I've had a lot of jobs in my six hundred years of life. Mercenary, soldier, knight, nobleman—fancy titles, those, though they mostly just mean "bloke with a sword who's good at not dying." Then there was the time I was homeless, penniless, scraping by with nothing but stubbornness and a stomach that growled like a bloody bear. I remember gnawing on a bit of leather once—don't recommend it. Not much flavor, unless you count desperation.

After I clawed my way back up, I became a printer. Now that was decent work. Solid. Honest. Ink and paper don't lie to you. They don't change their minds or stab you in the back. People, though? Well, they're another matter entirely. Printing presses, though—those I could trust.

Then came piracy. Because, let's face it, why the hell not? I had the swagger, the sea legs, and a growing taste for rum. Turns out, I was pretty good at it. Ships full of Spanish treasure and a sense of freedom you couldn't find anywhere else back then. Of course, piracy didn't last forever—not when governments started catching on. So, I turned merchant. All very respectable. I traded silks, spices, the odd barrel of something illicit. People loved the Americas back then, all shiny and new. There was money to be made, and I made plenty of it.

But that wasn't the end of it. Oh, no. You can't stick around for centuries without picking up a few odd gigs along the way. There was that stint as a mob boss in the fifties. Don't look at me like that—everybody was doing it. Sharp suits, smoky jazz clubs, a bit of muscle when words didn't work. Good times, if you didn't think too hard about morals.

And then there was the rock band in the eighties. God, that was fun. Small-time, sure, but the energy was electric. Tight leather trousers, too much eyeliner, and lyrics that didn't make sense even when you were sober. But the crowd didn't care, and neither did we. For a little while, it felt like I was immortal for all the right reasons, not just the cursed ones.

Still, for all the lives I've lived, there's one job I fell in love with: teaching. Yeah, I know what you're thinking. Professor Robin Golding, PhD in Medieval History. Bit of a cheat, innit, Hob? And maybe it is. I've seen more history firsthand than most historians have read about. Lived it, fought in it, profited off it. But that's the thing. When you've seen as much as I have, watched humanity stumble, fall flat on its arse, and then—against all odds—get back up again, you start to want to share it.

It's not the big stuff I love sharing, either—not the wars or the kings or the revolutions. It's the little things. The details. The bits everyone forgets. How the printing press turned the world upside down. How buttons replaced laces, and suddenly getting dressed was a whole lot easier. Chimneys! Don't get me started on chimneys. These little marvels that turned smoke-filled rooms into warm, livable spaces. I love that stuff. The stupid, wonderful things that make life better, even when the world's a mess.

So here I am. Robin Golding, History Professor at one of London's fine institutions. Suits me, doesn't it? The tweed jacket, the elbow patches, the faint smell of chalk dust that never seems to leave my hands. The musty old books and over-brewed coffee in the staff room.

There's something about a classroom that just feels right. An auditorium full of young men and women—with messy hair and bright eyes, the kind of energy that comes from not yet realizing how heavy the world can get. They're eager to learn, even if they pretend, they're not. They ask questions, argue, roll their eyes when I get carried away. And yeah, I get carried away. But that's the beauty of it.

After six centuries of stumbling through life, I've finally found something that feels like I'm doing more than just surviving. Teaching—it's not just a job. It's a way to make this immortality of mine mean something. And I wouldn't trade it for the world.

At the moment, I'm in the middle of one of my favorite lessons. "Great Discoveries That Changed Lives," or as I like to call it, "You Lot Have No Idea How Good You've Got It." Today's topic? Chimneys. Yes, chimneys.

"Now, I know what you're thinking," I say, pacing the front of the classroom with my hands clasped behind my back, doing my best impression of a stern but overly enthusiastic professor. "Chimneys? Really? You're expecting me to wax poetic about soot-covered holes in the wall?"

There's a soft ripple of laughter from the room—some louder, some just snickers quickly muffled by hands over mouths. Good. I've got them. Humor always works better than intimidation with this lot. I stop mid-step, spin on my heel, and grin at them like I've caught them in the act of something unspeakably daft.

"But here's the thing," I continue, raising a finger like I'm about to reveal the meaning of life. "You lot wouldn't last a day without chimneys. You think your little electric heaters and central air make you tough? You've got no idea what it was like back in the day. Try sitting through a medieval winter in a one-room hovel, huddled around a smoky fire. The kind of fire that doesn't politely ventilate out of a chimney. No, no. It belches smoke straight into your face, into your lungs, into your eyes until you're crying like someone just insulted your mum. You'd be hacking up a lung before you managed to warm your frozen turnips."

That gets a proper laugh. Someone snickers loud enough in the back to draw attention. I point at them with mock severity. "Yeah, you. Laugh it up, lad. Chimneys were a revolution. Before those lovely bits of brickwork came along, the average lifespan was as much about smoke inhalation as it was about plagues. Half the population wheezed their way through life sounding like asthmatic goats. Not exactly dignified."

The laughter ripples again, and I let it ride before leaning forward and resting my palms on the edge of the desk, dropping my voice like I'm letting them in on a secret. "And then—along comes the chimney. Suddenly, the smoke's going up, not in. Homes are warmer. Air's cleaner. People are breathing, living longer. And now, here you are, taking the humble chimney for granted. Don't pretend you're not."

I push off the desk and stand straight, spreading my arms wide as if I'm presenting the chimneys of the world to them myself. "Did I mention I love chimneys?" I say, a mischievous grin pulling at the corners of my mouth. "Proper little marvels, they are. Life-changing."

That one gets them. Proper laughter, even from the grumpiest lot in the back row—the ones who think it's uncool to crack a smile in class. I let it sit for a beat, watching their faces light up, before softening my voice as I begin pacing again.

"The thing is," I say, more thoughtful now, "history isn't just kings and wars and big flashy inventions. It's the little things. The overlooked things. It's chimneys and buttons and tin cans. It's pens and paper and the bloody zipper on your coat. Things so common now, you can't imagine living without them. But back then? Life-changing. Revolutionary. The sort of stuff that kept people warm, kept people alive."

I pause for effect, sweeping my gaze across the room. Heads are nodding. Pens are scratching furiously against notebooks. A couple of them are staring at me like they've never thought about something so small meaning so much. And that's the moment I live for. When the spark hits.

"Alright," I say suddenly, clapping my hands together and breaking the spell. "That's enough chimney worship for one day. Chapters four and five for next week. And for God's sake, don't just skim the summary like half of you did last time. I can tell when you're bluffing. I've been bluffing for centuries."

That gets another laugh, but the sound of chairs scraping across the floor starts up almost immediately as they begin packing their bags, papers rustling and the chatter rising. It's always the same controlled chaos at the end of class, and I love it. Feels alive.

But I'm not letting them off that easy today. "Oh, and before you all scarper off to your next distraction," I add, raising my voice slightly to corral their attention, "I want an essay from you lot next week."

There's a collective groan, as expected. I grin wickedly. "Don't give me that. You'll survive. I want two thousand words on an invention you think changed the world. But here's the catch—no wheel, no fire, no bloody Industrial Revolution. If I see the words 'steam engine,' you're getting a failing mark on principle. Be creative. The little stuff matters. Surprise me."

There's muttering, some groaning, and one cheeky sod mutters, "What about chimneys, then?"

"Don't test me," I shoot back, pointing at him with narrowed eyes. "Chimneys are mine. Pick something else, or I'll start ranting about zippers next time, and I won't stop until you've all cried for mercy."

That gets another laugh as they file out of the classroom, shoulders bumping, voices echoing in the halls. A few linger, as always—the curious ones, the ones with questions or arguments or just the drive to get in another word edgewise.

One kid, a gangly lad in a hoodie, shuffles up to my desk as I'm gathering my papers into a stack. "Professor Golding?" he says, voice soft and hesitant, like he's not sure he's allowed to ask.

I glance up, shoving my glasses back onto my nose. "Yeah?"

"Do you... do you really think the little stuff matters? Like, chimneys and buttons?"

I pause, leaning back in my chair, a small smile tugging at my lips. "More than you know, mate," I say, voice steady. "It's the little stuff that keeps people going. You'd be surprised how far a warm house, a sturdy coat, or a pocket full of matches can take you when the world feels like it's falling apart."

He nods slowly, his face scrunched up like he's trying to wrap his head around it all. Then he slings his bag over his shoulder and heads out, leaving me to sit there for a moment, watching the last of the students trickle through the door.

I stretched, feeling a satisfying crack in my back as I gathered up my bag and notes, a soft grunt escaping before I caught myself. Old habit. Another day, another lesson done, and I could still feel the faint buzz of energy from the classroom hanging in the air. Even as the students had filed out, their chatter echoing through the halls, I lingered for a moment. There's something about the quiet after a lecture—the way it settles like dust, like the room itself is sighing in relief. Peaceful.

After a beat, I pushed myself upright with a muttered, "Right, let's get on with it," and slung the bag over my shoulder, the leather creaking in protest.

The hallway outside was alive with the usual university hustle—students shuffling from one class to another, clutching armfuls of textbooks or half-empty takeaway coffee cups. A burst of laughter from down the hall bounced off the old stone walls, loud and sharp, followed by a muffled, "Oi, shut it!" that made me grin despite myself. Kids, eh? No matter the century, they're always the same—loud, scrappy, and forever late for something.

"Afternoon, Professor Golding!" A cheerful voice piped up as I passed a group of students huddled near the noticeboard.

I glanced over, clocking the lot of them at once—hoodies, sneakers, one lad wearing a coat so bright it could double as a highlighter. "Afternoon," I replied with a grin, pointing at the coat. "You wearing that so they'll spot you when you're late to class, or is it just a cry for help?"

The lad blinked, then snorted, shoulders shaking as his friends broke into laughter. "Bit of both, sir," he shot back, quick as you like. I raised my hands in surrender, the grin still pulling at my lips as I carried on down the corridor.

I turned the corner and nearly collided with Sophie from the history department—mid-thirties, sharp as a tack, and perpetually juggling half a dozen things at once. She had her tablet tucked under one arm and a coffee cup precariously balanced in her hand, the smell of overly sweet caramel wafting toward me.

"Robin!" she said, a little breathless. "Just the man I needed. Did you send the essay prompt to your second-years yet? Half of mine are claiming they 'never got it.'"

I raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement tugging at the corner of my mouth. "Oh, I sent it. Whether they read it, though, is another matter entirely. Did you check the 'spam' folder excuse yet? That's a classic."

Sophie rolled her eyes and gave a dry laugh. "Yeah, that one's come up twice already." She shifted the coffee to her other hand and fixed me with a look. "Are you still banning the wheel and the Industrial Revolution for their essays?"

"Not banning," I corrected, holding up a finger as I adjusted the strap of my bag. "Simply discouraging. Strongly discouraging. If I have to read another essay about fire or steam engines, I'll bloody combust myself."

That earned a proper laugh out of her. "Fair enough. I'd like to see what they come up with, though. You always manage to wring something clever out of them."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Soph," I said, grinning. "Go enjoy your caramel nightmare before it goes cold. I'll see you at the staff meeting tomorrow."

"Ugh, don't remind me," she groaned, already turning back down the hall. "Don't be late this time!"

"No promises!" I called after her, smirking to myself as I pushed through the heavy front doors of the university and stepped outside.

The crisp London air hit me like a splash of water—sharp and clean, carrying the faint smell of exhaust and damp stone. Outside, students dotted the steps, sitting in clusters or scrolling through their phones, conversations buzzing faintly over the hum of the city. I waved at a few of them as I passed, nodding at the kid who always sat in the front row in my lectures. He was scribbling furiously in a notebook, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth like he was working on something that could save the world.

Then I saw her. Waiting for me just beyond the steps, gleaming faintly in the watery afternoon light. My motorcycle. My beautiful, faithful Triumph Bonneville.

Most of the kids these days would call her vintage, maybe even classic if they were feeling poetic, but I still remembered the day I got her. Brand new, back in the sixties, when she was the sleekest, fastest thing on two wheels. Time's been kind to her—or maybe I have. I keep her in good shape. She's earned it.

"Still a stunner, aren't you, love?" I muttered as I approached, my voice fond, like I was talking to an old friend. Which, let's be honest, I was. I ran my hand along the handlebars, the cool metal solid and comforting beneath my fingertips.

"Professor Golding!" a voice called from the side, and I turned to see a couple of students lingering near the bike rack. One of them—curly-haired, wearing a band T-shirt three sizes too big—pointed at the Triumph with wide eyes. "Is that yours?"

"It is," I replied, letting just a bit of pride creep into my tone. "What do you think?"

"That's bloody cool," the kid said, practically gawping. "What year is it?"

"1965," I replied, patting the seat. "They don't make 'em like this anymore, mate."

The other student—glasses, jumper with sleeves pulled over his hands—tilted his head and said, "How do you keep it running? My dad's car from the nineties breaks down every month."

"Because I treat her right," I said, flashing them a grin as I pulled my helmet out of my bag. "Oil changes, a bit of elbow grease, and the occasional sweet talk. Works every time."

They laughed, shaking their heads as I swung a leg over the bike, settling into the seat with a familiar ease.

"Do you ride it everywhere?" the curly-haired one asked, still staring at the bike like it was the coolest thing he'd ever seen.

"When I can," I replied, adjusting the helmet and snapping the strap into place. "Life's too short to spend it sitting in traffic, don't you think?"

He nodded enthusiastically, and I could see the gears turning in his head. Another future rider in the making, no doubt. "I'm getting a bike one day," he declared.

"Do yourself a favor," I said as I adjusted the bag slung across my back. "Don't get one of those new plastic monstrosities. Find something with a bit of soul."

With that, I turned the key, and the Triumph growled to life, the low, steady rumble of the engine drowning out the city noise for just a moment. I glanced up at the two students, both still watching, grinning like kids at a carnival.

"Right, off you go," I said with a wave, revving the engine. "Go write me an essay on why the zipper was the greatest invention of all time, or something equally ridiculous."

They laughed as they turned back toward the building, and I let out a small breath, a smile tugging at my lips. I'd lived a lot of lives, seen a lot of things, but this? A crisp day in London, a bit of banter with the next generation, and my bike rumbling under me like the dependable old friend she was?

Yeah. This was a good life.

I kicked off, weaving easily into London's eternal traffic. The streets were a mess, as usual—black cabs crawling like stubborn beetles, red double-decker buses hogging up lanes, and pedestrians darting across roads with the urgency of startled cats who couldn't decide which way they wanted to go. Horns honked, brakes squealed, and there was the distant wail of a siren cutting through the din like it always does.

But I didn't mind. You learn not to, when you've got immortality tucked neatly in your back pocket. When you've got time—real time—you don't need to get worked up over delays or wrong turns. You take things slow... or fast, depending on your mood. And me? I've always made it a rule to try everything at least once. Life doesn't get boring when you're determined to have a go at all of it.

Take climbing, for instance. I'm pretty sure I was the first human to scale Mount Everest. Not that there's a record of it—nobody was exactly scribbling down achievements back then unless you were a king or a war hero. I didn't have oxygen tanks, didn't have fancy boots or any of that technical gear they've got now. Just me, a coil of rope, some frozen fingers, and the sheer bloody-minded belief that I could make it to the top. And I did. Alone, standing above the clouds, looking down at the world like I'd conquered something eternal. The view? Bloody incredible. Worth every frostbitten toe.

Then there's surfing. Every ten years or so, I head down to Australia, rent a board, and throw myself at the mercy of the waves. I've been tossed around more times than I can count, the ocean flipping me upside down like it's shaking a snow globe. But that moment when you catch a perfect wave—when it lifts you, carries you, and makes you feel like you're flying—it's a feeling you can't replicate anywhere else. Doesn't matter how many times you wipe out. The good ones make it all worth it.

Diving, too. You'd think spending enough time underwater would've put me off it—what with me having been a pirate and all—but no. The sea's still magic to me. I've seen coral reefs glowing with colors so bright they'd put a painter's palette to shame, swum alongside dolphins who seemed more amused by me than anything, and even come face-to-face with sharks. And you know what? They're not so bad. You're looking at an ex-pirate, after all. The ocean's always felt like my second home, and those creatures—dolphins, sharks, fish, all of it—they belong there. It's their world. I'm just lucky enough to visit.

And then there's traveling. Don't even get me started. I've done my rounds through Europe more times than I can count—half on foot when it wasn't much more than mud roads and Roman ruins. I've crossed the Americas when they were still wild, seen rivers so wide and deep they seemed endless, and walked the Great Wall of China long before the tourists started queuing up for selfies.

Languages? I've picked up enough of those to muddle through just about anywhere. Enough to chat up the locals, enough to charm the ones you want to charm, and—most importantly—enough to order a pint or find a good meal wherever I land. You can learn a lot about a place by how it feeds you, and I've never been one to miss a decent meal.

These days, things are easier. Planes have turned traveling into something you can do on a whim, and I take full advantage of that. Every year, I pick a new spot for my vacation. Last year it was Thailand—golden temples shining in the sunlight, street food so spicy it felt like my face was melting, and beaches where the sea stretched on forever. The year before that? Japan. Cherry blossoms drifting on the breeze, lantern-lit streets, and those quiet shrines tucked away in forests where the air feels sacred. Before that, India. Chaos and color, spices that hit you like a freight train, and markets so full of life you could lose yourself for days.

But no matter how far I go, no matter how much I see, nowhere feels like home. Not like London.

I've watched this city change more times than I can count. I've seen it rise up, stumble, burn to the ground, and claw its way back again—twice, no less. I've walked these streets as a soldier, boots heavy with mud and blood. I've traded in bustling markets as a merchant, haggling over spices and silks. I've begged on these same streets when life kicked me down and left me with nothing but the clothes on my back. I've been a gentleman here, too—tailored suits, shiny boots, and coins rattling in my pocket. London's always been a city of reinvention. Just like me.

And through all of it, London's stayed... well, London. It's the bricks and the fog, the smell of rain hitting the pavement, the way history clings to the air like smoke. It's the Thames cutting through the city like an old, faithful vein, and the skyline—new glass towers rising up like they're daring the past to come back and knock them down again. It's the pubs where they know how to pull a proper pint and the parks where the flowers still bloom no matter how grim the sky looks.

Even now, as I zipped through traffic—dodging cabs, weaving between buses, ignoring the odd shouted insult—it all felt alive. London doesn't sleep. It hums, it breathes, and every corner has a story.

I pulled up at a quiet little café tucked into the middle of a street—one of those places you only find if you already know it's there. Killing the engine, I swung a leg off the bike and paused to take it all in.

The air was sharp and damp, faintly tinged with petrol and rain—London's unofficial perfume. It seeped into your bones, sure, but it felt oddly comforting when paired with the hum of voices spilling from shopfronts and the distant clatter of traffic.

"Home," I muttered, a grin tugging at my lips as I ran a hand along my helmet. Yeah. London always felt like home. No matter how far I went, no matter how much the world changed, this city... my city... was where I belonged.

I pushed open the door to Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death, and the little bell above it chimed cheerfully, letting out a sound far too friendly for a place with a name like that. But that's London for you—always a bit cheeky, even when it's trying to be dramatic. The smell hit me first, all rich coffee, toasted bread, and a faint hint of something sweet. A proper hug in the nose, if you ask me.

Nina, the owner, was behind the counter like always, elbow-deep in a bag of coffee beans and wearing her usual "I've seen everything and judged half of it" expression. She glanced up the second I stepped in, and her smirk widened into a grin as sharp as it was warm.

"Well, look who's graced us with his presence," she teased, reaching for a paper bag that was already sitting on the counter. "Mr. Golding himself, looking far too pleased with the weather today. What's it done? Not rained on you for once?"

"You're just jealous you can't look this handsome on a damp Tuesday, Nina," I shot back, grinning as I pulled my gloves off and tucked them into my jacket pocket.

Her laugh barked out, short and bright. "Flattery won't get you a discount, Hob, but keep trying." She held up the bag, wiggling it temptingly between her fingers. "Tea and Eccles cakes, just how you like 'em. What would you do without me?"

"Starve to death, probably," I replied, stepping up to the counter and taking the bag with a mock reverence, as if it contained the secrets of the universe. Honestly, to me, it sort of did. After all these years—centuries, really—food's never stopped feeling like a bloody miracle. Once you've gone without it, once you've felt that gnawing emptiness clawing at your insides, you don't take a thing for granted. I've been starving, truly starving, in ways most people today can't even imagine. So now? I eat. I enjoy.

"Eccles cakes again?" Nina raised an eyebrow, brushing her hands off on her apron. "You're getting predictable, Hob. I'm disappointed."

"Well, let's not pretend your little flat whites haven't been your personality for the last five years," I countered, wagging a finger at her. "Besides, I'm a creature of habit."

She snorted, crossing her arms. "Aren't we all." Then her expression turned a bit sly, and she pointed at the menu on the wall behind her. "You know the rules. You and me, we're supposed to try everything on each other's menus. Don't think I've forgotten about that, Mr. Golding. And you're falling behind."

I held up the bag of Eccles cakes like a shield. "Hey, hey, I've done my bit! I tried your lavender macaroons last week, didn't I? I'm still recovering. Tasted like eating a garden."

"Rubbish," she shot back with mock indignation, her hand landing on her hip. "Those were delightful. You're just too stubborn to admit you liked them."

"Like chewing a flowerpot," I said, but I couldn't help smiling. She had a point, though. Our little challenge had started months ago, mostly because I'm hopelessly curious, and Nina, bless her, is about as competitive as they come. She was determined to make me taste everything she had to offer—"Broaden your palate, Hob," she'd said—and in return, I'd introduced her to my own culinary discoveries.

It had started simple enough. I'd brought her samosas one week, some Hungarian chimney cakes the next. Then I got more adventurous—French cassoulet, Japanese matcha mochi, a particularly dodgy batch of American tater tots that I'm pretty sure were more salt than potato. Nina had grumbled about the calories but tried every one of them. And now it was my turn to keep up.

"You're just scared to try my beetroot brownie," she said, narrowing her eyes as she moved around to the espresso machine, flipping switches with practiced ease. "And you're going to have to, eventually."

"Beetroot?" I pulled a face, half-appalled and half-impressed. "What lunatic thought that was a good idea?"

"It's trendy," Nina said, pointing a spoon at me like she was threatening a duel. "And you promised you'd try everything. Your words, not mine."

"Yeah, yeah," I grumbled, leaning an elbow on the counter while she poured my tea into a cup far posher than it had any right to be. "I'll try the bloody brownie, but if it's awful, I'm holding you personally responsible for ruining dessert forever."

"Deal." She set the cup in front of me with a flourish, the tea steaming faintly. "And don't act like you're the victim here. You made me eat that fermented fish you brought back from Iceland last month. I'm still traumatized."

"That was cultural enlightenment," I said, grinning as I picked up the cup and took a long, appreciative sip. Proper tea, too—not the bagged nonsense. "You'll thank me one day."

"I'll thank you when I forget the smell," she shot back, but there was fondness in her voice as she wiped down the counter.

The shop was quieter than usual for late-afternoon—most of the lunchtime crowd had cleared out, leaving only a few stragglers. A girl sat in the corner with her laptop, typing furiously while occasionally poking at a croissant. Near the window, two older men were deep in conversation, their voices low and rhythmic, like they'd been telling the same stories to each other for decades. The hum of the espresso machine and the faint clink of cups and saucers filled the space like background music.

I leaned back, cradling the tea in my hands and letting the warmth seep into my fingers. Nina eyed me for a moment, a small smile tugging at her lips.

"You really do like it here, don't you?" she said softly, almost to herself.

"Why wouldn't I?" I replied, glancing around the shop. "You've got good tea, good cakes, and questionable brownies. And it's quiet. Feels... nice."

She tilted her head, considering me. "You're a funny one, Hob. You talk like you've been everywhere and back again, but you still act like a bloke who's just happy to find a decent cuppa."

"Who says I haven't been everywhere?" I said, raising an eyebrow and hiding my grin behind the rim of my cup.

"Yeah, yeah," she muttered, waving me off. "Off you go, before you get all philosophical on me."

I pushed off the counter with a mock salute, bag of Eccles cakes tucked under my arm and tea firmly in hand. "See you tomorrow, Nina."

"Bring something good next time!" she called after me as I stepped out into the street, the bell above the door chiming one last time.

Outside, the afternoon had settled into one of those rare London moments—damp, chilly, but not raining. I stood for a second, sipping my tea and watching the street come and go, the sound of traffic blending with distant snippets of conversation and a street performer's guitar.

The ride from Give Me Coffee Or Give Me Death to the New Inn was short, maybe five minutes if the traffic lights were kind, but my mind wandered enough to stretch it longer. The tea was still warm in my thermos, the Eccles cakes safe in the bag strapped to my back, and the Triumph hummed beneath me like she was just as eager to get home as I was.

London's streets blurred past in a familiar rush of life—old brick buildings pressed up against glassy high-rises, crowds spilling out of shops, a busker strumming a guitar on a corner. It was a city that never stopped moving, and I loved it for that. But then, as I turned onto one particular street, my grip on the handlebars tightened.

There it was. The old White Horse. Closed down now, boarded up and forgotten like so many other places in this city that had once been alive with chatter and clinking glasses. The windows were filthy, streaked with grime, and the sign hung crooked, the faded paint barely legible anymore.

I tried not to look, but of course, I did. Couldn't help myself. The sight of it hit like it always did—a dull ache somewhere deep, like an old wound that hadn't quite healed.

I nearly missed the light changing. The car behind me honked, and I jolted back into the present, twisting the throttle and zipping forward. My heart thumped faster than it should've, my focus all out of sorts. Bloody hell. After all this time, it still got to me.

The White Horse. The one place that had always felt like ours. And now? A relic, a ghost, a shadow of what it had been. Just like... well. Just like him.

I pulled up outside the New Inn a few moments later, parking the bike and killing the engine. For a second, I just sat there, my hands still gripping the handlebars. The New Inn was warm, bright, welcoming, exactly the kind of place I'd wanted it to be when I'd rebuilt it. But standing in its shadow, I couldn't help feeling that the old one was still watching me, even now.

I climbed off the bike, slinging my bag over one shoulder and straightening my jacket. The ache in my chest hadn't gone away, but I pushed it down, let it sink below the surface. Reckless, stupid hope—that's what I've always been made of, isn't it? A bloody peasant who once called Death stupid and got granted immortality for it. A soldier who survived war after war, a pirate who risked his neck on the high seas, a fool who built a pub and waited for his Stranger to walk through the door, even when all the odds said he wouldn't.

Reckless hope was what kept me going.

Because the truth is, I'm not the kind to let go. Not when something's worth holding on to. My Stranger—the one constant in my endless life—he's gone now. Stood me up that last time, left me sitting alone in the White Horse with nothing but my own shadow for company. But maybe, just maybe, he'll come back. Maybe this time will be different.

And if it isn't? Well, I'll keep waiting. Because what else am I, if not the bloke who clings to hope like it's the only thing keeping him upright?

The door to the New Inn creaked slightly as I pushed it open, and the familiar smell of wood polish and old beer hit me like a warm embrace. The bar gleamed under the soft golden light, and the regulars—most of them anyway—were scattered across their usual spots.

"Afternoon, boss," called out Greg, my barkeep, as he polished a glass behind the counter.

"Afternoon," I said, letting the door swing shut behind me. My voice sounded steady, light. Not a trace of the knot still twisting in my chest.

"You're late," Greg teased, arching an eyebrow. "What, Nina got you stuck with another of her weird cake experiments?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," I shot back with a grin.

He laughed, shaking his head. "One of these days, you'll bring me something from that café of yours. A proper bribe, yeah?"

"Not a chance," I said, as I moved to my usual table at the back. "You'll just have to live with the mystery."

I leaned back on my seat, letting the familiar warmth of the place seep into me. This was why I'd built it, why I'd stayed. Not just for him—though, let's not lie, that was part of it—but for this. For the steady hum of life around me, the people who came and went, bringing their stories, their laughter, their troubles.

Hope's a funny thing. It keeps you going, even when it feels like you're chasing something you'll never catch. It's what made me ask for immortality all those centuries ago, standing there in that smoky tavern, calling Death stupid.

And it's what keeps me here now, waiting. Because one day, the door might creak open, and there he'll be. My Stranger. My friend. My constant.

Until then, I'll keep the lights on.

Hannah placed the pint of ale and a steaming plate of chips down in front of me with that no-nonsense smile of hers, wiping her hands on her apron. "Here you go, boss. Don't let it get cold."

"Cheers, Hannah," I said, already fishing a chip off the plate and tossing it in my mouth. Perfect—crispy outside, soft and fluffy inside. I grinned up at her as I chewed. "You've outdone yourself today. You'll have Michelin sniffing around here soon, I swear."

"Yeah, right," she snorted, but her cheeks went a little pink as she picked up an empty glass from the next table. "Pubs don't get stars, Rob, no matter how much you flirt with the staff."

"Flirting? Me?" I pressed a hand to my chest, mock-offended. "Hannah, you wound me."

"Not as much as that paperwork's wounding you," she said, nodding to the pile of essays spread out in front of me like a battlefield—half scrawled with my notes, red pen in hand.

"Necessary evil," I muttered, flipping over the one I'd been grading. Some rambling about The Great Fire of London with an astonishing amount of misspelled dates. Honestly, I lived through it—twice—and this essay made me question my own memory.

Hannah lingered, watching me dip another chip into the little pot of vinegar, and then cleared her throat. "Oh! Before I forget. I wanted to say thanks again. You know, for Jamie's school. He's settling in really well. Comes home talking about Latin and maths like he's some sort of lord now."

"Stop that, Hannah. You've been running around keeping this place upright for years—you'd have done it yourself, given half the chance. Besides, kids deserve a shot, don't they?" I waved a hand, brushing it off as if it was not much. And in my case, it was not. Paying for a kid to go to private school does not put a dent into my sizable fortune. Jamie is a good kid, smart, and his mamma had done a good job raising him on her own.

She smiled, softer this time, and tucked a stray bit of hair behind her ear. "Still. You didn't have to. Means a lot."

"Least I can do," I replied, tipping my pint toward her in a little toast. "Jamie's a smart lad. He'll do just fine. Just tell him not to go getting ideas about philosophy. That's where it all starts to go wrong."

She laughed, shaking her head at me as she grabbed her tray and turned to head back behind the bar. "You're a soft touch, Robin Golding, and you know it."

"Don't tell anyone!" I called after her, though I knew she already had half the regulars convinced. I watched her disappear into the back with a satisfied nod and settled back into the papers.

The grading wasn't glamorous, but it had a rhythm to it. Red pen scratching, pint disappearing sip by sip, chips being devoured in intervals. Some essays were decent. Others? Well, let's just say a few of my students had clearly discovered Wikipedia and called it a day. I flipped through the pile, scrawling notes in the margins—"Nice try, but no." "You've invented three new kings, well done."—until I caught a shadow falling across the table.

I paused, pen hovering mid-word, and glanced up, my brow quirking. There, standing just close enough to loom like a bloody thundercloud, was a blond man in a trench coat that looked like it'd seen more wars than I had. He had that haunted look, like he'd just walked through a battlefield and hadn't quite left it behind. And beside him, a skittish-looking boy, all big eyes and fidgety hands.

I knew the trench coat first, before the face. You don't live as long as I have without recognizing trouble when it comes knocking. Trouble, in this case, looked me up and down and smirked like he'd already decided I was exactly who he was looking for.

"Well, well," the blond said, tone dripping with that signature sarcasm that was apparently a Constantine family heirloom. "If it isn't the Wandering Jew himself. Thought I might find you tucked away in a place like this."

That stopped me cold. My fingers stilled on the paper as I leaned back in my chair, leveling him with a look. Wandering Jew. Christ, it'd been years since I'd heard that name—another of those myths and rumors that tend to swirl around people like me. Immortality's a funny thing; people love to guess how you got it. I'd heard it all over the centuries: cursed, blessed, punished, lucky. But this? This little greeting told me exactly what I was dealing with.

"Constantine," I said slowly, setting my pen down and resting an arm over the back of my chair. "Which one are you?"

His smirk widened, sharp as a knife. "The one and only, John Constantine" he replied, fishing a half-smoked cigarette from his coat pocket and jabbing it between his lips without lighting it.

"You lot don't usually come sniffing around here without a reason. What d'you want?" Truth be told, I was too curious to be annoyed.

Constantine gestured to the boy standing awkwardly next to him, his hands jammed into the pockets of an oversized hoodie. The kid looked at me with that sort of guarded suspicion you see in someone who's been let down one too many times. I'd seen that look before—hell, I'd worn it myself.

"This here's Billy," Constantine said, voice suddenly softer. "And he's got himself tangled up in something he shouldn't've. Figured you might be able to help."

I looked between the two of them, a twinge of something—concern, maybe—worming its way into my chest. "Oh, I might, might I? What makes you think I'm the helpful sort?"

Constantine's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Because you're still here, aren't you? Still waiting, still hoping. Blokes like you—ones who hang onto the good stuff—can't help but stick their noses in when someone needs a hand."

That stung more than I wanted to admit. I swallowed it down, turning my attention to Billy, who looked up at me like he was waiting for me to shout or send him packing. Instead, I smiled—soft, easy, the kind of smile you offer a stray dog to let it know you're not going to hurt it.

"Alright, Billy," I said, leaning my elbows on the table. "Come sit down. You hungry?"

The kid hesitated, looking to Constantine, who gave him the barest nod. Slowly, Billy shuffled forward and dropped into the chair across from me, his posture rigid like he wasn't sure whether to run or stay put.

Constantine stayed standing, looming like a specter as I nudged the plate of chips toward the kid. "Go on," I said. "They're good."

Billy's eyes flicked to the plate, then back to me. His hands moved out of his pockets—hesitant—and he picked up one of the chips, nibbling on it like he thought it might explode.

"See? Not poison," I said, earning the faintest ghost of a smile from him.

Constantine watched the exchange, exhaling like he was already fed up with whatever came next. "Right," he said, jabbing his cigarette in my direction. "I'll leave you two to get acquainted. Play nice, Hob. I need the kid in one piece."

With that, he turned, muttering something about needing a smoke as he headed for the door. I watched him go before turning back to Billy, who was still chewing cautiously.

"Well, that's Constantine for you," I said with a sigh, leaning back in my chair. "Turns up out of nowhere, drops chaos on your doorstep, and leaves you to clean it up."

Billy didn't say anything, but he looked at me with something close to curiosity now. Maybe trust. That was something, at least.

"Don't worry," I said, offering him another chip. "You'll get used to it."