The pub breathed like a living thing—thick with smoke, regret, and the scent of stale ale that clung to every splintered inch of wood. Lanterns hung low, their dim orange light wavering across the battered bar top, turning half-empty bottles into little glass relics of better nights. Outside, London was a ghost—fog rolling through the streets like it had secrets to tell, sirens wailing somewhere far enough away to ignore.
Inside The Rusty Anchor, time seemed to stall. The air was heavy, the conversations quieter now—murmurs of laughter dulled by weariness, the clink of a glass punctuating the kind of silence only the hopeless could make.
Henry Jackson sat alone at the far end of the bar, shoulders drawn in like he was trying to disappear. The man was all edges tonight—his tall frame folded over a drink, jaw tight, eyes dark with too many thoughts that refused to die down. The glow from the lanterns carved shadows along his cheekbones, tracing the fatigue etched deep into his face.
