December 24, 2024, Christmas Eve. Snow. 51°30′ north latitude, 0°7′ east longitude, the outskirts of London. Oak logs crackled in the fireplace at the old site of the Night Watchers' branch. I sat in a creaking leather armchair, running my fingers over the gold-embossed Night Watchers' insignia on the cover of my notebook. It was a keepsake Old Chen had left me. The leather cover had been polished smooth by the years, its edges even coming apart at the seams, much like the faded military greatcoat he always wore. Outside the window, the snow fell heavily. Feather-like flakes were swept by the cold wind and battered against the Gothic
