The tea had gone cold long before anyone moved. Thin trails of steam still drifted above the empty mugs, dissolving slowly beneath the dirty light hanging over the office. No one spoke. There was nothing left to argue about. The decisions had already been made.
“We leave for Green Park station at first light,” Stewart said quietly. “Me, Marcus Trenholom and Alastair McDougall. We don’t know what’s waiting for us there. Maybe the Legion has already taken the station. Maybe the Government is still holding what remains.”
The room seemed smaller with every word. The weak light overhead failed to reach the corners, where shadows gathered thick against the damp walls. The cold inside the office no longer felt natural. It felt like something approaching.
“North Greenwich cannot become the final bastion,” Stewart continued. “We’ll lose people. The only question left is how many we can still save before everything begins to collapse.”
No one answered.
Harvey stood motionless beside the table, staring down at the worn Underground map spread beneath Stewart’s hands. His thoughts were already far from the room, somewhere beyond the tunnels leading north towards Bank station and King’s Cross St. Pancras station.
“And if the Government is already gone?” Alastair asked quietly.
Stewart lifted his eyes.
“Then we rebuild with whoever’s left.”
The silence that followed felt heavier than fear itself.
For twenty five years, the people beneath London had survived through rules, tunnels and routine. But now even the Underground itself seemed to be tightening around them, like something alive beneath the city, waiting for the moment the last lights finally failed.
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