The darkness was a physical thing. It had weight and a smell. The smell of a century of the city’s rot, a thick, foul odor of decay and waste that coated the back of the throat. Cold sludge sucked at Sineus’s boots with every step, a greedy, liquid sound that echoed in the narrow brick tunnel. The only light was the faint, green-white glow from his chemical lamp, painting their faces in corpse colors.
They found a junction where a smaller pipe fed into the main conduit. A narrow brick ledge, slick with damp but mostly clear of the filth, ran along the wall for a few meters. It was a miserable shelf in a forgotten underworld, but it was dry. It was enough. Anja hauled herself up first, her movements economical. She turned and offered a hand. He ignored it and pulled himself up, his muscles aching. For a moment, they just sat, their breathing harsh in the dripping silence. The faint, dry clicking of the Ticker’s Rattle was a distant pulse, the city’s unhealthy heartbeat felt even down here.
— You’re bleeding, — she said. It was a statement of fact, not concern.
He looked down. A dark tear ran down his forearm, a shallow cut from the fall or the fight. He had not felt it.
Anja shifted, pulling a small, oilcloth pouch from her belt. She unrolled it with practiced fingers. Inside were a small bottle of antiseptic, a roll of clean bandage, and a needle. The tools of a life lived with sharp edges. She uncorked the bottle. The clean, stinging smell of alcohol cut through the sewer’s stench.
She took his arm without asking. Her grip was firm, her fingers calloused. She poured the liquid directly onto the cut. It burned, a clean fire that made him flinch. She worked with a rough competence, her focus absolute. She was not a doctor, not a nurse. She was a mechanic, and he was a broken part that needed a temporary fix. She wrapped the bandage tight, her movements efficient and sure. It was an act of maintenance. Nothing more.
The silence stretched, broken only by the slow drip of water from the vaulted ceiling.
— Thank you, — Sineus said.
The words felt foreign in his mouth. Brittle. He could not remember the last time he had said them and meant them. Gratitude was an impurity, an emotional residue he had spent a decade purging from his life.
Anja grunted, her eyes still on her work. She tied off the bandage with a sharp tug. But her movements were different now. Less sharp. More deliberate. The final knot was firm, but not punishing. She did not immediately let go of his arm. Her thumb rested for a second on his wrist, a fleeting, almost imperceptible touch. A non-verbal acknowledgment. The wall between them, built of class and coin and cynicism, had not fallen. But it had a crack in it.
She released him and began packing her kit. The moment was over. Business resumed.
Sineus reached into his coat, his fingers finding the hard cylinder of the oilcloth roll. He pulled it out, along with the thin, leather-bound ledger he had grabbed. He had the plans. He had a book of unknown secrets. But Stahl, the granite-faced sergeant, had the arming cipher. They had the map to the treasure, but the German held the key to the lock.
He unrolled the schematic on the brick ledge. The precise, dark ink stood out against the grime. He angled the chemical lamp, its green glow making the lines seem to float in the darkness. The Ticker’s Rattle seemed to grow a little louder, a dry click-clack that matched the frantic beating in his own chest. He forced it down. He was an inventor. He understood machines. This was just another machine.
He traced the lines with his finger. Power conduits. Structural supports. Redundant locking mechanisms. It was a masterful design, elegant and brutal. But the more he looked, the more a cold certainty grew in his gut. The reinforcements were too heavy. The power relays were designed not just to lock, but to channel immense energy. The failsafes were not meant to protect the contents from the outside world. They were meant to protect the outside world from the contents.
— It’s not just a vault, — he said, his voice low. The sound was flat in the damp air. — It’s a containment vessel. Under a power station.
Anja finished stowing her kit. She looked over his shoulder at the plans, her expression grim. The mockery she had worn in the tavern was gone. The professional curiosity was gone. She looked at him now as an equal. A partner in a desperate, losing gamble.
She looked from the schematic to his face, her eyes holding his in the green gloom.
— Then that’s where we go.
