The air beneath Tottenham Court Road was thick with the smell of damp concrete, engine grease, and cigarette smoke. A busker’s guitar echoed faintly from somewhere down the tunnel, almost drowned out by the metallic roar of trains and the hiss of the escalators. The tiled walls were grimy, yellowed from years of soot and city breath. Advert posters for cassette players, new wave bands, and cheap flights to Ibiza peeled from the walls like tired confetti. In the middle of it all stood Morten, Magne, and Paul — three Norwegians in thrifted coats, huddled together like they’d wandered in from another world. “I’m telling you, we need tickets before we go down,” Paul said, frowning at a faded sign that pointed in three different directions. “But where do we get them?” Morten shot back, his voice echoing slightly off the tiles. “There’s no one selling anything!” Magne folded his arms, glancing around at the rushing commuters. “Maybe if we look confused enough, someone will take pity on us.” No one did. Londoners swept past — sharp suits, rain-soaked trench coats, heels clacking on stone — as if the three of them were invisible. Paul rubbed a hand through his damp hair. “We came here to make it in music,” he muttered. “And we can’t even make it onto a train.” Magne smirked. “Maybe that’s the lyric we’ve been looking for.” Morten laughed under his breath, the sound bright against the dull hum of the station.