Page 57 of Scarlet Thorns

The shower water runs lukewarm, but it washes away the staleness of too many days spent hiding in this room. I dig through my limited wardrobe for something that says “reliable employee” instead of “broke nomad.”

As I get dressed, I catch myself thinking about TMG once again. I never figured out who he was, never got answers about why he disappeared so completely.

Maybe it’s better that way. Some stories are meant to remain mysteries, beautiful and untouchable in their incompleteness.

I check my reflection one last time, smoothing down my dark blazer over a simple white blouse. Professional but not desperate— I hope. My hair falls in soft waves around my shoulders, and for a moment, I see echoes of the confident woman I used to be.

The woman before Dad died.

Before everything fell apart.

But that’s the past. Today is about survival, about taking the first step toward rebuilding something from the ashes of everything I’ve lost.

I grab my small purse and the folder containing my hastily printed CV. Not much to show for twenty-five years of life, but it will have to be enough.

Google Maps shows the walk will take about twenty-five minutes. Perfect timing to arrive exactly at three o’clock, assuming I leave now. The autumn air will be crisp, and the walk will help calm my nerves.

As I reach for the door handle, my phone buzzes with a text from Mom.“Thinking of you today, sweetheart. I love you.”

Her timing is uncanny, like she always knows when I need to hear those words. I type back quickly. “Love you too. About to head out for something promising.”

I slip the phone into my purse and take one last look around the tiny studio that’s been my prison and sanctuary for the past month. Tomorrow, with any luck, I’ll be packing these few belongings and moving somewhere new. Somewhere that comes with steady income and the promise of a fresh start.

The door clicks shut behind me, and I head toward whatever comes next. The name Scarlet Fox echoes in my mind— coincidence or destiny, I don’t know. But suddenly, I feel something that might actually be hope.

Maybe this is exactly what I need. Maybe the universe is finally throwing me a lifeline.

Time to find out.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Ilona

The walk through Budapest’s streets feels like stepping through a living postcard.

I leave my cramped studio in District VII and cross the Danube via the iconic Chain Bridge, its stone lions standing guard over the glittering water below. The Pest side of the city bustles with modern energy— trams clanging along their tracks, tourists snapping photos, locals hurrying between meetings with purposeful strides.

But it’s when I climb into the Buda Hills that the real magic reveals itself.

Here, cobblestone streets wind between buildings that have witnessed centuries of history. Gothic spires pierce the sky alongside baroque facades painted in soft yellows and muted greens. Wrought-iron balconies overflow with autumn flowers, their colors bright against weathered stone. The scent of chimney smoke mingles with the aroma of fresh bread from corner bakeries, and somewhere in the distance, a street musician plays violin with haunting precision.

This is the Budapest my mother fell in love with thirty years ago. I can see why she and Dad chose to build their first memories here, why she still speaks of this city with a wistful smile that transcends the grief of losing him.

My phone buzzes with directions as I navigate the maze of narrow streets. Twenty-three minutes of walking, just as Google promised, but every step feels like traveling backward in time. Past an elderly woman hanging laundry from her window. Past a café where old men play chess beneath gnarled trees. Pastchildren kicking a football against ancient walls that probably remember Turkish occupation and Soviet rule.

When I finally reach the address, I stop and stare.

Then I nearly laugh out loud.

The Scarlet Fox Budapest looks nothing— absolutely nothing— like its Boston namesake. Where the original was sleek brick and shadowy mystery, this building could have been transplanted directly from a Hungarian village. Traditional whitewashed walls, red-tiled roof, wooden shutters painted forest green. A hand-carved fox sign swings gently from wrought-iron chains above the entrance.

It’s charming in a rustic, old-world way, but definitely not the sophisticated underground club I remember. Just a coincidence of names, exactly as I suspected. The universe isn’t that dramatic.

I push through the heavy wooden door and step into… emptiness.

The interior matches the exterior’s traditional vibe— rough-hewn beams, checkered tablecloths, mismatched furniture that looks comfortable rather than calculated. But there’s no one here. No staff, no customers, just the faint smell of yesterday’s goulash and the distant hum of a refrigerator.

“Hello?” My voice echoes off low ceilings. “Tibor?”