Run: 2026-02-24-01KJ8VR4794KF5VDER15N1486Z

The rain had softened to a fine mist by the time Rory pushed open the heavy door of The Raven's Nest. The green neon sign above her head buzzed like a trapped insect, staining the wet pavement an eerie emerald. Inside, the air was a warm blanket of old wood, spilled ale, and the faint, permanent scent of lemon polish. She shrugged off her damp delivery jacket, the one with the Golden Empress logo embroidered on the breast, and hung it on a peg by the door. Silas looked up from polishing a glass, his hazel eyes catching the low light. “Late one,” he observed, his voice a low rumble that fit the room. “Mr. Cheung had a last-minute banquet order. Forty-eight spring rolls to Chelsea.” She slid onto her usual stool at the end of the bar, the wood smooth and familiar under her palms. Her left wrist, with its small crescent-shaped scar, rested on the polished surface. “The usual?” he asked, already reaching for the single malt she preferred. She nodded, watching his hands, the silver signet ring on his right hand flashing as he poured. He moved with the deliberate care of a man mindful of an old injury, the slight hitch in his step as he came around the bar to place the glass before her barely noticeable unless you knew to look. She did. She’d been living in the flat above for eighteen months, long enough to learn the rhythms of his pain and his silence. The drink was a warm shock in her chest. She let her gaze wander the room, over the old maps pinned to the walls, the black-and-white photographs of a London that no longer existed. It was a Tuesday, quiet. A couple murmured in a corner booth. An old man nursed a pint near the fireplace. The peace was a tangible thing, something she could cup in her hands. The door opened again, letting in a swirl of damp, chill air and the sound of distant traffic. A man entered, shaking water from a dark overcoat. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a face that was at once familiar and utterly foreign. Rory’s mind, always cataloging, ticked through possibilities. Client of Silas’s? Unlikely; they usually came after midnight, through the back. Tourist? He didn’t have the lost look. Then he turned, brushing a hand through his damp, sandy hair, and his eyes met hers. For a second, there was nothing. Then a crack in the universe. The past rushed in, not as a memory but as a physical presence, filling her mouth with the taste of cheap library coffee and the smell of rain on the Cardiff University quad. “Laila?” The name, her middle name, the one only her oldest friends from home used, hit her like a slap. No one in London called her that. She was Rory here. Aurora to the DSS. Carter on her delivery invoices. Laila was buried in Wales, under a mountain of bad decisions. “Liam,” she said. The word came out flat, a statement of fact. A wide, incredulous smile broke across his face. He’d always smiled like that, with his whole being, but it was different now. More polished, more assured. The boy she’d known, the lanky pre-law student with perpetually ink-stained fingers and a nervous laugh, was gone. In his place stood a man in a beautifully cut charcoal suit, the kind her father wore. He carried an expensive leather briefcase. Success clung to him like a cologne. He closed the distance between them, his hand outstretched before he seemed to think better of it and leaned in for an awkward, one-armed hug. She stiffened, then forced herself to relax, patting his back. He smelled of rain and sandalwood soap. “My God, Laila. I don’t believe it. What are you doing in London?” He slid onto the stool next to her, his eyes drinking her in. She saw the moment his assessment registered: the practical jeans, the worn trainers, the faint smell of sesame oil that still clung to her from the kitchen. “I live here,” she said, taking another sip of her whisky. “Since when?” “A while.” She didn’t offer more. Silas had moved down the bar, giving them a semblance of privacy, but she felt his presence like a anchor. “I’m here for a conference. Tax law, thrilling stuff.” Liam laughed, a sound that was both familiar and strained. He signaled to Silas. “Gin and tonic, please. Hendrick’s if you have it.” He turned back to her. “You look… well. Different.” “So do you.” “The suit’s a costume. Helps the clients think I know what I’m doing.” He tried for self-deprecation, but it fell flat. He did know what he was doing. It was evident in the set of his shoulders, the directness of his gaze. “I heard you’d left Cardiff. No one really knew where you’d gone. Eva was tight-lipped about it.” Eva. Her lifeline. Rory felt a pang of gratitude for her friend’s discretion. “I needed a change.” “After Evan.” It wasn’t a question. Liam’s eyes dropped to her left wrist, where the crescent scar peeked out from under her sleeve. He’d been there the night she got it, at a stupid party, falling through a glass coffee table. He’d driven her to A&E. He’d also been there, later, when the scars were less visible. He’d said, once, drunk on cider in his dorm room, “He’s no good for you, Laila.” She hadn’t listened. “After everything,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. His drink arrived. He took a long swallow. “I’m at Harrington & Pierce now. In the London office.” “Your father’s firm.” She remembered the ambition, the late nights in the library, Liam determined to step into the dynasty. “It’s… it’s good. Hard. But good.” He swirled the ice in his glass. “And you? What are you up to? Please don’t tell me you’re a lawyer. I couldn’t bear the competition.” The joke hung in the air, a lead balloon. She saw him realize his error as soon as the words were out. Her father was a barrister. Pre-law had been the expected path. The abandoned path. “I’m not,” she said simply. “I work in logistics. Deliveries.” “Logistics.” He repeated the word as if trying it on. “Right. For a company?” “For a restaurant. A Chinese place in Soho. The Golden Empress.” Silence stretched between them, filled only by the hum of the cooler and the soft clink of Silas’s glassware. Liam’s face was a study in controlled reaction. She watched him wrestle with surprise, with pity, with a kind of bewildered disappointment. She knew that look. She’d seen it in her father’s eyes the one time he’d visited, before he’d stopped calling. “That’s… honest work,” he said finally, the words landing with a thud. “It pays the rent.” She didn’t tell him her rent was paid in part by helping Silas keep his books, by being a quiet, observant presence in the bar. That her ‘logistics’ job sometimes involved more than spring rolls. That she had found a different kind of law, unwritten, in the shadows of Soho. “Do you like it?” The question seemed genuine, and that was worse. “It’s fine. It’s simple.” She met his gaze, her bright blue eyes steady. “I get to be outside. I know the city now, every alley. There’s a satisfaction in that.” He nodded, though he didn’t understand. How could he? His world was one of precedent and procedure, of offices with views. Hers was of rain-slicked streets and the hidden geometry of a neighborhood, of Silas’s quiet lessons and the solid weight of a motorcycle helmet under her arm. “Evan’s married,” Liam said suddenly, as if pushing the information across a chessboard. “To a solicitor. They have a baby. A girl.” The news was a stone dropped into a deep, still pond. She felt the ripples somewhere far away, in a numb part of her chest. She pictured it: Evan, charming, vicious Evan, holding a child. The thought was so absurd she almost laughed. Instead, she took another sip of whisky, letting the heat burn away the image. “Good for him,” she said, and was surprised by how little bitterness was in her voice. It was true. She felt nothing. The fear, the desperate love, the crushing humiliation—they were artifacts, locked in a museum of her former self. Liam was watching her, looking for cracks. “He asked about you, once. A few years back. Wanted to know if anyone had heard from you.” “And you said?” “I said I hadn’t.” He finished his drink. “It was the truth.” The weight of the years settled between them, heavy as a wool blanket. They had sat like this a hundred times, in student unions and cheap pubs, dissecting cases, dreaming futures. He had wanted to change the world through tax law. She had wanted to escape the world her father had built. Now, here they were, in a dim bar in Soho, strangers wearing the faces of people they used to know. “I should go,” Liam said, checking a sleek watch on his wrist. “Early start tomorrow. Negotiations.” “Of course.” He stood, hesitated. “It was really good to see you, Laila. Truly.” “You too, Liam.” He pulled a card from his wallet, embossed with glossy black lettering. “If you ever… if you need anything. Or just fancy a coffee.” She took the card, the paper thick and expensive between her fingers. “Thanks.” He gave her one last, searching look, then turned and walked out into the misty night. The door sighed shut behind him, sealing the bar back into its comfortable gloom. Rory placed the business card on the bar. Liam Harrington, Esq., Harrington & Pierce. She traced the raised lettering with a fingertip. Then she picked up her glass, drained the last of the amber liquid, and slid the card across the polished wood towards Silas. He looked at it, then at her, a question in his hazel eyes. “Kindling,” she said. A faint smile touched his lips. He took the card and tossed it into the small fireplace near the end of the bar. The edges curled, blackened, and caught flame. They watched it burn together, the brief, bright heat a punctuation mark in the quiet room. The past turned to ash and smoke. Rory flexed her left hand, the crescent scar a pale ghost on her skin, and ordered another drink.