Soho
The hotel in Soho was one of those places where a human life costs exactly as many copper pennies as land on the scuffed counter. A narrow bed with a sagging mesh frame, a window facing a brick well of a courtyard, and the sticky, ingrained smell of "Shag" tobacco—a legacy of the previous tenant who had likely departed this room for the St. Pancras hospital morgue.
I paid for a week in advance. The porter, a veteran with an empty sleeve pinned to his greasy vest, didn't even look up. His only interest was that I didn't drop dead in his room from the Spanish flu or an opium overdose.
Every morning began according to protocol: check the edge, blades into concealed sheaths beneath the coat. I walked, changing routes, dissolving into the crowd of clerks in bowlers and laborers in flat caps. Haste is noise. Noise is a trail at your throat.
As I’d predicted, Ivy House was being watched. There were six of them. They couldn't hide that predatory fluidity that betrays a fighter of the League. The watchers changed in threes: one "lookout" at the gate, another a shadow at the back entrance, a third further down the street. They donned caps and mufflers, trying to pass for locals, but that breed had never been native to Hampstead. This place smelled of expensive perfume and clean park air; they reeked of East End soot. They looked like sharks in a garden pond. Beautiful, dangerous, but utterly out of place.
The first night, I simply studied their timing and blind spots. The second night, I worked.
The London fog, popularly dubbed "pea-souper," blanketed Hampstead Heath in a thick, yellowish shroud. At ten paces, the world ceased to exist.
"Donald, where’s your trousers..." my whisper was quieter than the rustle of a falling leaf, delivered with the intonation of a man who had already seen the end of this story.
They didn't have time to draw steel. The first went down instantly—a short, piston-like strike to the base of the skull. The second turned toward the sound of the falling body, but met only a vacuum, my gaze, and the quiet sob of sliced air. The third caught a flying blade in his heart while his hand was still fumbling for the grip of a revolver in his coat pocket.
The other three were taken out by Andy when they came to relieve the first shift. We moved the bodies soundlessly and parted in silence.
In the morning, they were found at the gates of Ivy House. Six thugs, laid out with mocking precision on the wet cobblestones, as if someone had politely stopped them at the threshold. An Austin-12 police car rattled up, announcing itself to the fog with the strained groan of its engine. Two constables in heavy wool tunics smelling of wet dog bustled around the bodies. A detective in a flawless bowler hat peered fastidiously at the "gangsters," prodding the corpses with the tip of his cane. Mrs. O’Reilly stood on the porch, clutching her apron, crossing herself over and over.
And what could she say? Silent is the London night.
Anna stood at a second-story window. I saw her slender silhouette through the curtain. To the world, she was the Swan; to me, a sister, the only living soul in this papier-mâché stage set. It seemed she was beginning to understand: my visit and these corpses were no coincidence.
I watched from across the street, sitting on a bench beneath an old oak. In my hands was a fresh copy of the Daily Mail with a headline about the strikes. I was part of the urban landscape, a gray smudge in the fog.
Dandre hadn't appeared for four days. This silence was heavier than any fight. A man you can see is understandable. A man who has vanished from the radar is lethal.
In the evening, back in Soho, I tore two sheets from my notebook. My fingers still held the chill of the night’s steel. On one, I wrote in Russian, using the old orthography: "Anna! You can trust her. Let her in. JVL."
On the other—only one word: "Tonight."
I bought an envelope and tucked both messages inside. I caught a newsboy by the tube entrance and pressed a shilling into his hand. The urchin’s eyes went wide—to him, it was a week’s earnings.
"To the Northumberland. Andy Brown. In her hands only. Run!"
The little courier dissolved into the fog faster than the smoke from my cigarette.
Labrys and Atlas
Mrs. O’Reilly opened the door, her lungs already filled with air to usher the uninvited guest out—Hampstead did not take kindly to women in men’s suits. Но слова застряли у неё в горле. The guest didn't ask to enter; her calm, motionless gaze forced the housekeeper to step back in silence, as if she were facing not a passerby, but the rightful owner of these lands.
The rehearsal hall smelled of rosin and old wood. Anna was alone. Without music, in absolute silence, she was running through a variation. She heard footsteps and froze in an unfinished pas, turning smoothly.
"You were in the park," Anna said, her voice echoing off the high ceilings. "Were you hurt?"
Andy didn't answer immediately. She placed a long bundle wrapped in coarse canvas against the wall. "A scratch. It has already closed." "You left so quickly…" "I know." Andy looked at her point-blank, without social smiles. "Even before John asked me to look after you, I was there. To ensure that it wasn't you who was hurt, Anna."
Anna studied her guest just as she had studied John by the fireplace—seeking the truth beyond the form. "You know John…?" "We met on a steamship." Andy gave a barely perceptible smirk, remembering their first encounter. "He told me to give you this."
Anna’s eyes quickly scanned the uneven lines. A shadow of a smile flickered on her lips. "‘She can be trusted…’" she whispered. "If he writes this, then the world truly has turned upside down." She nodded at the bundle. "What is that?"
With a single movement, Andy unwrapped the fabric. On the light floorboards appeared a Scythian labrys. A double-edged blade of dark, matte metal, covered in the patina of millennia. A handle of ebony, polished by millions of touches. It looked as out of place here as pointe shoes on a battlefield.
Anna stepped closer, her fingers freezing a millimeter from the metal. "It is a weapon… It looks as if it were used to kill gods." "It is a tool," Andy corrected. Her voice was steady. "Just like your pointe shoes or this ballet barre. A tool to maintain balance in a world that wants you to fall."
Anna summoned her courage and touched the hilt. "It is incredibly heavy." "You get used to the weight. In time, it becomes part of your own." "How long have you been with it?" Anna raised her eyes. "A very long time." Andy answered without pathos. "I saw mounds being raised in the steppes when your ancestors didn't even know the word 'theater.' I wage my war to remember, Anna. Not to forget."
"Was that supposed to frighten me?" Anna straightened up, her balletic poise clashing with Andy’s warrior-like stature. "It was supposed to reassure you."
Anna tilted her head slightly, a strand of hair escaping her bun. "John opened a window into a world I didn't dare dream of. I used to think I knew the world. Now I know nothing—and, God, how light I feel." She stepped toward the barre. "Show me your dance."
Andy hesitated for a second. Then she shed her coat, remaining in a simple shirt, and removed her shoes. Her movement didn't begin in her head—it came from the earth itself. It wasn't ballet. It was the physics of a predator and the circular motion of the elements. She moved low, her arms describing arcs in which one could feel the power of a labrys swing. The sound of sliced air was hollow and rhythmic. Every movement was complete and absolute.
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Anna watched, breathless. In her eyes was reflected a primal grace that no choreography in the world could replicate. "You dance as if… the earth recognizes you. As if it is a part of you."
Andy stopped, her breath not even hitched. "The earth remembers everyone. Most are just too afraid to get their feet dirty to feel it." "May I?" Anna stepped forward and lifted Andy’s labrys with both hands. She staggered from the weight but held her ground. She made a slow, wide gesture—not a strike, but a fluid shift of her center of gravity. "It is terribly difficult… to keep one's balance." "You will manage," Andy observed her with a rare look of approval in her eyes. "You have a steel core. You’ve just grown used to pulling it into a vertical, away from the world. But life requires the horizontal."
Anna returned the weapon and took her pointe shoes from a locker. She offered them to Andy. The latter looked at the satin ribbons with a bewilderment bordering on superstition. "It's a sin to hide such an arch behind rough leather. Have you ever… tried to appear weightless?" "Never." "Try it."
Andy put on the pointe shoes. She tightened the ribbons as if lacing sandals before a march. She stood up. She took a step—and her ankle betrayed her with a wobble. She nearly tumbled but caught her balance with feline quickness, betraying a person accustomed to surviving on the decks of sinking ships.
Anna laughed. A pure, ringing, childlike laugh. Andy looked at her feet with an expression as if she had discovered snakes upon them. "Is this your weapon?" Anna was still smiling, wiping away a stray tear. "It is for the war against gravity. To make everyone believe that the earth does not exist." "The earth always exists, Anna. Even beneath the clouds." "Precisely why one must pretend it isn't there. To give others the hope of flight."
Andy took a few more steps. She found her balance. She stood on pointe not like a swan, but like a pikeman in formation—immobile and formidable. Anna watched her seriously now. "You hold yourself differently. Others fear falling. But you… you have fallen a thousand times and know that it is not the end." "I have fallen into the abyss," Andy said, and in her voice, Anna heard the echo of centuries. "Many times." "And you got up?" "Always."
They froze opposite each other. Two women, each a hostage to her own eternity. One danced death for the public's amusement; the other saw its face in every battle. "You are alone," Anna said softly. "For a very long time." "I am too." Anna stepped forward and touched Andy’s shoulder. "We don't need words to explain why we are here."
Outside the window, twilight deepened, and the London rain drummed against the glass. Mrs. O’Reilly appeared with a tray—steam rose from the tea, mingling with the scent of rosin. The housekeeper placed the tea in silence and vanished just as quietly.
Anna looked at the labrys, then at her pointe shoes. "Stay, Andy. Until what is beginning is over." Andy removed the pointe shoes and placed them beside the Scythian steel. "I will stay."
A Bar on Old Compton Street
The establishment breathed in unison with rainy London. In the corner, a stooped pianist tormented the keys, extracting something between a lullaby and a requiem. No one turned toward the newcomer—in Soho, everyone had a reason to hide their face in the shadows of a deep booth.
Andy was already there. Her silhouette in the dim light seemed carved from rock. Before her stood a whiskey, untouched and dark as clotted blood. She didn't look at the door. She looked through the table, through the floor, through the very fabric of time.
I sat opposite her. Nodded to the bartender. "Two coffees."
Under Andy’s eyes were shadows; her lips were pressed into a thin line. She looked like a banner that had been dragged across battlefields for too long. But her gaze glowed with a calm and a joy she didn't want to show.
"How is Anna?" I asked indifferently. "We have things to talk about." I gave a wry smirk. "I saw how she holds the cane. She could have been a decent swordsman." "Outstanding, Vei Lin. Had she been born in ancient China." Andy mused. "And she considers me a dancing talent." A smirk. "I never thought about that." "Then boredom isn't a threat to you. Но ты хоть спишь иногда?"
Her voice became dry again, devoid of inflection. "You know I sleep poorly… Tell me about the House."
"An organization that exists beyond nations and centuries. They rewrite history as it happens. Through event correction, they displace realities. What we know of the past—it’s a script that is convenient for them."
Andy listened without moving. I could hear something grinding inside her—it was ancient experience clashing with a new, cold logic. When I fell silent, the stillness in our booth became almost physical.
"Memories…" she finally exhaled. It sounded like a groan. "So that’s where this headache comes from. You can't drown it in whiskey, John! I remember people who never existed. I remember victories that are now called 'rumors.'"
She raised her eyes to me—a feverish light shone in them. "We drove the Demon’s Head into a corner. It was in the mountains, where the air smelled of burnt sulfur. I remember the look on his face—triumph turning to horror when I rose after a mortal wound. He retreated into the fog, abandoning his loyal hounds…" She paused, and her voice wavered. "And then I wake up—Nick and Joe look at me like I’m insane. They say we weren't there! That the Demon’s Head is just a myth from old scrolls. Booker—he started to doubt me… And I started to believe. I decided that the millennia had finally burned through my brain."
"So you are immortal?" "Two thousand damn years, John."
"You aren't crazy, Andy." I leaned forward, looking into the abyss of her memory's eyes. "Your phantom pains are scars from an erased history. The House can rewrite paper, they can kill witnesses, but they cannot erase you. You are a constant. Your memory is the only archive they cannot touch. The victory happened. They simply 'cancelled' that day. Someone among them went back and moved a piece on the board… and your triumph turned into nothing. An ordinary person would remember nothing. But if you've lived a very long time—your mind may differ, even from others of your kind. Like mine."
"But you aren't immortal." "Alas." I showed the scars that had gone nowhere. "My weapon is knowledge."
Andy spoke slowly, as if tasting a new truth: "So, every time I broke the League’s back… the House just cancelled everything. And I started over. Again and again." She set down her glass. Now her voice was different. "They took me out of the game," she whispered. "With my own doubts. I pushed the team away myself because I was afraid of infecting them with my madness. I decided for myself that I was broken."
"See how clever," I smirked bitterly. "Why waste strength on an immortal warrior if you can make them lay down their arms themselves and walk away, whispering curses at their own memory?"
A long pause. The pianist in the corner began to play "Danny Boy"—slowly, poignantly. The rain outside turned into a solid wall, cutting us off from the world.
"I’m not crazy," Andy said. It wasn't a question. It sounded like a sentence. Her gaze was focused and sharp, like the blade of her labrys. "No. You are the sole witness for the prosecution." "And they—will pay. For every moment of my doubt. And for Quynh. Especially for Quynh. Are you with us, John?"
I remembered leaving Wick’s world before he and Eve decided to challenge the House in their reality. I wasn't considered a coward when they learned where I was from. Но сейчас мне было некуда бежать. If I returned to my world, I’d fall into the hands of the System. And I wouldn't make it out alive. Because there, I have no abilities except memory.
"I have nowhere to run." I reached my hand across the table. She squeezed my hand with the force of a hydraulic press. She took the glass of whiskey, downed it in one go without flinching, and set it on the wood with a dull thud.
"I need a team." "Where are they?" "Booker is drowning his sorrows in the States. Nick and Joe… somewhere in Italy, trying to pretend they’re ordinary people." She faltered for a moment. "They’ll think I’ve snapped again." "We won't convince them. We’ll just tell the truth."
Her face transformed. It wasn't a smile—more like the snarl of a predator that has finally caught the scent. She pulled a notebook and pencil from under her coat. "I need to send encryptions."
She almost stood, but I stopped her, placing my hand on hers. "That’s not all. Anna now knows the truth about Dandre. But there is another person who has long known the truth about Anna. He is in Hollywood. He is waiting. He cannot be left there." "So you didn't start this for yourself?" It seemed I had managed to surprise the immortal. "For the truth, Andy. They should have at least tried! If the House hadn't hammered lies into their heads through those around them." "Who is he?" "Charles Chaplin…"
She looked at me seriously. "Something could be read between them. Но эта ложь ввела в заблуждение даже меня. Warn Charlie. Tell him to leave for London immediately. Booker will meet him in New York."
Andy wrote quickly. Addresses, names. "How many of them will come?" I asked. "For the League—enough. For the House—we’ll see."
She hid the sheets. In her movements, that frightening economy of strength reappeared—the mark of a master. Outside the window, London continued its bustling life. Cabs, shouts of newsboys, the laughter of drunken companies. None of them knew that in this smoke-filled booth, a mobilization had just been declared for an army that officially does not exist.
Andy stood. She no longer looked like an exhausted woman. She was the Commander. Again. "When will they arrive?" I rose after her. "Soon." She threw on her coat, concealing the labrys. "Dandre still hasn't returned?" "No." "Usually he isn't gone this long. That means there's less time than it seems. The League won't wait."
She walked out into the rain without looking back. I remained at the table. Two empty glasses. Cold coffee. And the draft of a telegram that must save a life. "London is waiting. Booker will meet you at the port. JVL."
My hand still felt the chill of Andy’s palm. "Well, Freeman... I couldn't have done this alone. But it seems I've just found those who can cancel someone else's cancellations."