If there is one thing you know about London buses on a Saturday morning, it's that they're completely insufferable. Kris knows that, I know he bloody does. He's another man who was born and raised in England. And he also knows how I am with enclosed spaces, especially after I came back from the last case. I had claustrophobia before, but they made it all worse once they figured out who I was. They kept me in the dark so long I forgot what light even looked like.

We've been cut a bit of slack since COVID. I stopped even going into MI6 HQ, and never went back. Unprofessional, I know, but nobody else takes it seriously anymore either.

So it's been practically six years, and I get called into to actually come in because Kris desperately has to talk to me in person. I shove my case file - which is now annoyingly 200+ pages long - into a Sainsbury's bag and leave ASAP.

Why today? What could possibly be so wrong? Now I'm on the bus, there's a woman practically on top of me as she clings to the rails, and I'm praying for my journey to be over soon as the bus rolls sluggishly down the potholed road.

After arriving at HQ I walk into the main hall, and turn slowly taking in the white marble walls I hadn't seen in over 6 years. They are immaculate, and I can see my reflection from across the room. We Brits are such show-offs. I turn towards Kris, who had met me at the entrance and roll my eyes. He knows I hate this place, for multiple reasons. This embodiment of pompous arrogance. I glare at him, “When this is over, you owe me a strong drink.”

He laughs and shakes his head, “We'll deal with that after this case is over. For now, we have a meeting with the boss and a special guest.”

My eyebrows rise, “A special guest? Since when does the boss ever let anyone else in a briefing, except him and his unfortunate victims?”

“I have no idea, but apparently it's urgent. So hurry up! Oh, and keep your case file on the ready.”

I squint at him suspiciously, but I still open my briefcase and pull out the file. He lengthens his strides and practically jogs down a hall. I match his pace then nearly fall on my face when he abruptly stops outside a very inconspicuous door. With a puff in his direction, I straiten my coat. He doesn't smile, which leads me to start worrying when he knocks on the door. A soft rap comes from the other side, and the door opens. Kris steps through then gestures at me to follow. I take a deep breath, trying to slow my heart rate and follow him inside.

The room is intolerably dim, and a long table fills most of the space. I wait for my eyes to adjust and look around. At the end of the table a figure shrouded in shadow sits. I'm half tempted to tell him he won the contest for “Most like a statue”, but when I step closer to see him better I almost have a heart attack. My body recoils and I leap back, my back slamming into the now closed door. Before I can stop myself, my unsure words leave my mouth; “Bloody Hell! You should be DEAD!”