Adrian was left empty-handed, exposed under the flickering light of the lamp. The sentry continued to keep his weapon aimed at him. Motionless. Calm. As if time itself were waiting for a single error. The other guard, who was bulkier, wore a filthy maroon beret and seemed even harder to read. From the shadow beneath the vault, only his eyes emerged—a cold blue that did not seek submission, but rather fissures. The air was becoming increasingly heavy. Adrian could barely feel the platform beneath his boots. Only their stares. One distant, the other direct to the point of brutality.
A faint rustling was heard from behind, perhaps a delayed echo from the platform, perhaps a gust of wind lost through the tunnel. The inner gate had just opened. The sound instantly clenched his stomach. He understood then that he had entered the station. But that brought no peace. Only a different kind of pressure. Beneath London’s buried network, bureaucracy had become a more efficient form of control than weapons. The passport, a simple, crudely laminated A4 sheet, replaced any trace of identity. For those without old documents, without a name in the pre-war registers, that filthy piece of paper was the sole proof that they still belonged to a station and not to the darkness between them.
Suddenly, the heavy iron door opened with a metallic crash that shattered the silence of the room. In the doorway appeared a massive man, bald, with dark skin and thick eyebrows that darkened his gaze even further. The uniform hung heavily on his shoulders, but his authority did not come from it. It came from the way he occupied the space. His eyes locked onto Adrian. For a second, his expression remained rigid, then something cracked.
“Good God… Adrian?”
The voice struck the room with the force of a memory suddenly brought to light. The man took a step forward. Adrian was now looking directly at him, the tension still present in his body, but transformed into something else. Confusion. Relief. Disbelief. He stood up as much as his chains allowed.
“It’s still me, Leroy,” he said softly. “Just a few years older.”
Leroy stood motionless for a moment, then approached and pulled him into a brief, rigid embrace. The chains rattled between them, cold and awkward, but for the first time since he had entered the station, Adrian managed to breathe without feeling that every inhalation could be misinterpreted.
“How are you, my friend?” Adrian asked. “You look well.” His voice was still tense, but more stable.
Leroy smiled briefly. “I’m well. And I’m glad you’re not dead.” Then his expression vanished immediately as he turned to the soldier by the table. “Unlock him. Can’t you see I know him?” The tone left no room for hesitation.
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