The sealed gate opened with a dry click, followed by the heavy hiss of released pressure.
The stranger stepped inside.
Two rifles were already aimed at his chest.
“What is your name?”
The voice carried no anger. No threat.
“Adrian Partridge. North Greenwich.”
“We’ll see about that after you show me your passport.”
In the world beneath London, identity is no longer a name.
It is paper.
A stamp.
A station willing to claim you.
Without it, you do not belong anywhere.
Excerpt from Chapter 7, “The Border Office”
The London Tube
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