I never thought I’d be back in the field. Seven years ago, I was MI7’s most promising agent—until the Istanbul incident. Now I teach geography to teenagers who think Belarus is a myth. But when a cyber attack wiped out every active agent’s cover, they had no one left to call.

They didn’t want to call me. I know that. But after I ‘accidentally’ knocked out the other retirees during the recall drill, I was the only one standing. Literally. The others were on stretchers.

I insisted on Bough. My clerk. My only friend. They groaned, but handed us gear: explosive jelly babies, a GPS sherbet fountain, and a vintage Aston Martin with no GPS. We drove to France with the mobile switched off, like proper spies.

Now we’re in Antibes, undercover as waiters at Hotel Magnifique. I was supposed to steal a phone. Instead, I set the kitchen on fire. But we got the photo—the Dot Calm yacht. That’s where the servers are. That’s where the next attack will come from.

Bough whispers, 'We need to move now.' I nod, adjusting my bowtie. The mission is on. And somehow, I’m still alive.