Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94HCTXKVXKF521NNWVYNR4

Rain lashed against the windows of the Raven’s Nest, a rhythmic drumming that competed with the low hum of the green neon sign humming over the door. Inside, the air smelled of stale hops, expensive tobacco, and the faint, citrusy tang of the polish Silas used on the mahogany bar. Silas moved behind the counter with a practiced, uneven rhythm, the slight drag of his left leg muted by the sawdust on the floor. He wiped a highball glass, his silver signet ring clicking against the rim with every rotation. Aurora sat on the end stool, her fingers tracing the maps etched into the wood of the bar top. Her black hair fell forward, a dark curtain that veiled her profile. She watched the condensation crawl down a glass of amber liquid she hadn’t touched. The door groaned on its hinges. A gust of wet Soho air cut through the warmth, carrying the scent of diesel and rain. A woman stepped in, shaking a designer umbrella before leaning it against the coat rack. She wore a tailored camel-hair coat that looked like it cost more than Aurora’s flat. Her eyes scanned the room, squinting through the dim amber light before landing on the stool at the end of the bar. The newcomer froze. Her leather heels clicked toward the bar, hesitant. “Aurora? Aurora Carter?” Aurora didn't look up immediately. She recognized the voice—a clipped, polished accent that belonged to lecture halls in Cardiff and garden parties she’d spent a lifetime trying to forget. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, exposing the small crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. “Camille.” Camille Vance slid onto the stool beside her, her movements fluid and possessed of an effortless grace. She smelled of bergamot and something clinical, something successful. She took in Aurora’s oversized hoodie and the faint smudge of soy sauce on her sleeve from the afternoon shift at the Golden Empress. “I heard you’d moved to London. I didn't think I’d find you in a place like this.” Camille glanced at the black-and-white photographs of forgotten spies and empty streets that lined the walls. Silas approached them, his hazel eyes sharp, assessing the newcomer with the cold precision of a man who’d spent decades reading threats in the tilt of a shoulder. “What can I get you?” Silas’s voice was a low rasp. He didn't smile. “A gin and tonic, please. Hendrick’s, if you have it.” Camille turned back to Aurora the moment Silas turned his back. “You look... different, Rory. Last I heard from your mother, you were finishing the degree. She said you’d gone to ground. No one’s seen you since the New Year’s gala three years ago.” Aurora finally raised her glass, the ice clinking. The liquid burned her throat, a sharp contrast to the cold rain outside. “I didn't finish it. Law didn't suit the scenery.” “Your father was devastated. Brendan had a traineeship lined up for you at the firm. He still talks about it, you know. He thinks you’re just having a very long gap year.” Camille’s laugh was thin, like parchment tearing. She reached out, her hand hovering near Aurora’s arm before she thought better of it and pulled back. “And Evan? Have you spoken to him? He was a wreck after you left. He spent months looking for you.” Aurora’s grip tightened on her glass. The crescent scar on her wrist seemed to throb, a ghostly remnant of a night she’d buried under layers of South London pavement. She looked at Camille, really looked at her. Camille’s skin was perfect, her eyes bright with the uncomplicated ambition of someone who had never had to run for her life. “The drinks are on me tonight, Camille. Take it as a parting gift from the girl you used to know.” Silas set the gin and tonic down. He lingered, his hand resting on the bar near Aurora. He caught her eye, a silent question in the tilt of his head. Aurora gave a microscopic shake. “You’re working here?” Camille looked at the bar, then at Silas, then back to Aurora. Her expression shifted from surprise to a pity that felt like a slap. “Rory, you were the top of our year. You had the highest marks in Constitutional Law. You could be anywhere. Why are you hiding in a basement in Soho?” “I like the maps. They tell me exactly where I am.” Aurora stood up, her stool scraping harshly against the floorboards. She felt the weight of the flat key in her pocket, the one that led to the small, sparse room above the bar where no one ever raised a hand to her. “You haven’t changed at all, Camille. You still talk about the future like it’s a foregone conclusion. Like it’s something we’re all entitled to.” “I just don't understand. Is it the money? If you need help, I could talk to your father. He’d take you back in a heartbeat. He just wants his daughter home.” “I am home.” Aurora leaned in, the neon light from the window catching the blue of her eyes, making them look like cracked ice. “Tell my father you didn’t see me. Tell Evan you found a ghost. It wouldn’t even be a lie.” Camille reached for her drink, her fingers trembling slightly. The silence between them stretched, filled with the ghosts of the people they’d been in Cardiff—two girls who shared notes and dreamed of the Old Bailey. That world felt like a fever dream now, thin and translucent. “You’re scaring me, Aurora. You’ve got this... hardness in you. You used to be the one who laughed at everything. Remember the night we snuck into the library? We thought we were such rebels.” “We were children playing at being adults. Now I’m just an adult who stopped playing.” Silas moved to the sink, the splashing water the only sound in the sudden lull of the bar. He watched them through the reflection in the polished brass of the beer taps. He knew the look on Aurora’s face. It was the look of someone cutting a lead. “I should go,” Camille said, though she didn’t move. She stared at Aurora’s hand, where the scar was most visible. “He really didn't mean to hurt you that night, you know. It was an accident. He told us all.” Aurora’s breath hitched, a jagged sound. She looked at the scar, then at Silas. Silas stopped what he was doing. His frame straightened, his quiet authority suddenly filling the space behind the bar like a physical weight. “The lady asked you to tell the people back home she wasn’t here,” Silas said, his voice dropping an octave. Camille blinked, startled by the intervention. She looked at Silas, seeing the grey-streaked hair and the hardness in his hazel eyes that suggested he’d seen things far worse than a family dispute. “I was just—” “You were leaving.” Silas didn't move, but the air in the Raven’s Nest grew cold. Camille stood up, her expensive coat rustling. she fumbled for her umbrella, her poise finally fracturing. “Fine. Stay here then. Stay in the dark with the maps and the ghosts. But don't expect us to wait forever for you to wake up.” She turned and hurried toward the door. The bell chimed a lonely note as she disappeared into the Soho rain. Aurora sat back down. Her knees felt like water. She stared at the spot where Camille had been, the ghost of bergamot still lingering in the air. Silas reached under the bar and pulled out a fresh bottle of rye. He poured a finger into a clean glass and pushed it toward her. He didn't ask questions. He didn't offer platitudes. He just leaned his weight onto his good leg and waited. “She thinks I’m lost,” Aurora whispered, her voice barely audible over the rain. Silas picked up a rag and started on a new glass. “People like that don't know the difference between being lost and being gone.” Aurora looked at her reflection in the dark window. The neon green light turned her skin a sickly, supernatural hue. She picked up the rye. She thought about the library in Cardiff, the smell of old paper, and the girl who used to laugh at everything. That girl was dead. She’d died in a kitchen in a flat she couldn't afford, with blood on her wrist and a suitcase she hadn't finished packing. “She’ll tell them,” Aurora said. “Let her. They can’t find someone who doesn’t want to be found.” Silas tapped his silver ring against the wood, a steady, grounding beat. Aurora took a sip of the rye, letting the heat settle the tremors in her hands. She looked at the map on the bar, her finger resting on a small, unnamed island in the middle of a painted sea. The rain continued its assault on the glass, blurring the world outside until Soho was nothing more than a smudge of yellow and grey. Inside the Nest, the shadows were long and the silence was heavy with the things they both chose not to say. “Do you ever regret it?” she asked. Silas paused, his gaze drifting to the maps on the wall, his eyes lingering on a corner of Eastern Europe that had been redrawn a dozen times since he’d last walked its streets. He shifted his weight, his knee giving a dull, familiar throb. “Regret is for people with enough time to look backward, Rory. We’re too busy staying upright.” He moved to the door and flipped the sign from OPEN to CLOSED. The neon flickered once, then died, plunging the front of the bar into a deep, velvet darkness. Aurora finished her drink. She stood up, her movements slow and deliberate. She felt the weight of her history pressing down on her, a physical pressure against her ribs. She looked at the door, then at the stairs leading up to her flat. “I’m going up,” she said. “Goodnight, Carter.” “Goodnight, Silas.” She walked toward the back, her shadow stretching out across the maps. As she reached the stairs, she stopped and looked back. Silas was still there, a solitary figure in the dim light, polishing a glass that was already clean. The Raven’s Nest felt smaller tonight, the walls closing in with the memory of a voice from a life she no longer possessed. The rain didn't let up. It drummed on the roof, a relentless reminder of the world outside, the world that was still looking for a version of her that didn't exist anymore. She climbed the stairs, her hand trailing on the banister, leaving the bergamot and the pity behind in the dark.