Run: 2026-02-20-01KHYAMB7QCMKM2EJXF21FGXTZ

The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest buzzed, spitting out a sickly glow onto the rain-slicked pavement. Rory wiped condensation from the window, peering inside. A Tuesday night. Dead quiet. Perfect. She needed a pint and a few hours away from the relentless churn of delivering General Tso’s chicken across London. She pushed through the door, the scent of stale beer and old wood hitting her like a familiar wave. The place was mostly empty; a few regulars hunched over pints, the low murmur of conversation barely audible above the clinking of glasses. Silas, perched behind the bar polishing a glass, looked up, a flicker of something unreadable in his hazel eyes. "Rory. Didn’t expect to see you here.” He set the glass down with a soft thud. "Just needed a quiet pint, Si," she replied, sliding onto a stool. "Anything new in the world of espionage?" He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "The world keeps turning. Same dramas, different faces." He slid a pint of stout towards her. "On the house." Rory took a long swallow, the dark beer coating her tongue. The Raven's Nest hadn’t changed a bit. Still smelled like forgotten stories and dimly lit secrets. She scanned the room, lingering on the faded maps and black-and-white photographs that plastered the walls – ghosts of lives lived and lost. A voice cut through the quiet. "Rory? Rory Carter, is that really you?" She turned. Standing near the back, leaning against a bookshelf, was a woman she hadn’t seen in over a decade. Elara Davies. Rory felt a jolt, a physical tremor that ran through her. Elara, but… not. The last time she saw Elara, they were inseparable, bright-eyed teenagers dreaming of escaping Cardiff, of conquering the world through art and music. But this woman... She was all sharp angles and polished steel. Gone was the whirlwind of auburn curls; in their place, a severe, dark bun pulled tight against her skull. Her clothes were impeccable – a tailored grey suit that probably cost more than Rory’s rent. The soft, artistic eyes she remembered were now hard and distant, framed by a precise application of makeup. "Elara," Rory managed, her voice a little shaky. "Wow. You… you look amazing.” A hollow compliment. Elara offered a tight smile, the expression failing to reach her eyes. She pushed off the bookshelf and moved toward the bar, her heels clicking sharply on the wooden floor. “So do you, in a… different way.” Her gaze lingered on Rory’s worn leather jacket and faded jeans. Silas watched the exchange with quiet intensity, his expression unreadable. "What are you doing here?" Rory asked, needing to break the awkward silence. "Business," Elara said, her voice cool and clipped. “I’m in London for the week. Securing a deal.” “A deal?” Rory raised an eyebrow. "What kind of deal?" Elara hesitated, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. “It’s… complicated. Let’s just say it involves acquisitions. Large-scale acquisitions.” Rory took another swig of her stout. Acquisitions. That wasn't the language of an artist. "Last I heard, you were painting murals in Barcelona." Elara’s smile tightened further. "People change, Rory. Circumstances change." “Yeah, they do.” Rory stared at her pint. A decade. They hadn't spoken in ten years, not since a stupid argument about a boy, a gallery showing, and a whole lot of unresolved tension. She’d assumed Elara was living her dream, splashing colors across buildings, inspiring people. Clearly, she was wrong. "Remember that gallery showing we talked about?" Rory asked, the memory surfacing unexpectedly. Elara's face flickered, a brief flash of vulnerability. “Vaguely. It was a long time ago.” “You were brilliant. Everyone said so. Your work… it had a spark. A real passion.” Elara laughed, a short, brittle sound. “Passion doesn’t pay the bills, Rory. Talent doesn't guarantee success.” "So you traded your passion for… acquisitions?” “I traded it for security,” Elara corrected sharply. “For influence. For control.” “Control over what?” Elara shrugged, a dismissive gesture. “That’s not something you need to worry about.” She signaled to Silas. “Another vodka tonic, please.” Silas poured the drink with practiced efficiency, his eyes still fixed on Rory. Rory took a deep breath. "Remember our pact? To never compromise, to always chase our dreams, no matter what?" Elara’s gaze hardened. “We were young and naive then, Rory. The world doesn’t work like that. You should know that by now.” "I thought I'd learned it a lot sooner," Rory mumbled, thinking of Evan, of London, of the life she’d built out of the wreckage of a bad relationship. Elara studied her, a slow, assessing look. “So, the delivery girl. Still slumming it, I see.” Rory bristled at the condescension. “It pays the bills. And it's honest work.” “Honest, perhaps. But hardly… fulfilling.” Elara took a long sip of her vodka tonic. "You always were the idealistic one, Rory. Bravely chasing windmills." “And you’re the one who sold out,” Rory retorted, the words slipping out before she could stop them. “You traded your soul for a corner office and a fancy suit.” Elara slammed her glass down on the bar. “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Am I? You used to hate corporate greed, Elara. We used to protest it. We used to believe we could change the world.” “We were children then,” Elara said, her voice low and dangerous. “Children are allowed to be idealistic. Adults have responsibilities.” “Responsibilities?” Rory laughed, a bitter sound. “Or excuses?” The tension in the small bar thickened, palpable and heavy. Silas watched them with an unnerving stillness, the silver signet ring on his right hand glinting in the dim light. Elara leaned closer, her voice barely a whisper. "You wouldn't understand, Rory. You've always been content to drift along, letting life happen to you." Rory met her gaze, refusing to back down. “Maybe I am. But at least I can still look in the mirror.” The silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken regrets and shattered dreams. The weight of their shared history pressed down on them, a burden of what might have been. Elara turned away abruptly, her shoulders stiff. "I have to go." She fished a business card from her purse and slid it across the bar towards Rory. "If you ever find yourself in Geneva..." She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn't wait for a response. She turned and strode out of The Raven's Nest, her heels clicking on the pavement as she disappeared into the rain-soaked London night. Rory stared at the business card. It read: Elara Davies, Director of Strategic Acquisitions, Thorne Industries. The card felt cold and alien in her hand. She crumpled it, tossing it into the overflowing ashtray. Silas cleared his throat. "Tough reunion?" Rory looked up at him, the bitterness still lingering in her throat. “She’s not the person I remember.” “People rarely are,” Silas said, his gaze distant. “Time has a way of changing things. Not always for the better.” He paused, studying her face. “Are you alright, Rory?” Rory shrugged, trying to shake off the unsettling feeling that had settled in her stomach. “Just… thinking about old friends. And old choices.” She finished her stout, the taste suddenly flat and bitter. “Some choices,” Silas said softly, “can’t be undone.”