The moment Esme stepped past the crooked iron door, the world changed.
Warmth hit her first—not the gentle kiss of sunlight, but the oppressive, sticky kind that clung to the back of her neck like breath from something still living. The air was thick, muggy with scent. Smoke, sweat, stale herbs, and rusted iron bled into her nostrils, coating her throat with something foul and familiar. It smelled like secrets, steeped in age and never meant to see daylight.
The passage narrowed as she moved forward, boots thudding softly against a floor made of old stone and dirt packed by generations of footsteps. Her fingertips brushed the walls—moist, uneven, slick in places as though the city above wept through its skin. Every inch of this place breathed alive.
