AI The neon green of the sign above the entrance hummed with a low, electric thrum, vibrating through the windowpanes of The Raven’s Nest. It was an hour past the dinner rush, that hollow space in the evening when the Soho crowds were either tucked away in theaters or still lingering over dessert elsewhere. Inside, the air tasted of old cedar, stale hops, and the faint, citrusy tang of the floor wax Silas insisted on using every Tuesday.
Aurora sat at the far end of the mahogany bar, her fingers tracing the condensation on a glass of soda water. She had finished her delivery shift for the Golden Empress an hour ago, the scent of ginger and toasted sesame still clinging to the fabric of her jacket. This was her ritual: the transition from the frantic pace of London’s streets to the quiet sanctuary of the flat upstairs.
Silas was behind the bar, his movements methodical and sparse. He was polishing a highball glass with a white linen cloth, his right hand flashing the silver signet ring he always wore. The grey-streaked auburn of his hair caught the amber glow of the backlighting, making him look more like a weary professor than a retired field agent. He didn't speak; he didn't have to. The comfortable silence was a currency they both traded in.
The door creaked open, admitting a gust of damp, diesel-heavy air and the rhythmic chime of the bell. Silas looked up, his hazel eyes narrowing with the practiced neutrality of a man who had spent decades cataloging threats. Rory didn't turn around until she heard the footsteps —heavy, confident, and strangely familiar .
“I’ll just have whatever’s on tap, thanks,” a voice said . It was a Cardiff voice. It was the sound of rain-slicked slate and the salt-wind of the Bristol Channel.
Rory froze. The small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist began to itch, a phantom sensation she hadn't felt in years. She turned her head slowly .
The man at the bar was wearing a Barbour jacket that looked too expensive for a Soho dive, his hair fair and swept back in a style that screamed 'junior associate.' He was looking at his phone, but as he sensed Rory’s gaze, he looked up. The recognition hit him like a physical blow.
“Laila?” he whispered.
Rory felt a cold shiver trace the line of her spine. “It’s Rory now, Julian.”
Julian Vance looked as though he’d seen a ghost, or perhaps more accurately, someone he’d declared dead and buried. He was the son of her father’s oldest partner at the firm, the boy she was supposed to have married in the timeline where she didn't run away. He looked exactly the same, yet entirely different through the lens of her London life. He was a relic of a gilded cage she had broken out of four years ago.
“Rory,” he repeated, the name sounding foreign in his mouth. He moved toward her, his gait confident, though he faltered when he caught sight of Silas.
Silas hadn't moved, but the atmosphere around him had shifted. He leaned against the back bar, the linen cloth still in hand, his slight limp evident as he adjusted his weight . He was watching Julian the way a hawk watches a field mouse that has wandered too far into the open.
“You’re here,” Julian said, stopping a respectful three feet away. “Your mother... Brendan... they’ve been frantic. For years, Rory. Do you have any idea?”
“I’m sure they have a very curated version of frantic,” Rory said, her voice cool and level . She was surprised by her own composure. The intelligence that had once made her a star Pre-Law student now served as a shield, chilling her emotions into something manageable. “How did you find me, Julian? Did Evan send you?”
Julian flinched at the name. “No. I’m in London for a deposition. I just... I saw the green sign. I remembered you always liked that shade. It was a fluke. A one-in-a-million shot.”
He looked around the bar, his eyes lingering on the black-and-white photographs and the ancient maps pinned to the walls. He looked back at Rory, taking in her shoulder-length black hair—gone was the long, waist-length mane her mother had insisted she keep—and the simple, utilitarian clothes.
“You’re delivering food,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, thick with a pity that made Rory’s teeth ache. “I saw the bike outside. The Golden Empress. Rory, you were the top of the set. You were going to be a KC before you were thirty. And now you’re... here? Living in Soho, working for a takeaway?”
“I’m living,” Rory corrected him. Her blue eyes were bright, piercing. “That’s the part you’re missing. I’m not being told what to wear, who to defend, or which bruises to hide with foundation. I am a delivery person, Julian. And I am remarkably good at it because I know every alleyway in this city better than you know your own backyard.”
“It’s a waste,” Julian said, shaking his head. He reached out as if to touch her arm, but stopped when Silas cleared his throat.
The sound was low, like the growl of a distant engine. Silas stepped forward, the light hitting the neat trim of his auburn beard. “The lady is having a drink, friend. I didn't hear her invite you to join her.”
Julian stiffened, his professional veneer cracking. “This is a private conversation. I’ve known her since we were children.”
“I’ve known a lot of people since they were children,” Silas said, his voice deceptively mild . “Common history isn't the same thing as a standing invitation. You want that drink, or are you just here to provide a deposition on her life choices?”
Julian looked between them, finally seeing the silent communication pass between Rory and the older man. He saw the way Rory didn't shrink away, how she stood her ground, anchored by the man with the hazel eyes and the silver ring.
“You’ve changed,” Julian said, looking back at Rory. The regret in his eyes was palpable —not for her, she realized, but for the version of her he had lost . The version he could have possessed. “You look harder. Older.”
“I’m twenty-five, Julian. I’m exactly the age I’m supposed to be,” Rory said. “And yes, I’ve changed. I had to. You can’t survive a fire and expect to come out smelling like roses.”
Julian reached into his pocket and pulled out a card, laying it on the mahogany surface. “If you ever want to come home... if you ever realize that this isn't enough... call me. Your father still has the house in Gower. It’s quiet there.”
Rory looked at the card—heavy cardstock, embossed gold lettering—and then back at Julian. She thought of the Welsh coast, the cold, grey Atlantic, and the suffocating weight of her father’s expectations. She thought of Evan’s hand around her throat in the hallway of that house in Gower.
“I am home, Julian,” she said quietly.
Julian waited for a moment, perhaps hoping for a different answer, a crack in the facade . When none came, he turned and walked toward the door. The bell chimed again, a lonely sound that was swallowed by the Soho rain.
Silence reclaimed the bar. Silas picked up the card, squinted at it, and then dropped it into the wastebasket beneath the counter without a word. He poured a small measure of rye into a glass and slid it down the bar to her.
“On the house,” he said.
Rory picked up the glass, her hand steady. The crescent scar on her wrist had stopped itching. She looked up at the maps on the wall—the world laid out in ink and paper, full of borders and secrets.
“He looked at me like I was a tragedy,” she said.
Silas leaned his elbows on the bar, his gaze meeting hers. “People like that only see the cracks, Rory. They don't understand that’s where the light gets in. Or the steel.”
Rory took a sip of the rye, feeling the burn in her throat, warm and grounding. She looked at the green neon reflection in the window. Outside, the world was loud, chaotic , and dangerous, but for the first time in years, she didn't feel like she was running . She was exactly where she chose to be.
“Thanks, Silas,” she murmured.
He nodded once, picked up his cloth, and went back to his glasses. The rhythmic unevenness of his gait, the subtle skip in his left leg, was the only sound in the room—a reminder that everyone carried their history, but only some were strong enough to let it forge them into something new.