Pursuit Through the Brass Corridors
You hurtle through the Bureau's underbelly, gas-lamps smearing gold across copper pipework. Pneumatic canisters hiss past your ear like startled birds. The cards bite into your ribs through your waistcoat.
Behind you, footfalls quicken—measured, unhurried, certain. A gantry rotates overhead with a groan, and the corridor forks: one passage descends toward the river, the other coils back into the engine's iron heart.