The private silver locomotive descended into the subterranean depths beneath the Capital Central Grand Terminal, sliding along specialized vibration dampened rails that eliminated the customary screech of braking steel. Far above the vaulted granite ceiling, thousands of morning commuters and dozens of aggressive press photographers swarmed the public arrival concourses, completely unaware that their target had already bypassed the upper platforms.
The train came to a silent halt alongside Private Platform Zero, a restricted underground facility once constructed for heads of state and visiting foreign dignitaries. The air smelled of clean ozone and damp stone, illuminated by recessed warm amber lighting that cast long shadows across polished granite paving slabs.
Before the carriage door
