Baggins' Pub, Whitechapel, 12am.
Flynn walked in, having trekked all the way from Saint Mary's Church. Beside him, Nicolas followed, his expression unreadable, and despite his reservations, he had agreed to accompany Flynn, keeping a watchful eye.
"Take your time, but don't try running," Nicolas warned. "You'll have your head dangling from the Tower's top."
Flynn nodded before entering the shabby building. The reeking smell from the pub greeted his nose as he stepped in. This smell, he wouldn't forget, for once until his death.
He passed the sealed hole on the wooden board floor, noticing how well Bart had fixed the floor, "Cleverly done."
When he moved to the counter, his eyes scanned the space, and he soon realized he'd brought no pen nor paper to write his farewell letter.
