AI The heavy glass tumbler felt slick with condensation under Rory’s cloth. She polished the same spot, tracing an invisible circle until the rim gleamed under the low amber lights of The Raven’s Nest. The usual Tuesday night hum, a low thrum of solitary drinkers and hushed conversations that never seemed to rise above the ambient murmur. Silas would be in the back, poring over his maps, the faint rustle of paper a constant, subtle companion. Rory found a morbid comfort in the predictable rhythm of the place, a stark contrast to the frantic scramble of her days delivering lukewarm Pad Thai across London.
A deeper shadow detached itself from the gloom near the far end of the bar, coalescing into a figure. He leaned against the polished dark wood, face mostly obscured by the brim of a worn cap. He hadn’t ordered anything, just sat with a tall glass that seemed untouched . Something about the set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, snagged her attention. A prickle of unease. Then he turned, catching the sliver of stray light from the dartboard, and the unease bloomed into cold dread.
"Leo?"
The name hung in the air, brittle and fragile, like thin ice over deep water. The man blinked, his eyes, once the colour of a summer sky, now seemed muted, faded artefacts. A network of fine lines webbed the corners, etched deep by something far colder than laughter. He straightened, shedding the pretence of blending in, a slow, unfolding motion that felt almost predatory. A smile, too wide, too sharp, stretched his lips, revealing teeth that looked just a shade too yellow.
"Rory. Aurora." His voice was a gravelly rasp, stripped of the easy charm she remembered. It scraped against her ears like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "God, it's been… it's been a while, hasn't it?"
He pushed off the bar, moving towards her. Each step was deliberate, measured . The slight sway of his frame suggested a weariness that went deeper than the night. She tucked the polishing cloth into her apron pocket, her hands suddenly clammy. He stopped a few feet away, close enough for her to see the faint tremor in his hands, the faded scar barely visible above his collar, a pale echo of the vibrant boy who’d charmed his way through Cardiff’s student bars.
"What are you doing here?" The question felt thin, inadequate, a flimsy dam against a flood of unspoken years.
"Same as you, I suppose," Leo said, his gaze sweeping over the dimly lit pub . The walls, adorned with vintage maps and faded photographs of a London that seemed long gone, offered no solace . "Looking for… something. A quiet corner not full of ghosts." His eyes returned to her, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths . "Turns out, you're the ghost I didn't expect to see."
He gestured vaguely towards the stool nearest her. "Mind if I…?"
Rory nodded, a tight knot forming in her stomach . She watched him slide onto the bar stool, his worn leather jacket creaking. He ordered a whisky, neat, the words barely a whisper , and the barkeep – not Silas, but one of the younger lads – poured it without a fuss. Leo watched the amber liquid swirl in the glass, his reflection distorted in its depth.
"You look… good, Rory. Like you haven't aged a day." He took a slow sip, the first he’d had since she’d seen him. He swallowed, a visible effort. "Still got that fire in your eyes. Just… banked down a bit. Learned how to control it."
It wasn't a compliment. It was an observation veiled in something sharp, an appraisal. Rory leaned against the counter, keeping her movements measured . The scar on her wrist, a small crescent moon, felt suddenly prominent beneath her sleeve. Childhood accident, her mother had called it. A fall from a swing. Years later, she knew better. So did he, perhaps.
"Life happens, Leo," she said, her voice steady . "You adapt."
"Adapt," he echoed, the word tasting foul on his tongue. He swirled his whisky again. "Or you get… refined. Like coal under pressure. Turned into something hard. Useful." He glanced at her, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Or something else entirely."
What “something else” meant, she could only guess. He was the one who’d stayed in Cardiff, chasing the legal eagles his parents had always wanted him to be, before getting tangled in something murkier than he’d ever let on to her. She remembered him talking about briefs, about shaking hands with future judges. Now, his hands trembled, and desperation clung to him like cheap cologne.
"What brings you to London?" she asked, changing tack. "Silas doesn't usually get your sort wandering in."
"My sort?" He laughed, a short, dry bark. "And what sort is that, Rory? The one who didn't run? The one who stayed and… dealt with things?" He met her gaze, and the faded blue eyes held a glint that reminded her, for a terrifying second, of the boy who’d once promised her the world. "Besides, rumours travel. Heard you were… involved. With Blackwood. The Spymaster." He winked, a grotesque exaggeration of their old inside jokes. "Thought I'd see if the little Welsh sparrow had grown some very sharp claws."
Rory’s jaw tightened. Involved. It was a word that skirted the edges of truth, too imprecise to be an accusation, too loaded to be dismissed. Her work for Silas was precisely that – sharp claws, hidden in the delivery uniform. She delivered more than just food. She moved information, observations, whispers. It was cleaner than whatever Leo had clearly been doing.
"Silas runs a bar, Leo. I deliver for a restaurant. That’s the extent of it." The lie felt thin, brittle.
"Is it?" He leaned forward, the movement sudden, electric . The casual facade dropped, replaced by an unsettling intensity . "Because the boy I knew, Rory, the one who loved dissecting arguments and planning our escape routes from boring lectures, she wouldn't be polishing glasses for a retired spook. She'd be across the road, filing a lawsuit against him. Or running her own bloody empire."
He gestured vaguely at the empty space on the bar next to her. "Remember that café we planned? 'The Cardiff Conspiracy'. Organic teas and revolutionary tracts. We were going to change the world, weren't we?" His voice dripped with a heavy, cloying sarcasm. "Now look at us. You’re serving drinks to ghosts, and I’m… well, I’m here."
The air thickened between them. The weight of those abandoned plans, the fractured future, pressed down. He wasn't just looking at her; he was excavating the past, digging up bones she’d buried deep.
"Plans change, Leo. People change."
"But some things… they *define * you." His gaze was fixed , unwavering . "You ran from Evan. Smart. We all knew he was poison. But then you ran from everything else, didn't you? From Cardiff. From us. From… potential ."
The unspoken word hung in the air , heavy with accusation: failure. His failure. He saw his own unraveling reflected in her escape.
"And you stayed?" Rory countered, her voice dropping, gaining an edge that rivalled his . "You stayed and… what? Built something solid? Something honest?"
Leo’s smile flickered , a fleeting glimpse of a vulnerability he quickly masked. He emptied his glass in one gulp, slamming it down on the bar. The sharp crack echoed in the sudden silence that fell over their immediate vicinity. A few heads turned.
"Honest?" He chuckled, the sound hollow. "Honesty's a luxury, Rory. For people who don't know what survival looks like. What it *costs *." He tapped the side of his head. "I learned. I learned to be useful. To be… adaptable. To know which doors to knock on, and which ones to kick down." He paused, his eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made her skin crawl. "And I know people. People who need things. Things that aren't on any official list. Things someone like Silas might be interested in."
He leaned closer, his breath smelling faintly of stale whisky and something else… something metallic, like old pennies. "The people I deal with, Rory," he murmured, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper , "they have information too. Different kinds. More… concrete. Less about whispers and more about leverage."
He reached into his jacket pocket, his movements slow, deliberate. Rory’s hand instinctively went to her apron, her fingers brushing against the smooth, cool metal of the burner phone hidden there. Silas had given it to her. For emergencies.
Leo’s fingers closed around something small. He pulled out a tarnished silver locket, intricately engraved. It looked old, expensive, but somehow grubby. He held it out to her, the dim light catching the intricate floral patterns.
"Recognise this?" he asked, his voice deceptively soft .
Rory stared at it. The engraving… it was a specific style. Something she’d seen in Silas’ private files once, an item logged as missing from a certain old family estate. An estate that had recently been raided by uninvited guests.
"Where did you get that?" Her voice was barely a whisper .
Leo’s smile returned, broader this time, but devoid of warmth . "A trade. For information. The kind that doesn't come from overhearing office gossip or watching delivery routes. The kind that comes from…" He paused, letting the implication hang in the air. "From knowing how to get into places you’re not supposed to be. And knowing what people will pay to keep quiet about."
He let the locket fall into her open palm. It was heavier than it looked. The metal was cold against her skin, chilling her fingers.
"This belongs to someone Silas is… interested in," Leo continued, leaning back, the predator settling into his skin again. "Someone who paid me a fortune to make it disappear. But it seems… some things have a way of resurfacing. Especially old debts."
He slid off the stool, leaving his half-empty glass. The gesture felt final, dismissive. He stood over her, a shadow blotting out the dim light.
"You've got claws now, Rory. That’s good." His eyes scanned her face, lingering on her own subtle signs of wear. "But are they sharp enough? Because the world you're playing in, it's got teeth. And they're always hungry."
He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod, a gesture that felt like a finality . Then he turned and walked away, melting back into the shadows of The Raven's Nest, leaving Rory alone with the cold weight of the locket in her hand and the chilling certainty that her past, and Silas’ dangerous present, had just collided in the most unexpected, and perilous, way.