Water dripped from the ceiling in slow, uneven beats, each drop echoing through the cavernous tunnels like the pulse of something ancient and dying. Lanterns swung on frayed ropes, their flames flickering weak yellow light that quivered across damp stone walls. The smell of mold, smoke, and stale bodies clung to every surface.

This place was the capital’s forgotten underside. A world without sunlight. A world that smelled of mold, smoke, sweat, and old blood.

A world where a man could disappear simply by exhaling.

Erwin Smith walked through it like he belonged nowhere else.

Tall, broad-shouldered, his military cloak cutting a clean line through the grime-choked air, he carried himself with the kind of composure that made even the most hardened criminals watch him from behind narrowed eyes.

At Erwin’s right, Miche Zacharias inhaled the air in long, searching breaths. At the front of the MPs walked Captain Flagon, jaw clenched, brows drawn together in constant irritation—at the stench, at the darkness, at that tense atmosphere hanging above them like a guillotine.

Flagon muttered, “We’ve swept three blocks. Nothing. Bastard probably crawled into a drainage pit.”

Erwin glanced at him, calm and unreadable.

“If they did, we’ll find them there too.”

“You’re too calm about this,” Flagon grumbled.

Erwin didn’t respond. He rarely wasted breath.

A woman stirred a pot over a brazier, smoke stinging Erwin’s throat. Slumped drunks and furtive traders lined the walls. Every face studied the soldiers—gauging danger, gauging opportunity.

“Spread out,” Flagon ordered. “But keep each other in sight.”

Boots shifted over wet stone as the formation widened.

Erwin slowed.

Erwin didn’t advance. He simply fixed the figure with a steady, assessing stare—the kind that pinned soldiers in place. The street fell silent around him as if the Underground itself were holding its breath.

“You there,” Erwin said, voice level, carrying easily through the damp air. “Look at me.”

And then, lower than before.

”Found you.”