CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Dampness clung to the air like a second skin, seeping into the very bones of anyone brave — or foolish — enough to tread these forgotten depths. The underground tunnel snaked beneath London"s bustling lifeblood, a desolate artery where only shadows and vermin dared to dwell. The silence here was a living, breathing entity, punctuated only by the soft scuttling of rats. They darted between the tracks, their tiny hearts thrumming with a survival instinct that mirrored his own purposeful intent.

The killer"s footsteps echoed, a steady rhythm against the rough-hewn walls, each step resonating with singular focus. His mind, a well-oiled machine, whirred with thoughts of the next kill. Anticipation tightened his muscles, yet outwardly he remained as calm as the stone that surrounded him. There was no room for emotion here — not fear, not excitement. Just the task at hand. Just the thirst that needed quenching.

Ahead, the dark maw of a shaft loomed. He approached, eyes adjusting to the abyss that beckoned him upward. With practiced ease, he scaled the rungs embedded in the wall, ascending from the bowels of the earth towards the night"s canvas. The city"s underbelly released him reluctantly, exhaling a breath as if expelling him from its secrets.

He emerged into a waste ground, an urban graveyard where the discarded and forgotten found their final resting place. The moon, a sliver of indifference in the sky, cast long, claw-like shadows that twisted amongst the rubble and detritus. A fence stood sentinel, its chain links a feeble barrier to the world beyond. He made quick work of the climb, his movements silent and assured, dropping down on the other side with a muted thud.

The outskirts of society unfolded before him. Here, amidst the cardboard kingdoms and tattered sleeping bags, London"s homeless lay scattered like fallen leaves. They paid him no heed, too wrapped up in their own tales of woe and survival. Their faces were etched with life"s hardships, each wrinkle a testament to battles fought and lost.

He moved among them, a specter unseen, weaving through the patchwork of human despair with a grace that belied his intentions. They were all potential witnesses, but he knew they saw nothing. Invisibility was his ally in this place; it cloaked him just as effectively as the darkness did.

The killer"s pulse thrummed with a rhythm that mirrored the frenetic heartbeat of the city itself. His anticipation was a living thing, coiled tight within his chest, ready to spring forth into glorious action. This kill would be a spectacle, one that would draw the consultant detective and his stoic Inspector into an ever-tightening web of intrigue. Henry Walsh, the unsuspecting streamer with a military buzz cut, would soon play his part in this grand design.

A quiet street corner unfolded before him, bathed in the sickly yellow of a solitary streetlamp. There stood his quarry, silhouetted against the dim glow, a figure of digital fame about to be snuffed out by hands that sculpted death. The killer"s shadow merged with the darkness as he observed Walsh, who checked his watch with growing impatience. It was almost time.

The sudden vibration against his thigh broke the killer"s deadly reverie. A message, its contents a leash tugging at his autonomy. Max Vilne's name flashed on the screen, a puppeteer pulling unseen strings. The text was succinct, a command disguised as a bargain: a message for Finn must accompany the body, or the final piece of the Tempus Engine would remain elusive.

"Damn you, Vilne," he thought, his mind seething with resentment. To be so close to the culmination of his work, only to have this meddler dictate terms—it was infuriating. Yet, he couldn"t deny the thrill it added to the chase. The killer understood the stakes; the machine was the key, the nexus of past and future, where his brilliance would finally be recognized.

His fingers danced over the phone's keypad with deceptive calmness, replying in curt agreement to the demand. Securing the device back into his pocket, he stepped forward from the shadows, the giddiness replaced by a cold resolve. Henry Walsh turned at the sound of footsteps, his face a mixture of excitement and caution—a moth blissfully unaware of the flame it courted.

"Evening, Henry," the killer greeted, voice smooth like gravel underfoot. "I trust you haven"t been waiting long."

"Long enough," Walsh replied, eyes darting around the deserted street. "This was your idea."

Walsh nodded, seemingly satisfied with the answer.

Silence reclaimed the alleyway as he stepped toward Henry Walsh, whose presence seemed almost trivial under the weight of the message just received.

"Risky business, meeting out here where prying eyes could spot us," Henry said, scanning the gloomy expanse of the backstreets.

"Risk is part of the allure," the killer replied, his voice a low hum in the cool air. "Do you have it?" Henry"s question came like the soft tick of a clock—innocuous yet laced with anticipation.

"Hidden, where only the shadows can whisper its secrets," was the enigmatic response. Henry seemed to accept this, nodding with an eagerness that bordered on impatience.

"Let"s not linger then," the killer suggested, leading the way. They moved together, two silhouettes against the dark tapestry of the London night.

The building loomed ahead, an old post office forsaken by time and progress. Its windows were soulless eyes, opaque with the grime of years neglected. Brickwork crumbled at the slightest touch, like dry bones turning to dust. As they stepped through the threshold, the silence deepened—a void punctuated only by the faint scuttle of vermin in the walls.

"Charming place," Henry commented, his voice betraying a hint of unease as he took in the decay.

"Charm is in the eye of the beholder," the killer mused, guiding Henry further into the bowels of the forsaken structure. The musty air hung thick with the scent of mildew and abandonment, embracing them with invisible, clammy fingers.

A broken counter loomed up ahead, once the heart of bustling transactions, now nothing more than a carcass of wood and faded paint. Tattered posters clung to the walls, their messages obscured by the relentless march of mildew and decay. Letters and packages lay strewn across the floor, undelivered missives that whispered of lives interrupted, connections severed.

"Quite the spot for privacy," Henry remarked, a nervous chuckle escaping his lips as he surveyed the desolate interior.

"Privacy," the killer echoed softly, his gaze lingering on the fractured glass that littered the ground, reflecting the scant light like fallen stars. "An increasingly rare commodity."

They ventured deeper, the air growing colder, as if the very spirit of the building disapproved of their intrusion. Shadows danced along the peripheries of their vision, cast by the feeble illumination of the moon spilling through the breaches in the architecture.

"Almost there," the killer assured Henry, his voice barely above a whisper. The sense of isolation was palpable, a living entity within these walls that had seen too much and spoken too little. Here, amid the forgotten remnants of the past, the killer felt a kinship—a shared understanding of being unseen, unappreciated, disconnected in the modern world.

Henry"s voice quivered with a mix of anticipation and trepidation. "Where is the Tempus Engine?" he rasped, his eyes scanning the dilapidated corners of the old post office, as if expecting the relic to emerge from the shadows.

The killer, cloaked in the darkness that clung to the walls like a second skin, offered no response. Instead, a slight tilt of the head—a predator acknowledging the final plea of its prey—preceded action. In one fluid motion that belied a chilling grace, the killer turned on Henry, the glint of a blade catching the moonlight for a mere heartbeat before it sliced through the air.

There was a soft, wet sound, scarcely louder than a sigh. Henry"s eyes widened, shock and realization dawning together in a silent scream as his hands flew instinctively to his throat. Crimson bloomed across his fingers, a stark contrast against the pallor of his flesh. His knees buckled. He crumpled to the floor, a puppet severed from its strings.

The killer watched dispassionately as the life ebbed from Henry"s body, the pool of blood seeping into the cracks of the worn floorboards. There was neither satisfaction nor remorse in those cold, calculating eyes—only the acknowledgment of a task completed.

Swiftly, the killer stooped to drag the body, the sound of it scraping against the ground a harsh lullaby echoing through the hollow space. The corpse was positioned with an almost reverent care at an old postage weighing machine, the antique iron creaking under the unexpected burden.

A note was produced, its edges crisp in the killer"s gloved hand. It was placed deliberately on the scales, a macabre balance between life"s worth and words meant for another. The message for Finn Wright was simple, yet it carried the weight of a challenge, one that would draw him deeper into this deadly game.

"Like a nocturnal spy, return back home to the FBI," it beckoned, though ink and paper could not convey the taunting lilt that colored the killer"s thoughts.

Retreating from the scene, the killer melted back into the night. With each step away from the old post office, the hope grew: hope that this kill, this message, would be the last required performance before Max Vilne upheld his end of the bargain. The killer vanished into the labyrinthine heart of London, leaving behind a fresh riddle etched in blood and shadow for Finn to unravel.