Run: 2026-02-25-01KJ94JV8CNN5XNJ125CZ4HH7X

Rain hammered the pavement of Soho, turning the streetlights into blurred smears of amber against the dark. Inside The Raven’s Nest, the air held the scent of old paper, spilled gin, and the faint, metallic tang of the damp. Rory sat at the far end of the mahogany bar, her back to a wall covered in yellowed maps of cities that no longer existed. She traced the crescent scar on her left wrist, a nervous habit that surfaced whenever the hum of the city felt too loud. Silas moved behind the bar with a practiced, heavy rhythm. The slight drag of his left leg on the floorboards acted as a metronome for the quiet evening. He reached for a bottle of Highland park, the silver signet ring on his right hand catching the dim light as he poured a measure into a glass. He slid the drink toward Rory without a word, his hazel eyes briefly meeting hers before he turned to polish a highball glass. The bell above the door gave a lonely chime. A man stepped in, shaking a black umbrella that looked expensive enough to cover Rory’s rent for a month. He wore a charcoal wool overcoat, perfectly tailored to shoulders that had broadened since Rory last saw them. He paused, blinking against the low light, his gaze sweeping over the black-and-white photographs on the walls before settling on the bar. Rory froze. The glass in her hand felt suddenly heavy. The man approached the bar, his leather brogues clicking sharply against the wood. He didn't see her at first. He looked at Silas, then at the rows of bottles, his expression one of mild, professional curiosity. "A gin and tonic. Hendrick’s, if you have it." The voice was deeper, stripped of the soft Welsh lilt that used to crack whenever he laughed. It was the voice of a man who gave presentations in glass-walled boardrooms. Silas glanced at Rory, his expression unreadable, then turned to the optics. Rory cleared her throat, the sound scraping against the silence of the room. "They usually stick to the classics here, Leo. You might have to settle for whatever’s in the well." The man turned. His face, once soft and prone to easy smiles during late-night study sessions in Cardiff, had sharpened. Fine lines branched from the corners of his eyes, and the boyish mess of brown hair was now slicked back, precise and severe. He stared at her for a long beat, his hand still gripping the handle of his umbrella. "Rory?" Leo took a step closer, his eyes traveling over her straight, shoulder-length black hair and the faded denim jacket she wore over her Golden Empress uniform. "You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or a debt collector." "I heard you left. Everyone said you just... vanished. My mother mentioned something about London, but then the trail went cold." Leo moved to the stool beside her, but he didn't sit. He hovered, an intruder from a life she had buried under layers of Soho grime. "Cardiff is a small city for people with big secrets, Leo. London is better for horizontal movement." Silas set the gin and tonic down. He lingered for a second, his hand resting on the bar top, the auburn hair on his knuckles turning grey in the light. He gave Rory a sharp, questioning look. She gave a microscopic shake of her head. Silas nodded and retreated to the other end of the bar, though he stayed within earshot, his presence a silent weight. "Horizontal? You were top of the class, Rory. Brendan had a place for you at the chambers. We all thought..." "I don't care much for what the chambers thought. Or what my father planned. I moved on." Leo finally sat, the fabric of his coat whispering. He looked at her hand, where she still traced the scar. "Is he here? Evan?" The name landed like a stone in a shallow pool. Rory’s fingers clamped shut over her wrist. "Evan is a bruise that finally faded. Don’t go poking at it." "I didn't mean to. It’s just... you’re different. You used to be the loudest person in the library. Now you’re sitting in a basement bar in Soho hiding in the shadows." "I’m not hiding. I’m living. There’s a distinction you clearly haven't mastered yet in the world of high-rise law." Leo took a slow sip of his drink, his throat moving as he swallowed. He gazed at a map of 19th-century Prague pinned behind the bar. "I’m an Associate now. Senior level. I spend my days arguing over intellectual property and my nights looking at spreadsheets. It isn't what we talked about back then. We were going to change the world, remember? Human rights. Pro bono work for the miners' families." "We were twenty and fueled by cheap cider. Reality has a way of thinning the blood." "You always were the cynic, but this is... it's a lot of shadow for one person, Rory." Leo touched the sleeve of her jacket, his fingers brushing the fabric tentatively. "I stayed for a while. After you left. I went to your mother’s house. She looked older. She wouldn't tell me where you went, but she cried when I asked if you were safe. She still thinks you’re practicing law somewhere." "She thinks what she needs to think so she can sleep at night. I send her postcards. I tell her the weather is fine." "You’re a delivery driver, Rory. I saw the bag on the chair when I walked in. Golden Empress? That’s the takeaway on Wardour Street." Rory straightened her posture, the cool-headedness she’d earned over the last few years clicking into place. "It pays the rent. It keeps me moving. I don't have to carry anyone’s files, and I don't have to lie to judges. I deliver noodles to people who don't know my name. It’s remarkably liberating." Leo looked around the bar again, his eyes lingering on Silas, who was now intently cleaning the espresso machine. "And this place? It’s a hole in the wall, Rory. It smells like a retirement home for spies." "It’s home. Silas is... he's a friend." "A friend who looks like he knows thirty ways to break a man’s ribs." Silas didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He moved to the sink, the limp in his leg more pronounced in the quiet of the pub. "He’s a good man. Which is more than I can say for most of the people we grew up with." Leo shook his head, a lock of his perfect hair falling over his forehead. He didn't push it back. For a second, the polished shell cracked, and Rory saw the boy who used to share his notes with her in the back of a lecture hall. "I regret it, you know. Not coming with you. Or not stopping you. Everything feels so heavy now. The house, the car, the partner track. It’s like I’m wearing a suit made of lead. I saw you sitting here through the window and for a moment, I thought I’d stepped back seven years. But then you looked at me." "And?" "The Rory I knew didn't have those eyes. You look like you’ve survived a war. And I look like I’ve spent the whole time in a bunker." Rory took a long swallow of her bourbon, the burn sliding down her throat. "There wasn't a war, Leo. Just a series of very loud exits. You chose the path that had a map. I chose to burn the map." "Are you happy?" "That’s a very Cardiff question. In London, we just ask if you’re busy." "You’re deflection personified." Leo reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold-embossed business card. He slid it across the bar. It looked strikingly white against the dark, scarred wood. "I’m in town for a conference. Just for the weekend. If you ever want to... I don't know. If you ever want to talk about something other than delivery routes." Rory didn't touch the card. She watched a bead of condensation roll down Leo’s gin glass, carving a path through the frost. "I don't think my father would like to know where I am, Leo. If you tell him, or if you tell my mother anything other than that I look well..." "I wouldn't. I’m not that man." "You’re wearing a three-thousand-pound coat and you’re drinking Hendrick’s in a bar that doesn't have a cocktail menu. You’re exactly that man." Leo let out a breath that was half-laugh, half-sigh. He finished his drink in one go and stood up, the chair scraping sharply. He looked at the card on the bar, then at her. He reached out as if to touch her shoulder, but his hand hovered in the air before dropping back to his side. "You have a crescent scar on your wrist, and you still have that habit of biting your lip when you’re lying. Some things don't change, Rory. No matter how much Soho you pour over them." He turned and walked toward the door. The green neon from the sign outside washed over him as he opened it, a brief flash of emerald before the London rain swallowed him whole. The silence returned to The Raven’s Nest, heavier than before. Rory stared at the white business card. The name *Leo Vance* was printed in a crisp, sans-serif font. Silas limped back toward her. He picked up Leo’s empty glass and set it in the rack. He didn't ask who the man was. He didn't ask why Rory’s hand was shaking just enough to make the ice clink in her glass. "He forgot his umbrella," Silas remarked, nodding toward the black object leaning against the bar. Rory looked at the umbrella. It was sleek, expensive, and entirely out of place. "He was always forgetting things," she said. She picked up the business card. The edges were sharp and clean. She thought about the library in Cardiff, the smell of damp coats and old ink, and the way Leo used to look at her before everything went wrong. She thought about the girl who wanted to change the world. Rory stood up and walked to the small bin behind the bar. She dropped the card inside. "Keep the umbrella, Silas. You can give it to someone who needs to stay dry." "And you?" Rory pulled her denim jacket tighter around her chest. She looked at the green neon light shivering in the puddles outside the window. "I’ve always preferred the rain."