AI The green neon sign of The Raven’s Nest flickered , casting a rhythmic , sickly emerald pulse against the rain-streaked window of the Soho storefront. Inside, the air tasted of cedarwood, stale gin, and the dusty, comforting scent of the old maps that papered the walls. Aurora sat at the far end of the mahogany bar, her fingers tracing the condensation on a glass of tonic water. She liked this corner; it allowed her to keep her back to a stack of vintage photographs and her eyes on the door.
Behind the bar, Silas Blackwood moved with the slow, deliberate grace of a man who had long ago traded speed for precision. He was polishing a highball glass, his movements fluid despite the slight, rhythmic hitch in his gait—the legacy of a Prague winter he never spoke about. The silver signet ring on his right hand caught the dim light, a solitary glint of authority in the gloom . He didn’t look up when the door chimed, but Aurora saw his hazel eyes flick toward the reflection in the mirrored back-bar.
"You're lingering, Rory," Silas said, his voice a low, sandpaper baritone. "The Golden Empress will be wondering if you’ve been hijacked by a rival delivery service."
"Yu-Fei knows I’m off the clock in ten minutes," Aurora replied, her voice steady . She pushed a strand of her straight, shoulder-length black hair behind her ear, her thumb grazing the small, crescent-shaped scar on her left wrist. "Besides, it’s raining. People are more patient when they’re dry and the delivery person isn't."
Silas grunted, a sound that might have been an agreement or a dismissal. He set the glass down and reached for a bottle of bourbon, his gaze shifting past Aurora toward the door. The bell had chimed again.
A woman stood in the entryway, shivering as she shook out a dripping designer umbrella. She was dressed in a tailored charcoal coat that screamed Cardiff high society—perfectly pressed, expensive, and entirely wrong for a Tuesday night in a Soho dive. When she looked up, scanning the room with a mixture of apprehension and nostalgia, Aurora felt a cold knot tighten in her stomach .
It was Bethan.
Bethan Davies, the girl who had sat next to her in every Pre-Law lecture at Cardiff University. The girl who had been there the night Aurora met Evan. The girl who had represent the life Aurora’s father, Brendan, had mapped out for her with the clinical certainty of a surveyor.
Aurora didn’t move. She couldn’t. She watched Bethan’s eyes travel over the black-and-white photos of forgotten jazz musicians and the yellowing charts of the North Sea. Finally, Bethan’s gaze landed on the bar. She froze.
"Laila?" Bethan whispered, the name Rory had used during those first frantic months in London. Then, her eyes sharpened, taking in the black hair, the sharp lines of Aurora’s face, and the way she held herself—not like a frightened student, but like someone who had learned how to vanish in plain sight . "No. Aurora?"
"Bethan," Aurora said. The name felt heavy, a relic dug up from a site she had thought was paved over.
Bethan approached the bar, her heels clicking with an aggressive, polished rhythm that didn't belong in the Nest. Silas stepped back, melting into the shadows of the back shelves, though Aurora knew he wasn't missing a single syllable.
"Lord, it is you," Bethan said, stopping a few feet away. She looked Aurora up and down, her expression a painful cocktail of shock and pity. "Your mother—Jennifer—she’s been frantic. Well, not frantic anymore, more... resigned. But Rory, look at you. We thought you were in legal aid in Bristol. That’s what your father told everyone."
Aurora felt the familiar prickle of irritation. "My father says whatever makes the dinner parties go smoother, Bethan. You should know that by now."
Bethan pulled out the stool next to her, glancing at the worn leather before sitting. "He said you were following in his footsteps . A barrister in the making." She gestured vaguely at Aurora’s damp delivery jacket draped over the stool. "What is this? Someone said they saw you in Soho, but I didn't believe it. I was in town for a conference and I thought... I’ve been looking for three days."
"I’m not lost, Bethan," Aurora said, her blue eyes turning icy . "I’m exactly where I chose to be."
"In a place like this?" Bethan’s voice dropped, hushed with a performative concern. "Working delivery? Living above a bar? Evan was devastated when you left, you know. He really went to pieces."
At the mention of Evan’s name, the air seemed to leave the room. Aurora’s hand instinctively covered the crescent scar on her wrist. She felt Silas’s presence shift behind her—a silent, watchful weight .
"Evan went to pieces because his favorite toy broke," Aurora said, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper . "I’m not interested in his recovery. Or my father’s PR campaigns."
Bethan flinched, her eyes darting to Silas, who was now leaning against the back counter, his grey-streaked auburn beard catching the light. He looked like a man who knew exactly where all the bodies were buried , and Bethan seemed to register the threat of that quiet authority.
"You've changed," Bethan said, and there was a genuine note of sadness in it now. "You used to be so... bright. We were going to change the world together. Remember? Those nights in the library, dreaming about the High Court."
"We were children dreaming about a cage," Aurora replied. She looked at Bethan—really looked at her. She saw the expensive jewelry, the tired lines around her eyes, the way she clutched her handbag like a shield. "You stayed in the cage, Beth. You’re wearing the uniform. Are you happy?"
Bethan opened her mouth to provide the expected answer, but the lie died in the dim, honest light of the bar. She looked down at her manicured hands. "I'm a senior associate now. I’m on track for partner by thirty. I have a flat in Penylan. It's what we worked for."
"No," Aurora said softly . "It’s what they wanted us to work for. There’s a difference."
"And this is better? Hiding? Working for a restaurant called the Golden Empress?" Bethan’s voice trembled with a sudden, sharp resentment. "You just walked away. You left your family, your friends, your career. You left me to handle the questions. Do you have any idea how much I had to lie for you?"
"I never asked you to," Aurora said.
A silence stretched between them, filled only by the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant siren of a police car navigating the Soho narrowness. Aurora realized then that the gap between them wasn't just geographical or professional. It was a matter of survival. Bethan was still playing the game, while Aurora had realized the only way to win was to set the board on fire.
"You look like a stranger," Bethan said, her voice hollow . "I see your face, but the girl I knew... she wouldn't be sitting in a dark room with a man who looks like he’s lived ten different lives, drinking tonic water and waiting for the next delivery call."
"The girl you knew was a performance," Aurora said. "This is the reality."
Silas stepped forward then, his limp audible as he moved to the taps. He placed a small dish of olives on the bar between the two women. The movement was a subtle interruption, a way of signaling that the audience was over.
"Can I get you something, miss?" Silas asked. His hazel eyes were unreadable , but his tone was polite, the voice of a man who knew how to usher people out of rooms they didn't belong in.
Bethan looked at Silas, then back at Aurora. She saw the way Aurora glanced at Silas—a look of mutual understanding, of a shared language that Bethan would never speak. She stood up, her charcoal coat swishing.
"Your father still keeps your room the same," Bethan said, a final, futile attempt to exert the gravity of the past. "He thinks you’ll wake up one day and come home."
"Tell him to rent it out," Aurora said. "I’ve got a room here. It’s smaller, but the locks actually work."
Bethan stared at her for a long moment, searchingly, looking for the Aurora who had once laughed over cheap wine in a Cardiff dorm room. When she found nothing but the cool, intelligent gaze of the woman Rory had become, she sighed.
"I don't think I'll tell him I found you," Bethan said quietly. "I don't think he’d recognize the description anyway."
She turned and walked toward the door, her umbrella trailing water across the floor. The neon green pulse caught her as she stepped out into the rain, turning her into a silhouette for a fleeting second before she vanished into the Soho crowd.
The chime of the door echoed and died.
Aurora sat still, her heart a steady, muffled drum in her chest. She reached for an olive, the salt sharp on her tongue.
"Friend of yours?" Silas asked, his voice devoid of judgment .
"A ghost," Aurora replied.
Silas nodded, picking up his polishing cloth again. He didn't ask about the father, or the law degree, or the man named Evan. He knew that the weight of a past was something you carried until you learned how to use it as an anchor.
"The rain’s letting up," he observed, glancing at the window. "Yu-Fei will be looking for you."
Aurora stood, pulling her delivery jacket on. She zipped it up, the familiar weight of her current life settling over her shoulders. She looked at the crescent scar on her wrist, then up at the maps on the wall—the vast, uncharted territories stretching out beyond the borders of her old world.
"Let her look," Aurora said, her voice regained its cool, out-of-the-box edge. "I'm not going anywhere."
She turned and walked out of the Nest, her reflection in the glass momentarily merging with the neon green light before she stepped into the night, leaving the ghosts of Cardiff behind in the shadows of the bar. Silas watched her go, his signet ring clicking softly against the mahogany as he returned to his work, the steady guardian of a sanctuary built for those who had finally decided to change.