The address Rory sent led beneath the city.
Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Silas stood at the mouth of an abandoned shipping warehouse on the edge of the South End docks. The wind carried salt, oil, and something metallic. Rust streaked the corrugated walls like dried blood.
A freight elevator door stood half-open.
A man in a leather jacket blocked the entrance.
“Invite?” the man asked without looking up.
Silas handed him the burner phone Rory had provided.
The man scanned the code. Nodded once.
“No names,” he said flatly.
Silas didn’t answer.
He stepped inside.
The elevator descended with a groan that felt older than the city itself.
Each level down swallowed more signal.
More light.
More air.
Until the doors opened.
And the sound hit him.
The Underground Cathedral
The
