ruling courtrooms by now, Ms Pre-Law."
Silas poured the whisky, his movements deliberate, the ice cubes clinking like warnings. He shot Rory a glance—hazel eyes narrowing—before retreating to polish glasses at the far end. The bar's murmur picked up again, but Rory felt exposed, the weight of old maps pressing in.
Rory shrugged, picking at the label on her bottle. "Courtrooms sounded like cages. London called. Deliveries pay the rent." She didn't mention Evan, the bruises that mirrored the one on Eva's jaw, the flat above this very bar that Silas had offered without questions. Seven years since Eva's frantic call: *Get out, Rory. He's not worth the grave .* Seven years since Rory packed a bag and vanished into the night, leaving Cardiff's grey streets behind.
Eva sipped her drink, the amber liquid catching the light. "Fair enough. I heard you ditched it all. Your dad was livid—Brendan ranting about family legacy over Sunday roast." Her tone dipped, playful but probing. "Mum sends her love, by the way. Jennifer's still teaching those snotty kids Welsh poetry. Thinks you're wasting away here."
The words stung, a reminder of the life Rory had torched. She forced a grin. "Wasting away with a pint in hand? Sounds idyllic. What's your excuse? Last I heard, you were climbing corporate ladders in Manchester. Now you're haunting London bars?"
Eva's fingers tightened on her glass, knuckles whitening. She glanced at Silas, who pretended to rearrange bottles, his grey-streaked hair catching the lamplight. "Ladders get slippery. Moved to the City last year—finance, mergers, the usual rat race . Pays for the pearls." She touched the necklace, a ghost of a smile fading. "But it's not all champagne. Deals go south. People change."
Rory studied her. The Eva she remembered chased sunsets on Barry Island, feet in the surf, promising they'd conquer the world together. This version reeked of boardrooms and broken promises, her posture rigid like she carried invisible chains. "You look... different. Sharper. Like you've been through the grinder."
Eva's laugh came sharper this time, edged with something brittle. "Grinder? Try the meat hook. Divorced Tom last spring—remember him, the banker with the flashy car? Turns out he preferred his secretary's ledgers." She downed the whisky, signalling Silas for another. "And you? Still single? Or did some London lad finally tame that wild streak?"
Silas delivered the refill, his limp more pronounced as he leaned in. "Easy on the pace, miss. House rules." His voice held quiet authority, the kind that brooked no argument. Eva met his gaze, unflinching, and he backed away, but not before Rory caught the flicker of recognition in his eyes—like he'd sized her up and filed her under threats.
Rory sipped her lager to buy time. "No taming required. Work keeps me busy. Deliveries, odd jobs. Keeps the ghosts at bay." She meant Evan, the ex whose fists had mapped her skin, but Eva's knowing look said she understood. They'd shared secrets as girls—Eva's own run-ins with her stepfather's belt, the way they'd plot escapes in whispered nights.
"Ghosts," Eva echoed , swirling her glass. The ice melted, diluting the whisky to pale gold. "Funny how they follow you. I ran into Brendan last month—your dad. He's retired now, golfing in Ireland with Mum. Asked about you. Said you vanished like smoke." Her voice softened, regret threading through. "We lost touch after you left. I called a few times, but... life."
Rory's scar itched, a phantom ache. "Yeah. Life." She remembered the voicemails—Eva's voice cracking with worry, then fading to silence as Rory rebuilt in London. Silas had become the anchor then, his bar a sanctuary , his stories of old ops a distraction from the nights she bolted awake, tasting blood.
The door creaked again, but this time a group of suits piled in, their laughter booming. Eva leaned closer, her breath warm against Rory's ear. "Truth? I'm here on a lead. Some dodgy merger—offshore accounts, the works. Thought Soho's underbelly might have ears." Her eyes darted to Silas, who wiped the counter with deliberate strokes. "That one's got stories. The limp? Old war wound?"
"Classified," Rory said, a warning in her tone. Silas wasn't one to spill, but his network hummed beneath the bar's surface—contacts from Prague shadows to London alleys. "Why tell me? We haven't spoken in years."
Eva's fingers drummed the counter, nails painted crimson. "Because you're still Rory. The one who thought outside boxes, who dragged me out of that party when things turned sour. I need that now. Things are... complicated." She hesitated, the bruise on her jaw darkening in the low light. Rory caught the tremor in her hand, the way she tugged her sleeve down, hiding what looked like fresh marks .
Complicated. The word hung between them, heavy as the smoke curling from a nearby table. Rory's mind raced —Eva, always the golden girl, now frayed at the edges. Had the ladders led to falls? Regret coiled in Rory's gut, unspoken apologies for the silence , for not reaching back.
"Complicated how?" Rory pressed, her voice low . The bar's hum faded, the photographs watching.
Eva opened her mouth, then clamped it shut as Silas approached, a fresh round in hand. But his eyes fixed on the door, where a man in a trench coat lingered, scanning the room. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a face Rory didn't recognise but Eva did—her colour drained.
"Him," Eva whispered, gripping Rory's arm. "That's why I'm here. He's the complication."
The man pushed forward, his gaze locking on Eva. The air thickened, the bar's warmth turning clammy. Silas's hand slipped beneath the counter, fingers brushing what Rory knew was a hidden latch to the back room. The man's coat bulged oddly, a glint of metal beneath.
Eva stood, her chair scraping back. "We need to move. Now."
Rory's heart hammered, the scar on her wrist burning as she rose. The past crashed into the present—old friends, old wounds—and the bar, once a haven, felt like a trap snapping shut . The man advanced, his hand diving into his pocket, and Silas's voice cut through, calm but lethal.
"Out the back. Both of you."