The tunnel smelled of wet metal and old concrete.
Harvey moved alone beneath Canary Wharf, leaving the station behind. The music faded first. Then the voices. Then the warm light of the gas lamps. Only the echo of his footsteps remained.
The Underground never truly slept. It breathed through rusted pipes, forgotten platforms and narrow galleries carved into darkness. Entire lives had been built beneath the dead city above.
But something had changed.
People were disappearing.
Messengers.
Scouts.
Entire families.
Stations that once felt safe had begun to fall silent.
Kentish Town.
Southwark.
Old Street.
Names carried through the tunnels in lowered voices, spoken more like warnings than places.
Some talked about shadows moving between stations.
Others spoke of things seen in the dark that left no footprints behind.
Harvey did not trust stories.
He trusted evidence.
Missing people.
Empty rooms.
Unlocked doors.
Objects left behind.
Signs that something was moving through the network.
Ahead of him waited Green Park.
Maybe answers.
Maybe only more questions.
The beam from his headlamp cut through the darkness while water echoed somewhere beyond the tunnel walls. London still existed.
Not above.
Below.
In steel.
In concrete.
In fear.
London Tube 2033
The city survived.
It simply moved underground.
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