AI The scent of cleaning fluid, sharp and citrusy, warred with the stale perfume of spilled lager as Rory wiped down the scarred mahogany counter. A low hum of conversation, punctuated by the clink of glasses, usually provided a comforting rhythm in the dim confines of The Raven’s Nest. Then, clear as a struck bell, a voice cut through the familiar drone, one she hadn't heard in fifteen years.
"Aurora Carter? Is that definitely you?"
Rory paused mid-wipe, her bright blue eyes flicking up. A man stood by the entrance, silhouetted against the streetlights filtering through the grimy window. He was older, of course, everyone was, but the jawline, the set of the shoulders… it was there. Time had etched fine lines around his eyes, now a startlingly pale blue, and his once unruly sandy hair was coiffed and gleaming with an expensive product. He wore a suit the colour of charcoal, impeccably tailored, the kind that belonged in boardrooms, not the smoky, history-laden atmosphere of Silas's bar.
"Finnigan?" The name felt alien on her tongue. "Bloody hell, Finnigan O’Malley. What are you doing here?"
He stepped fully into the bar’s muted light, and Rory catalogued the changes. The vibrant energy from their shared university days was replaced by a sharp, almost predatory stillness. His fingernails, usually bitten short by nervous habit, were immaculately manicured, a stark contrast to the cheap glass she held.
He managed a grin, a flash of perfect teeth. "Business brought me to London. I heard you sometimes worked nights. This place… it felt right. A bit of a dive, but authentic. And then I saw you." He gestured vaguely, his movements economical, precise. "You haven't changed a bit, Rory. Still got that… spark."
Rory leaned the damp cloth against the till, her smile tight. "You're the one who's changed, Finn. Last I heard, you were going to be a rock star in a Welsh village hall."
He chuckled, a sound that didn't quite reach his eyes . "Plans change. Circumstances evolve. I found a different stage. One with a rather more substantial audience." He took another step forward, his gaze sweeping over the interior. Old maps depicting forgotten trade routes adorned one wall, juxtaposed with black-and-white photographs of stern-faced individuals who looked like spies or smugglers . The air was thick with the ghosts of hushed dealings and potent spirits. "This place… it suits you. Quiet. Out of the way."
He wasn't wrong. The Raven's Nest, with its deceptive normalcy , was Silas’s carefully cultivated sanctuary . By day, Rory delivered steaming cartons of chow mein for Yu-Fei Cheung, her battered scooter weaving through London's maze. By night, she lived in the cramped flat above this bar, a perch overlooking a world far removed from Cardiff’s predictable avenues.
"It's home," Rory said, accepting the implicit offer to step around the bar and join him at a small, secluded table near the back. She didn't move. "I work a few nights here, help Silas out. Keeps me from chasing after taxis at three AM."
Finnigan’s pale blue eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. The compliment about her appearance felt less like a genuine observation and more like a strategic assessment. "Deliveries, is it? Still running?"
"Someone's got to do it." She picked up the cloth again, and started to polish a glass with a practised motion. It was a shield, a familiar task that anchored her. She felt a prickle of unease, the kind that settled when the air pressure dropped before a storm. Finnigan, the ambitious, reckless Finnigan she remembered, now projected an aura of calculated success, like a predator dressed in fine tailoring.
"Right," he said, sinking into a worn leather booth. He signalled a passing barman – not Silas, but a younger man Rory recognised from the evening shifts . "Whisky. The good stuff. And something for my… associate." He glanced at Rory .
"Just a tap water, thanks." The glass she held was now spotless. She placed it on the counter, her reflection staring back at her – black hair pulled back, bright blue eyes, the faint crescent scar on her left wrist a pale crescent moon against her skin. She looked… functional. Not like the girl who’d sworn to travel the world with Finnigan, to leave Cardiff and its suffocating familiarity behind.
Finnigan watched her, a ghost of their shared past flickering in his gaze. "Remember that summer, Rory? We were going to buy a sailboat. Sail to Greece. Teach ourselves ancient Greek while living on olives and feta."
"We were twenty, Finn. We said a lot of things." The memory felt distant, like a faded photograph of strangers. She remembered the fierce idealism they’d shared, the righteous anger at injustice seething beneath their student bravures. He’d called her a natural leader, said she could charm the birds from the trees. Now, he just saw someone running meagre errands.
"Yes," he murmured, accepting the amber liquid from the barman, his fingers wrapping around the heavy tumbler. "We did. But the world… it doesn't run on idealism, does it? Not in the realpolitik of things." He took a long sip, his gaze intense. "You always were the sharp one, Rory. Saw through the bullshit far better than I did back then. Still do, I bet?"
"I see what's in front of me," she replied, her tone carefully neutral . The ice in his whisky clinked as he swirled it. The sound was sharp, defiant.
"And what's in front of you, Rory?" He leaned forward, his elbows on the polished wood, the charcoal suit straightening as if a hidden spring had been engaged . "A delivery service? A flat above a pub? That’s not the Aurora Carter I knew. The one who could argue the hind legs off a donkey and make a judge weep."
Her mother’s disappointed sigh echoed faintly in her mind. Her father’s pragmatic advice about ‘making the best of a situation’. She'd fled London from a life that was slowly crushing her, only to find herself still navigating shadows, albeit different ones. The scar on her wrist, a memento from a childhood tumble, felt like a mark of vulnerability, a reminder of a time before the world began leaving its deeper imprints.
"People adapt." She met his gaze, refusing to look away. His eyes, once full of restless energy, now held a hard, calculating glint . It was the look of a man who had seen too much and understood too little, or understood too much and cared not to.
"Adapt," he echoed , tasting the word. "Or… compromise. There's a difference. You always prided yourself on principles."
A low thrumming sound, barely audible above the bar's ambient noise, vibrated through the floorboards. Silas, his grey-streaked auburn hair catching the dim light, emerged from the dimly lit corridor at the back, his slight limp barely noticeable as he moved with quiet authority. He paused, his hazel eyes sweeping over his bar, his gaze lingering on Rory and the unexpected guest at her table. He offered a curt nod, his expression unreadable . Rory felt a surge of something akin to relief, a silent acknowledgement of a watchful presence.
Finnigan’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second. "Is that… Silas? The owner?"
"He is," Rory said, turning back to her glass. "He collects stories, old maps, and gentlemen's agreements."
Finnigan traced the rim of his whisky glass. "I once wanted to be a barrister. Like your father. Argue for the right cause." He let out a short, sharp laugh. "Funny how life steers you. You end up making deals instead of arguments. And the stakes are decidedly higher." He drained his glass in one go. "Rory, I didn't just come here to reminisce. I hear you know London. The currents. The undercurrents."
Rory’s hand stilled on the glass. "I know the streets from my deliveries. Nothing more."
"That's precisely what I need to know," Finnigan pressed, his voice lowering, losing its forced pleasantry and sharpening to an edge. "There's a… private transit happening soon. Through Soho. High value, needs to be discreet. No attention from the local constabulary, no interference from… unexpected parties." He pushed a thick wad of crisp banknotes across the table. They landed with a soft thud, a stark white island against the dark mahogany. "This is a retainer. You live here. You hear things through the walls, watch the comings and goings. You tell me when the coast is clear. Double this when the job is done. Don't tell me it's not the Aurora Carter I knew. That girl was sensible. Don't waste it serving my whisky."
Rory’s bright blue eyes, now cold and steady, locked onto his. She saw the desperation beneath the veneer of success, the rot that had set deep. She saw the ghost of the boy who dreamt of sailboats and ancient Greek, buried under layers of calculated sin. The scar on her wrist throbbed , a phantom itch. Silas’s footsteps echoed softly as he moved away, but Rory felt his gaze, a silent question hanging in the air between her and Finnigan.
"What kind of transit, Finnigan?" she asked, her voice low, dangerous . "What exactly are you moving?"
Finnigan leaned in, his pale eyes fixed on hers, the smile gone, replaced by a glint that was pure, unadulterated avarice. "Something very valuable, Rory. To the right people." Then, his head snapped up, his body stiffening. The shadows in the corner seemed to deepen, coalescing. A lean figure stood at the edge of the light, his silver signet ring catching the subtle glow from an overhead lamp. Silas Blackwood watched them, his hazel eyes missing nothing.