AI The neon green sign of The Raven’s Nest pulsed a rhythmic beat against the perpetual gloom of the Soho alley. Rory pushed through the heavy oak door, the clang of the bell above her head a familiar greeting. The scent of aged wood, stale beer, and something faintly metallic – Silas’s particular brand of cleaning fluid, perhaps – settled around her like a worn blanket. Fatigue gnawed at her shoulders. Another shift done, another round of navigating London’s labyrinthine streets with a thermal bag strapped to her back.
Silas, a shadow in the dim light behind the bar, looked up from wiping down a glass. His grey-streaked auburn hair caught the faint glow from a sconce, the silver signet ring on his right hand glinting . He offered a slight nod, a silent acknowledgement of her presence, of her return. The bar was populated by the usual evening eccentrics, their conversations a low thrum against the backdrop of an old blues record crooning from hidden speakers. Rory appreciated the anonymity of it, the way she could slip in and out, a ghost in her own life, most nights.
She moved to her usual stool at the far end of the bar, away from the sporadic clamour of laughter near the entrance. "Pint of something dark, Silas," she said, resting her elbows on the cool, worn wood. Her bright blue eyes scanned the room, a habit picked up from her days delivering, scanning for obstacles, for trouble. Old maps decorated the walls, intricate lines leading nowhere she knew, black-and-white photographs of forgotten landscapes and stern-faced individuals watching over the patrons. It was a place for secrets, for quiet exchanges.
Her gaze snagged on a figure tucked into a booth near the arched window, half-obscured by a potted fern. He sat alone, a glass of amber liquid cradled in his hand. Something about the set of his shoulders, the precise angle of his head, pricked at a long-dormant memory. He was dressed impeccably, a dark suit tailored to a lean frame, a crisp white shirt. Too crisp for The Raven’s Nest, too polished. As he shifted, turning slightly to sip his drink, the light caught his profile, and Rory’s breath hitched.
No. It couldn’t be.
Her heart knocked against her ribs, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. The man turned further, his eyes sweeping the room, stopping, then narrowing, before settling on her. A slow, almost predatory smile stretched across his lips.
Leo.
Not the Leo she remembered, not the boy with perpetually ink-stained fingers and a crooked grin, whose t-shirts always had a new tear at the shoulder from another adventurous climb up the old quarry wall. This man was a sharpened edge, all angles and expensive fabric. His hair, once a shaggy brown, was now cut short, precise, artfully styled. The soft, earnest eyes she ’d known were now hard, glinting with an unsettling shrewdness. It was like looking at a photograph of someone familiar , but knowing a stranger had stepped into their skin.
"Rory?" His voice, when he finally spoke, was a low rumble, richer than she remembered. He pushed himself out of the booth, moving with a controlled ease that was utterly alien. His gaze locked onto hers, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his eyes before the polished smile returned.
Silas placed a dark ale in front of her, his hazel eyes briefly meeting hers, a silent question lurking there. She managed a weak smile, her hand trembling slightly as she reached for the glass.
"Leo," she managed, her own voice feeling thin, reedy. "What are you doing here?" As if *she* weren't the one who lived above the bar.
He reached them in a few strides, extending a hand. His grip was firm, cool, the kind that spoke of gym memberships and well-manicured nails. Hers, still faintly smelling of fried rice and the synthetic leather of her delivery bag, felt clumsy in comparison. "Small world, isn't it?" he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes . "Heard you might be kicking about London. Doing well, I hope?"
Rory pulled her hand back, her scar on her wrist a tiny, insistent throb . "I'm fine. This is... unexpected."
"Indeed." He gestured vaguely at the bar stool next to her. "Mind if I join you for a moment? For old times' sake."
She couldn't deny him. She hadn't seen him in seven years, not since she ’d left Cardiff in a blur of panicked decisions and a train ticket bought with her last remaining cash. He slipped onto the stool beside her, a subtle shift in the bar’s atmosphere, as if a spotlight had suddenly glared on their corner. Silas moved away to serve another customer, a silent acknowledgement of her need for space.
"So, London," Leo said, his eyes still assessing her, taking in her practical jeans, her worn hoodie, the faint smudges of bike grease on her wrist. "Last I heard, you were set on law. How’s that going?"
Rory took a long gulp of her ale, the bitter taste grounding her. "Life takes unexpected turns. I'm... working. Living." She avoided specifics. The thought of telling him about the Golden Empress, about her quiet, solitary existence, felt like a concession she wasn't willing to make. Not to *this * Leo.
"I can tell," he murmured, his gaze sweeping over her again . There was no judgement in his tone, but something else, something calculating . "Still the same Rory, though. Fought your way out , didn't you ?"
The unspoken weight of that last phrase hung heavy in the air . *Fought your way out * of Cardiff. *Fought your way out * of Evan. He’d known. They all had. But Leo had been different. Had been kind.
"Something like that," she said, turning her glass in her hands. "You've... changed." It felt inadequate, a pathetic observation. He was a different person. An entirely different species.
He chuckled, a low sound that grated on her ears. "Had to, didn't I? Sticking around Cardiff like a lost puppy wasn't doing anyone any favours. Got to make your own luck." He gestured vaguely at his suit. "Different circles now, Rory. Bigger game."
"Bigger game?" She remembered his old dreams of becoming a graphic novelist, sketching fantastical creatures in the margins of his textbooks. The ink-stained fingers.
"Oh, you know." He waved a dismissive hand. "Property. Investments. Things that actually matter." His eyes darted around The Raven’s Nest. "Wouldn't have pegged you for a regular in a place like this . Always thought you ’d be more... high-rise penthouse, power suit."
The irony almost made her laugh. "I live upstairs," she said simply.
His eyebrows arched, a genuine surprise flickering in his hard eyes. "Really? Above this ... charming establishment?" He sounded like he was trying to be polite, but the slight curl of his lip betrayed him. "Well, that's certainly a turn up for the books."
"It's home," Rory said, a defensive edge creeping into her voice . "It’s safe."
The word 'safe' seemed to hang, vibrating between them, an invisible barrier. He thought of Cardiff, surely, of the last few months she 'd spent there, trapped and slowly suffocating. "Safe is good," he said, and for a moment, a trace of the old Leo softened his features, a ghost of concern in his gaze. It vanished as quickly as it appeared. "Myself, I never could settle for 'safe'. Always wanted more, you remember?"
She did. She remembered long nights in cramped student flats, him sketching caricatures of their lecturers, talking about leaving Cardiff for bigger things, a wider world. Back then, "bigger things" meant an art scholarship in Bristol. Now, it meant... what?
"What brings you to London, then, Leo?" she asked, turning the conversation away from herself. "Business?"
"Always business, Rory." He took a slow sip of his own drink, Scotch by the colour of it. "A meeting. Exploring new opportunities." He paused, a glint in his eye. "Actually, I was hoping to track *you * down. Heard a rumour you were around. Had a loose end to tie up."
Her stomach plunged. Loose end? What could he possibly mean? Had he been looking for her? Had Evan sent him? The thought sent a cold shiver down her spine . "A loose end?"
"Just... the past," he said, his voice dropping, becoming almost conspiratorial . "We never really said goodbye, did we? One day, you were just... gone."
"It was complicated," she muttered, remembering the fear, the desperation. The shame.
"Complicated," he echoed . "It was a mess, Rory. After you left... things changed. Evan, well, he dug himself deeper. Ended up in some real trouble. Everyone scattered."
Her gaze dropped to her crescent-shaped scar on her wrist. A physical reminder of Evan’s cruelty. "I had to go."
"I know," he said, but his tone lacked true understanding, instead carrying an air of detached observation . "Always the practical one, weren't you ? See an exit, take it. No looking back. Guess that’s why you ’re still you , and I’m..." He trailed off, gesturing again to his expensive suit, to the bar around them. "And I’m here. Finding new ways to make things work."
There was an undertone to his words, a subtle accusation mixed with a strange kind of pride. Like he’d thrived in the wreckage she ’d escaped. Or perhaps, he was hinting that she 'd left him behind.
"What do you mean, 'make things work'?" The question slipped out before she could stop it.
He smiled again, a flash of white teeth. "Just... adapting. The world is a tough place, Rory. You learn to play the game, or you get played. I chose the former. Sometimes you have to get your hands a little dirty to keep them clean."
The vague pronouncements, the cryptic smiles, they unnerved her. This wasn’t the Leo who’d once drawn goofy comic strips that made her laugh until her sides ached. This was someone sharp, calculating , with an edge that felt dangerous.
"You look good, though," she offered, trying to break the growing tension . "Prosperous."
He inclined his head, accepting the compliment. "Hard work. Long hours. Never thought I’d be trading in my sketchbooks for spreadsheets, but here we are. It’s a good life, Rory. You should try it sometime. Cardiff's moving up, by the way. Lots of development. You wouldn't recognize it. Might even be a few opportunities for you ." His implication hung unspoken : a return. A chance to start over, perhaps under his wing.
The thought made her skin crawl. Go back to Cardiff? To the ghost of Evan, to the memories of fear and weakness? And to this new, unsettling Leo? Never.
"London suits me," she said, firmly . "I’m happy where I am."
He raised his Scotch in a silent toast. "To happiness, then. However you find it." His eyes lingered on her for a moment too long, a strange mix of regret and something akin to pity . Or perhaps, that was just her imagination, projecting her own feelings onto him.
The blues music on the speaker changed, a mournful trumpet wailing into the smoky air. Rory felt a sudden, desperate urge to escape. The conversation had peeled back layers she ’d carefully constructed , revealing the raw edges of a past she worked hard to forget. And Leo, the boy who’d once been a comforting presence, was now just another sharp reminder of everything she ’d fled.
"Well," he said, eventually, pushing himself off the stool. "It was... illuminating, catching up. Truly." His smile was genuine this time, or perhaps, just a better imitation. "I should let you get back to... whatever it is you do here." He glanced at Silas, who was still serving drinks with a practiced air of detachment. "And I have an early start tomorrow."
"Right." Rory stood too, feeling awkward, unbalanced. "It was... good to see you , Leo." The lie tasted bitter on her tongue. It hadn't been good. It had been a jarring, unsettling reminder of how much time had passed, and how wide the chasm between them had become. The old Leo was gone , swallowed by ambition and something colder, harder. And maybe, she realised, a part of the old Rory, the one he once knew, had died with her escape too.
He paused at the entrance, turning back. "You take care, Rory," he said, the words echoing in the sudden silence of the bar as the blues track ended. Then he walked out, and the heavy door swung shut, leaving behind only the lingering scent of expensive cologne and the ghost of a shared past.
Rory sank back onto her stool, draining her glass. Silas was back in front of her, his brow furrowed slightly . "Everything alright, Rory?" he asked, his voice low .
She met his gaze, her bright blue eyes reflecting a sudden overwhelming weariness. "Just sorting out old ghosts, Silas," she said. "Just sorting them out."