AI The damp London air clung to Aurora’s coat like a second skin, a permanent fixture after a shift delivering steaming cartons of Kung Pao chicken and sweet and sour pork. She pushed open the low door of The Raven’s Nest, the familiar click of the latch a small comfort. The air inside was thick with the scent of old wood, spilled beer, and a faint, undercurrent of something sharper – pipe tobacco, perhaps, or the lingering ghost of Silas’s wartime espionage. It was a refuge, this place. Dimly lit, the walls a comforting mosaic of faded maps and stoic black-and-white photographs of faces she’d never know, it was a place that seemed to absorb the city’s clamor, offering a hush in return .
Silas Blackwood stood behind the scarred oak bar, his movements economical, precise. The grey in his auburn hair had deepened since she’d first moved into the flat above him. His hazel eyes, sharp and assessing, met hers over the rim of a glass he was polishing . A flicker of recognition , a slight nod, and he returned to his task. He didn’t need to ask what she’d have. A pint of bitter, ice-cold and uncomplicated, was her ritual. He’d slide it across the dark wood without preamble, a silent acknowledgment of shared proximity.
She took a stool near the back, away from the early evening trickle of patrons. Her uniform, plain black trousers and a branded polo shirt for the Golden Empress, felt too bright, too functional in the muted glow. She peeled off her gloves, tucking them into the pocket of her drab jacket. The small crescent scar on her left wrist, usually hidden by her sleeve, felt cool against her skin. A phantom ache, a memory of scraped bone and a panicked doctor’s visit that felt like another lifetime . It was the lifetime before London, certainly. Before Evan. Before the quiet desperation that had landed her here, above a bar owned by a retired spy.
The door swung open again, a gust of colder wind briefly stirring the motes of dust dancing in the gloom . A man entered, shaking droplets from a pristine charcoal umbrella. He scanned the room, his gaze sweeping past her, then snapping back. For a moment, only the low murmur of the bar and the distant traffic filled the space between them. A strange, unsettling stillness.
Then he spoke, his voice a confident baritone that carried a resonance she hadn’t heard in years. "Rory?"
Aurora froze, the half-lifted pint glass halfway to her lips. The name, spoken with that particular inflection, was like a key turning in a lock she’d long forgotten existed. She lowered the glass slowly , her heart giving an unwelcome lurch . She turned, fully, and met his eyes.
Liam.
It was Liam. But… not. The boy she’d shared stolen cigarettes with behind the derelict garage near her childhood home, the one who’d debated philosophical texts with her until dawn fuelled by cheap instant coffee. He was still tall, perhaps an inch or two more, but it was the polish that struck her. His hair, once perpetually tousled, was cut with sharp, modern precision. He wore a suit that spoke of Savile Row without shouting it, a subtle weave of charcoal grey that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. A watch, sleek and silver, glinted on his wrist. His eyes, she remembered them as being a warm, inquisitive brown. Now, they were sharp, appraising, missing nothing, yet holding a curious, almost chilling , detachment. He looked like he belonged in a boardroom, not the dim, bohemian haven of The Raven’s Nest.
"Liam," she managed, her voice a little rougher than she intended. "Christ. It's been… a while."
He grinned, a flash of white teeth that lacked the easy, open warmth of the boy she remembered. "A while," he echoed, the grin widening, but not quite reaching those sharp eyes . "Years. What are you doing… here?" He gestured vaguely around the bar, his suit jacket settling perfectly back into place as he walked towards her.
She shrugged, a gesture that felt pathetic. "London. Work. I, ah, live in the flat upstairs." She indicated the ceiling with a slight tilt of her head. "Silas's place."
Liam’s eyebrows lifted, a subtle, almost imperceptible shift. "Silas? The Raven's Nest? Still playing landlord, is he?" He didn't seem to quite know what to make of it.
Rory offered a small, tight smile. "Something like that." He reached their table. "You… you look … successful." The word felt clumsy on her tongue, inadequate.
"I suppose you could say that," he said, perching on the edge of the stool opposite her, his movements economical, almost predatory. He didn't offer to buy her a drink, or ask what she wanted. "And you, Rory? Still aiming for that barrister's wig?"
The question landed like a tiny pebble in still water, sending ripples of something old and bitter to the surface. Her father’s courtroom dramas, the endless hours of debate, the path she’d been steered onto with such certainty. "No," she said, her voice flat . "That life… it wasn't for me. Not anymore."
"I can imagine," he said, his tone surprisingly gentle, but laced with a hint of something she couldn't quite decipher . Pity? Or was it a quiet satisfaction that she’d strayed from the expected course? She traced the scar on her wrist, a habit she hadn't realized she had. "I heard you left Cardiff rather suddenly ."
The mention of Cardiff, of home, was a phantom limb. She felt a sudden, sharp pang of missing the uncomplicated ease of their shared past. "It was… time," she said, choosing her words carefully . She poured herself a little of her bitter. "What about you? You’re not still sketching gargoyles on the back of lecture notes, are you?"
He laughed, a short, clipped sound. "Hardly. I'm in finance, Rory. Sterling Towers. You know it?"
Sterling Towers. Of course. The gleaming monument to commerce in the city’s heart, a place worlds away from greasy curry deliveries and the hushed world of Silas’s bar. "I know of it," she said.
"It’s… demanding. But rewarding." He paused, his gaze drifting past her, as if already distracted, looking for an exit. "We always said we’d conquer the world, didn't we? You with your words, me with… whatever I decided to pin my colours to." He turned back, a more direct look in his eye. "I still have that old notebook of yours, you know. The one with all your arguments against Kierkegaard."
A memory, sharp and clear, flashed through her mind: the cramped attic room in her shared student flat, the smell of dust and old paper, Liam leaning back against the window frame, the streetlight casting his face in silver. They’d been young, fiercely intelligent, convinced they possessed the keys to understanding everything. They’d had plans. Grand, sweeping plans that involved changing the world, or at least understanding it.
"You kept it?" she asked, a surprising softness entering her voice .
"Of course," he said, his tone casual, but his eyes held hers . "It was a snapshot. Of us. Of what we thought was important. I sometimes wonder if I still remember what that felt like. Before Sterling Towers." He picked up an olive from a small dish Silas had placed on their table, turning it between his thumb and forefinger. "You know, I was at a gala last week. Some charity auction. Spoke to Lord Ashworth. He’s looking for bright young minds for his new venture. Something about… offshore energy contracts. I thought of you."
The offer hung in the air , heavy and ill-fitting. Offshore energy contracts. Her father would have approved. But it wasn't her. Not the Rory who had fled an abusive relationship, the Rory who found solace in the quiet competence of Silas’s bar, the Rory who delivered lukewarm meals to strangers for a living.
"That's… kind, Liam," she said, her voice deliberately cool . "But I'm not really … looking for a new career path of that nature."
He took a slow sip of the neat whiskey he'd ordered with the kind of effortless entitlement she’d only ever seen on television. "Pity," he murmured, setting the glass down. "Such brilliant potential . Wasted, perhaps?"
The word “wasted” struck a raw nerve. Was it wasted? Delivering food? Living above a bar? She’d survived. She’d escaped. Wasn't survival a form of success? But looking at Liam, at the way he commanded space even when seated, at the ease with which he navigated a world that felt utterly alien to her, a flicker of doubt , sharp and unwelcome, ignited. He had clearly chosen his path, and honed himself to fit it, like a shard of honed steel. She, on the other hand, felt more like a piece of driftwood, shaped by currents she hadn’t chosen.
"Everyone makes their choices, Liam," she said, her voice carefully neutral . "Yours seem to have worked out rather well for you. Are you happy?"
His smile was back, quicker this time, thinner. He took another sip of his whiskey. "Happy is a… complicated metric, Rory. But I have what I need. What I wanted." He paused, his gaze finally settling on the crescent scar peeking from her sleeve. He didn't comment on it, but his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second too long. "You always were the one with the courage, though. To walk away. I remember when Evan… well. And you were just… gone. Didn't look back."
The mention of Evan tightened something in her chest. Liam had been there, a witness to the suffocating control, the slow erosion of her spirit. He’d seen the fear in her eyes, the desperate need to escape. And then, she’d vanished, leaving only a hasty note for her parents and a bewildered voicemail for Eva.
"Sometimes, walking away is the only way forward," she said, her gaze sweeping across the interior of the bar, catching Silas’s eye for a fleeting second. He gave a subtle, almost imperceptible inclination of his head, a silent anchor.
"Indeed," Liam replied, standing up as if summoned by an invisible force. His chair scraped back with a low shriek. "Well. I have a train to catch. A late meeting. Business never sleeps, you know." He offered his hand, and she took it. His grip was firm, cool. "It was… good to see you, Rory."
"You too, Liam," she said, the words feeling hollow . He gave one last, appraising look , a look that seemed to encompass her entire life since Cardiff, and then he was gone , disappearing into the London night as silently as he had arrived.
Aurora sank back onto the stool, the brief energy of the encounter draining away, leaving her feeling paradoxically more tired than before. The pint of bitter tasted flat now, without its accompanying comfort. The weight of time, of paths diverged, of potential unfulfilled or perhaps simply redirected, settled heavily in the quiet space Liam had vacated. She looked at her hands, at the scar on her wrist. Not wasted, she told herself. Just… different. And perhaps, she mused, the cost of Liam's polished success was simply a different kind of indelible mark.