19. Shadows in the daylight

Ghost's flat, North London – 10:38 GMT

The city was washed clean by rain, pavement shining wet, the air sharp with brick and hope. I watched sunlight chase the shadow of a double-decker bus past Ghost's window, mug warming my hands. Outside, it all looked ordinary enough to pretend the world hadn't gone sideways.

Ghost came out of the kitchen, mask in place, boots laced. "Fancy doin' somethin' with the day? Weather's decent. Could show you more than Tesco, if you're up for it."

I pulled on my trenchcoat, a grin sneaking up. "Lead the way, Lieutenant. Haven't been stabbed by a pigeon yet."

He snorted. "Give it time. London's full of 'em."

The stairwell smelled like dust and last night's curry. I matched his stride, heels echoing off chipped concrete. On the street, the city was already awake: flower stalls on corners, cabs splashing through puddles, a boy kicking a football while his mum yelled in Turkish. Ghost led us through side streets with the confidence of someone who'd mapped every shortcut by heart.

Halfway down a busy stretch, he stopped at a bakery. "Wait here," he said, vanishing inside.

I watched life stream past—bikes weaving, a man in a bowler hat swearing at his phone, women laughing in Polish. Ghost reappeared, thrusting a paper bag at me.

"For you," he muttered, not meeting my eyes.

Inside: a poppyseed bun, warm and fragrant with honey.

I blinked, a little stunned. "Didn't know you were a romantic."

He rolled his eyes. "Don't start, Nina. Just looked like you needed feedin'."

We walked on, tearing off pieces of bun. "Best thing I've tasted in months," I said, meaning it.

"Bit of sugar never hurt nobody. You get used to the good stuff, you'll never eat rations again."

Turning to a quieter street, where the buildings were old and close-set, every brick soaked with the weight of centuries. As we rounded the next corner, something stopped me cold.

A mural stretched across the crumbling brick of a boarded-up bakery—a woman in black, a knife glinting in her hand, a patch shaped like a skull and a crescent moon stitched at her collar. Her hair was cropped sharp at the nape, just like in the holding cell, black as coal, but the likeness was unmistakable.

Ember: my sister in all but blood. The girl I'd outlasted Chistilishe with. The same violet-eyed stare, wary and fierce, caught forever in spray paint.

Children crowded around her painted figure—one boy clutching her sleeve, the memory of gratitude stamped in every color. I remembered that mission: the Bratva raid, the gunfire, Ember's arm flung around that boy as we ran for cover. He must have made this, after the world forgot.

I felt the street fall away for a second. My breath hitched, memory crowding in—Ember's hand on my wrist, her voice a lullaby in Russian, steadying my panic as bullets tore up the brick.

"That's Ember," I whispered.

Ghost stopped beside me, his presence grounding. "That Ember?" He said it soft, just for me—no judgment, just wanting the truth.

I nodded, throat tight. "Yeah. The last time I saw her—really saw her—she was sitting across from me in an interrogation room. Grey sweats, no weapons, nothing but spite left in her. She called me damaged goods." I laughed, short and hollow. "She wasn't wrong."

Ghost didn't touch me, but his shoulder shifted closer, a steady wall at my side.

"She didn't look at me like a sister, not anymore," I said quietly. "Just another ghost in the room. Sometimes I wonder if I could've saved her. Or if she could've saved me."

He grunted, Manchester flat, but there was a care in it. "People change, dove. We all got old ghosts." He glanced at the mural, then at me. "You kept each other alive back then. Still counts for something."

I stared at Ember's painted face—the shadows under her eyes, the set of her jaw, the kindness that still showed in the lines, no matter how much we'd tried to kill it.

"I hope she's safe," I murmured. "Or at least free."

We stood in silence as city life moved around us. For a moment, all the armor fell away.

Ghost cleared his throat first, breaking the spell: 'C'mon. Soap'll start a pub fight if we're late.'"

I followed, but kept Ember's eyes in my periphery—painted memory, old hope, a warning written in color that only I could still read.

The Queen's Head, Camden – 12:02 GMT

The Queen's Head was alive with Saturday noise—glasses clinking, footie on every screen, the thick scent of chips and battered cod soaking the air. I'd barely made it through the door, Ghost at my side, when Soap's voice cut through the crowd like a thrown bottle.

"Oi! Ye bonnie lass—finally! And ye, Ghost, draggin' her out the bunker, eh? That's a sign of the apocalypse, lads!" Soap's accent was even thicker after a pint, arms wide as if he might hug the both of us. His mohawk looked like he'd styled it with a firework.

I blinked, thrown by the welcome. Gaz was already sprawled at the end of the table, pint lifted in greeting, London vowels slick and smooth. "About bloody time, mate. Thought you'd locked her in your wardrobe or summat."

Ghost deadpanned, voice pure Manchester, dry as old toast. "Wardrobe's full. Had to let her out for air."

Soap slid over, making room—closer to me than necessary. "C'mon, Nina, sit by me. Don't want ye catchin' whatever's on Gaz's coat."

Gaz rolled his eyes, grinning. "Oi, you're one to talk. Last time you did laundry was when Scotland qualified for the Euros."

Soap made a face, then flashed me a wicked smile. "Ignore 'im, V. He's jealous, always is when a lass like ye walks in."

I bit back a laugh, sliding into the booth beside Soap, Ghost dropping onto my other side—solid, unmoving, a wall between me and the door.

Soap leaned in, dropping his voice. "D'ye fancy a pint? Or are ye more the whisky sort?" His blue eyes sparkled—he knew exactly what he was doing, and so did Gaz, who snorted into his lager.

"Careful, Johnny," Gaz called, "one more and she'll deck you. Lad's got no filter."

I met Soap's gaze, letting a sly smile show. "You trying to impress me, MacTavish? Might have to try harder."

Ghost rumbled from my left, not looking up from the menu. "If he tries any harder, he'll sprain something. Leave him, Nina."

Soap clutched his chest, wounded. "Et tu, Ghost?"

I grinned, tension I didn't know I'd carried slipping loose.

This—this was good. Warm.

The team. My team.

Price arrived last, trenchcoat shedding rain in a puddle, mustache twitching as he surveyed the chaos. "Everyone alive?" His voice was the same steady drum, never rattled by noise or nonsense.

Soap waggled his glass. "Cap, we're thrivin'—and I'm workin' on recruitin' Nina here to the proper side. Scottish delegation, aye?"

Price snorted, but his eyes landed on me. "He's only got two members and one of 'em is a sheepdog. Don't let him talk you into anything."

I laughed, letting it all wash over me. "I'll keep my options open, sir."

Price nodded, giving Ghost a meaningful glance. "Long as you're keeping these idiots in line, I'll sleep easy."

Ghost muttered, "Dove's got a mouth on her. Don't you? Taught you how to use it, didn't I?"

Soap cackled, "Oh, she's got a mouth alright. Sharper than yer combat knife, mate."

Gaz flicked his eyes between us, grinning. "She's already got more sense than half the blokes in this pub. Proved it by walking in with Ghost and not you, Soap."

Soap pouted, then leaned in, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial hush. "Look, V, if ye ever get bored of that lot, I'll take ye out for a curry. Show ye all the real sights."

I rolled my eyes, but smiled—truth was, it was almost charming, in a hopeless puppy way. "Careful, Johnny. I might take you up on that just to see you suffer the spice."

He grinned, wide and shameless. "Promises, promises, lass."

Ghost didn't touch me, but his shoulder shifted closer, a steady wall at my side.

Food came: pies steaming, fish crisp and golden, peas so mushy they could be weaponized. Price picked at his chips, Gaz devoured his steak and ale pie like it might vanish, Soap stole bites off everyone's plate.

At one point, Soap raised his glass, cheeks pink from laughter and lager. "To the best shooter in the pub, who's not me—Vesper, here's hopin' ye teach the rest of these muppets a thing or two."

I raised my glass in return, feeling the weight of their attention—friendly, boisterous, protective.

"You hear that, Ghost?" Gaz needled, "Better watch your back. She's got a higher kill-count and better taste in shoes."

Ghost only shrugged, voice flat and northern. "Long as she doesn't nick my mask, I'll live."

Soap raised his brows at me, smirking. "Wouldn't mind seein' ye in a mask, bonnie. Could be fun." His voice dipped—almost a dare.

My cheeks flared, but I shot right back: "You would'nt handle it, Johnny."

That drew a bark of laughter from Gaz, who nearly choked on his pint. "Told you, mate. She's out of your league."

Even Price grinned, eyes dancing. "Johnny, you couldn't handle paperwork. Leave the heavy lifting to the professionals."

Soap feigned offense. "What, and let Ghost do all the brooding? 'S not fair, Cap. Give the lad a break."

As I picked at my food, I felt the knot of tension I always carried with me loosen—just a little.

Here, in this chaos, it was easy to forget the other world outside.

Then the news came on the telly above the bar, and reality snapped close: "...unconfirmed reports suggest Russian operatives active in London. Authorities urge vigilance, citing increased counter-terror measures—"

My hand went to my chest, a reflex.

Ghost's hand, brief and gentle, brushed my knee beneath the table—nothing to see, nothing to notice, but enough to anchor me. I let myself lean into it, just for a moment.

Soap looked at me, eyes narrowing. "Alright there, bonnie?" His voice, for once, was gentle.

"Yeah," I lied, "just the spice. Told you I can't handle British food."

The table laughed, letting the shadow pass.

But Price, never missing a beat, caught my eye and didn't let go. "So, Nina. You going to tell us the truth about that Russia treaty? Or is that information above our paygrade?"

I blinked, pulse quickening, but managed to keep my voice even. " I think the answer's written in a different language on someone's desk in Moscow."

Gaz whistled, "Now that's a non-answer, if I've ever heard one."

Soap nodded, feigning seriousness. "Classic spy work. Slippery as a haggis in a rainstorm."

Ghost nudged my knee under the table, steady. "Means she's doing her job. More than I can say for half the squad."

I shot him a look. "Careful, Simon. That almost sounded like a compliment."

He tilted his head, the skull print on his mask grinning for him. "Don't let it go to your head, dove."

The laughter returned, louder, as if the news hadn't happened at all.

For the rest of lunch, we were just a team again. Jokes flew—Soap's terrible flirting, Gaz's dry wit, Ghost's bone-dry comebacks, Price's watchful humor—each line tying me tighter to this battered family.

For a while, I let myself belong.

Even if the world outside, and the mural down the street, whispered that it could never last.

Camden Mural, North London – 15:47 GMT

The walk back from the pub was quieter, late sunlight slanting through London's narrow streets. My heels clipped softly on the pavement; Ghost's boots thudded solid, always a half-step closer than he needed to be.

I lingered as we passed the mural again—the one of Ember, blade gleaming, crescent moon and skull at her collar, violet eyes painted sharp above a crowd of dancing kids. Today, in the swirl of graffiti at the corner, a new mark caught my eye: a circle, slashed through, barely visible in black spray-paint near the curb.

Old instinct pinched my breath.

Chistilishe code.

Watchers nearby.

I froze. "Simon," I murmured, eyes flicking to the symbol.

He clocked it instantly, posture shifting. Every muscle in his frame went alert—his body just barely between me and the street, like a shield.

His voice dropped, low and Manchester-rough. "Trouble?"

I nodded, barely whispering. "That circle—means someone's got eyes on us. Someone.."

He scanned the rooftops, then gave the faintest nod. "Back route, yeah? Stay close, love."

My heart hammered, but I matched his pace, letting him lead. We ducked into a side street, the city noise muting as red-brick walls closed in. For a moment it was just the sound of our breathing, our footsteps echoing in empty lanes.

He didn't speak until we were out of sight of the main road, boots moving in sure, careful steps.

"That mural—means a lot to you?" he said quietly.

I nodded, trying not to look back. "Ember saved my skin more times than I can count. She always said blending in was half the job. Funny, isn't it? Whole life hiding, but you never feel invisible when you're being watched."

He made a noise, half grunt, half agreement. "Never invisible, dove. Not to people that know what to look for."

I glanced at Ghost. "You ever wonder if we'll stop running? If 'normal' ever lasts?"

He was quiet for a beat, then: "World's got too many blurred lines. Normal's just the space between the storms. You make your own peace where you can, Nina. Even if it's just for a day."

I almost smiled, glancing up at him. "You stick around for the peace, then? Here I though I was special."

He shot me a look, all mock offense. "Don't flatter yourself, love. You're just decent company. Good at picking pubs. Terrible at picking lager."

I let myself laugh, the tension easing for a breath. "High praise, coming from you."

We came out onto a quieter road—-an old flower stand set up under a battered awning, blooms spilling over old plastic buckets. Ghost paused, surprising me, and picked out a raggedy blue cornflower, its color bright as the mural minutes ago.

He handed it to me with a little huff, not meeting my eyes. "For luck, or...whatever. Don't lose it."

I stared at the bloom, heart squeezing. "You always this sentimental, Lieutenant?"

He shrugged, all bluster. "Not sentimental. S'just blue suits you. Matches your eyes."

Heat flared in my cheeks, so quick I almost dropped the flower. "Thank you, Simon." The words felt softer, heavier than I meant.

He just nodded at the alleyway ahead, gruff as ever. "Don't get soppy on me now, dove. Move your feet."

Ghost's Flat, North London – 19:03 GMT

Inside, the light was warm, the flower in its pint glass still defiant on the table.

Ghost flicked the kettle on and turned, mask unreadable. 'You hungry?'

I shook my head. "Not for food."

The words surprised us both.

My voice sounded different.

He stilled, then—slowly—reached up, thumb brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. Gloved, careful, but the gesture sent a jolt through me.

"You're trouble, you know that?"

I smiled, small and sure. "Takes one to know one."

He stepped back, grabbing mugs. "Sit down before I change my mind about sharing tea."

We moved through the quiet—me on the couch, him in the kitchen. The distance was measured in heartbeats. I watched the way his shoulders moved, the care in his hands.

When he brought the tea, I took it, our fingers brushing.

Static.

He sat close. "You did good today," he said again. "Even with the ghosts."

I held his gaze. "You make it easier."

For a long moment, the world outside faded.

Then I nudged his knee. "Best two out of three at chess?"

He grinned behind the mask, the kind of grin I felt in my bones. "You're on, love."

We played until the city was black outside, laughter and quiet warmth filling the flat. When we finished, I let my head fall against his shoulder, eyes closing.

He didn't move. He just let me stay—safe, steady, spark humming between us.

And for the first time, I thought maybe, just maybe, we'd earned it.