AI The hiss of the beer pump was a soundtrack familiar to Rory, a lulling counterpoint to the murmur of Soho nights filtering through The Raven's Nest. Silas, a silhouette etched against the dim glow of the back bar, polished a tumbler with slow, deliberate strokes, his silver signet ring catching the light with each turn. Rory watched the amber liquid slosh gently against the ice in her glass, the condensation tracing a cold path down her fingers. This was her quiet corner, a place where the delivery routes and the city's sharp edges softened, at least for a moment. She’d finished her shift an hour ago, the scent of cheap noodles still clinging faintly to her uniform beneath the borrowed jacket, but the urge to simply sit, watch, and listen in the cathedral of half-truths and hushed confessions Silas curated, kept her tethered.
The heavy oak door groaned open, momentarily eclipsing the neon glow of 'The Raven's Nest' sign. A gust of damp night air, carrying the ghost of exhaust fumes and distant sirens, swept in. Then the door swung shut, leaving behind a figure silhouetted against the muted interior light. Rory’s breath caught. The man who stepped fully into view, brushing invisible dust from an expensive, tailored navy coat, was a ghost. Liam Walsh.
He hadn't changed; he had calcified. The lanky youth from Cardiff, all restless energy and bright-eyed ambition that promised to either conquer the world or crash and burn spectacularly, was now sculpted into something sharp, polished, and unnervingly still. His suit appeared carved from diamond, the fabric impossibly smooth, but his eyes, once the colour of a bright summer sky, were now clouded, a dull, restless grey that seemed to scan and dismiss everyone and everything with a practiced, weary air. He paused by the entrance, his gaze sweeping across the room, a subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth before it landed on Rory. Recognition bloomed, or perhaps suspicion, followed by a slow, predatory smile that didn't reach those grey eyes.
"Rory?" His voice, deeper now, carried an edge of smooth entitlement that grated. "Is that really you?"
She pushed herself away from the counter, the worn trainers of her uniform shoes making little sound on the scuffed floor. A faint crescent scar on her left wrist, a childhood memento, felt suddenly prominent under the low light. "Liam. Fancy meeting you here."
He navigated the sparse tables with the confident stride of someone accustomed to open spaces, not the cramped confines of a Soho dive. He stopped before her, his gaze raking over her changed appearance – the practical clothes, the subtle toughness that years of navigating London's underbelly had etched into her posture. "Here? In a place like this? I thought you’d be… I don't know, running your own empire by now. Or at least managing one of those sterile corporate skyscrapers."
He stopped a breath away, the scent of expensive cologne battling with the bar's inherent aroma of stale ale and old secrets. "You always did have that spark. The one that said you wouldn't be contained."
"Some of us like seeing what the world looks like from down here, Liam." She gestured to the glass he held, untouched. "What brings you to my… empire?"
He finally secured a table near the back, away from the main thoroughfare, a booth upholstered in cracked, crimson leather. Silas, behind the bar, merely nodded towards them, his own presence a solid, imperturbable anchor in the shifting tides of the clientele. Liam sat, his movements precise. "Business. Passing through. Had a meeting cancelled, thought I’d retrace some old steps. See what London’s really made of." He chuckled, a dry, rasping sound. "Though I must admit, this particular haunt is… unexpected. Still haven't found anything better than a well-worn map and a whispered confidence, eh, Rory?" His eyes flickered towards the walls plastered with antique cartography and faded photographs.
"Old habits," Rory said, sliding into the opposite seat. She caught Silas’s eye for a fleeting second; he gave a barely perceptible nod, his expression unreadable . "Some are harder to shake than others. You seem to have shed yours quite effectively." She watched him, her mind cataloguing the subtle signs: the tightness around his jaw, the way his manicured fingers drummed a silent, irregular rhythm on the table’s surface, the almost imperceptible flinching when the outer door opened again, letting in a brief cacophony of city noise.
"It’s called adapting, Rory. Growing. You stay in one place too long, you stagnate. You become yesterday's news." He leaned forward, his voice dropping, though not quite to a whisper . "I deal in futures now. Not the 'maybe one day' kind you and I used to draw up in dusty pubs in Cardiff. The real kind. Guaranteed returns. High stakes."
"Guaranteed?" Rory’s bright blue eyes narrowed , a familiar glint of curiosity mixed with caution. "Sounds like a rare commodity these days."
"For those of us who know how to procure it, it’s commonplace." He lifted his glass to her, a toast that felt more like a challenge. "To futures, then. And to leaving the past where it belongs." The liquid remained untouched, the ice clinking softly as his hand trembled faintly.
"What about the cost, Liam?" The question slipped out, too quickly , too directly. She saw a flicker of something raw in his eyes, a swift, unwelcome shadow. He’d always been afraid of what he couldn’t control, and Cardiff had taught Rory precisely how much that fear could curdle ambition.
His smile tightened, a brittle thing. "Cost? There's always a cost. But some men are more than willing to pay it, for the right kind of power. For the right kind of security." He glanced around the bar again, his gaze lingering on Silas, then darting towards the door. "You're still working for him, aren't you? The old spy?"
Rory felt a cold knot form in her stomach . Silas wasn't just 'the old spy' to her; he was a lifeline, the quiet architect of her precarious stability. "I deliver for Master Cheung. Silas offers me a room and a roof. It’s a fair trade."
"Fair?" Liam scoffed, his veneer cracking further . "Rory, you’re wasting yourself. Delivering parcels? He’s old. He’s retired. Whatever network he thinks he’s running here is a game. I’m playing for keeps. My clients… they don't play games. They expect results. And they don't like loose ends."
The unspoken accusation hung heavy in the air . Rory felt a prickle of unease crawl up her spine. Liam’s definition of 'growing' and 'adapting' was clearly a descent into a ledger of compromised souls. "What are you trying to say, Liam?"
He winced, running a hand through his immaculately styled hair. He looked utterly exhausted, despite the tailored suit. "Just… be careful. This city… it chews people up. Especially those who think they can observe it without getting bitten. You’re smart, Rory. Smarter than me, maybe. But this world I’m in… it’s sticky. Once you’re caught, it pulls you under, no matter how much you swim." He suddenly reached into his inner coat pocket, his movements frantic, clumsy. He pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook, its edges worn smooth. He shoved it across the table, sliding it towards her. "Take this. For safekeeping. You're good at safekeeping things, aren't you? Better than me."
Rory looked at the notebook, then at Liam’s terrified, pleading eyes. It wasn't the confident, ambitious Liam she knew, but a desperate man trapped in a gilded cage of his own making. Before she could touch it, the main door of The Raven's Nest swung open with a violent creak. Three men, broad-shouldered and dressed in indistinguishable dark suits, stepped inside. Their eyes didn't scan the room; they fixed immediately on Liam. A hush fell over the few other patrons, each one instinctively shrinking into the shadows. Silas, from behind the bar, stopped polishing his glass. His slight limp became more pronounced as he turned, his hand moving with deceptive calm towards a recess beneath the counter.
Liam's face went ghastly white. He snatched the notebook back, clutching it to his chest as if it were a shield. "They found me," he whispered, his voice a raw tremor . "They know I have it." He shoved the notebook back towards Rory with renewed urgency. "You have to… you have to run. Get this out. Don't let them…" His words died as the nearest of the suited men took a step forward, his eyes locked onto Liam, not Rory. Silas emerged from behind the bar, his pace unhurried but purposeful, a silver glint from his hand catching the dim light. Liam looked from the approaching men to Rory, his eyes wide with a terror that far surpassed anything she’d ever seen in Cardiff. "Who are they?" Rory managed, her voice low, her hand instinctively going to her scarred wrist.