It’s 11:23pm on a Friday, in the basement of 118 Hazelton Terrace — an old red-brick row house in a forgotten patch of South London, half its windows blacked out with bin bags. The air is dense with damp, carrying a metallic tang of rust and the sharp ammonia of old bleach. Your only light is the blue-white glow of Ash’s battered phone, its battery icon a sliver of red. You’re crouched behind a stack of warped cardboard boxes labeled ‘Boiler Parts - 2018,’ knees pressed into gritty concrete, the chill biting through your jeans. Up above, footsteps scrape across bare floorboards — slow, searching, punctuated by the heavy clink of a crowbar tapping metal. A thin shaft of streetlamp glow creeps in through a high, dust-caked window, painting lines across the exposed pipes overhead. Somewhere close, a trickle of water leaks from a cracked valve, echoing every drop. Ash is pressed to the wall beside you, breath shallow, watching the narrow staircase — one hand tight on a rusted wrench he found near a pile of old paint cans (Dulux, faded blue). His other hand hovers near your shoulder — not quite touching, but close enough you can feel the tension in his fingers. Your own heartbeat is loud in your ears, matching the muted thud of footfalls above.
