The Healer of Hollow Street

Chapter 5 — The Ghost Circuit

London after midnight looked like circuitry, wet streets sparking under streetlights, the city pulsing with electric veins.

Maya led Rashford through an alley that smelled of copper and rain. “Where are we going?” he asked.

“Someplace the news never reaches.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“Good. It’s not meant to be.”

She stopped at a metal door half-hidden behind a graffiti-coated shutter and tapped a rhythm with her knuckles, two short, one long. A slot slid open; a pair of eyes stared out.

“Password?”

Maya hesitated. “Ghost Circuit.”

A click. The door opened. Inside, the light was low and blue. Computers hummed like insects. Cables coiled across the floor. A half-finished neon sign on the wall read LOW SIGNAL.

At the center sat a man with violet hair and a soldering gun. “Lex,” Maya said, “I need a favor.”

“You always do,” Lex replied, not looking up. “Who’s the guy bleeding secrets all over my network?”

Rashford frowned. “Bleeding what?”

“Metaphor, mate. Sit down before you short-circuit the place.”

Maya lowered her voice. “Lex, I need you to find everything on Project Seraph or anything labeled Seraph-7.”

Lex finally turned, one eyebrow arched. “You trying to get me executed? That’s black-vault government data.”

“I’m not asking for downloads. Just traces.”

“Traces lead to doors, and doors lead to men with guns.”

Rashford stepped forward. “Please. My father’s death is tied to it. I need answers.”

Lex studied him. “You’re the miracle guy, right? The healer?”

Rashford didn’t reply. Lex sighed. “Fine. But if the lights start flickering, I’m blaming your voodoo.”

He typed fast, screens flaring with strings of green code. Maya paced behind him. “How far can you go without tripping alarms?”

“Already tripped ’em,” Lex said. “Now we run faster.”

Rashford watched the lines scroll. “What is this?”

“Data echoes,” Lex said. “Even deleted projects leave footprints. See this sequence?” He pointed at a cluster of numbers repeating down the screen.

“That’s Seraph-7’s signature. It’s not human code, it’s self-correcting.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning it fixes itself. Like DNA.”

Maya’s eyes narrowed. “Are you saying it’s alive?”

Lex leaned back. “Not alive. Adaptive. But whatever it is, someone buried it deep under London. Literally.”

“Where?”

“Old postal tunnels beneath Clerkenwell. Power surges there every few nights, unregistered.”

Rashford felt a shiver crawl up his spine. “I’ve felt that hum before.”

“Hum?” Maya asked.

“When I heal someone. Same frequency.”

Lex turned from his screen. “Then congratulations. Whatever you are, you’re running on the same code as their ghost machine.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Tell that to the numbers.”

Rashford clenched his fists. “I need to see it.”

Maya shot him a look. “You sure about that? We barely survived Dempsey.”

“Answers are down there. Not in headlines.”

Lex shrugged. “If you’re suicidal, at least take a map.”

He slid a tablet across the table. A digital layout glowed, tunnels, chambers, sealed access points. “Go through the drainage line on Coldbath Lane,” Lex said. “And, uh, don’t touch the walls.”

“Why not?”

“They sometimes breathe.”

Two hours later, they stood at the mouth of a storm drain. Rainwater hissed down the tunnel like whispers. Maya adjusted her torch. “You ever think we’re the idiots in a horror movie?”

“Always,” Rashford said. “Keep the light steady.”

They climbed down the slick ladder, boots splashing into ankle-deep water. The air was metallic, buzzing faintly. Maya glanced at him. “You hearing that?”

“Yes,” he murmured. “It’s talking.”

“Talking?”

“Not words, frequencies.”

The tunnel curved ahead, widening into a chamber lined with old brick and cables. In the center stood a glass cylinder filled with pale light, wires feeding into the ceiling.

Maya whispered, “This wasn’t built by the city.”

Rashford approached, every step echoing. The hum rose, vibrating in his bones. “Don’t touch it,” Maya warned.

“I have to.”

He placed his palm against the glass. The light inside flared, wrapping his reflection in halos. Images flooded his mind, surgical tables, children with luminous veins, his father arguing with faceless men.

Maya grabbed his shoulder. “Rashford! Let go!”

He tore his hand away. The glow dimmed; the hum quieted. “What did you see?” she asked.

“They used me,” he said, voice shaking. “When I was a kid. My blood healed faster than theirs. They called it ‘the prototype.’”

“Seraph-7?”

He nodded. “Seven children. I was number three.”

Maya’s stomach turned. “The others?”

“I don’t know.”

Before she could speak, the chamber lights flickered. A metallic voice echoed through the tunnel:

Unauthorized presence detected.

Maya swore. “They’ve got sensors!”

“Run,” Rashford said.

They sprinted back through the tunnel, splashing through water. Behind them, the hum grew into a roar. The walls shimmered, rippling like liquid glass. “What’s happening?” Maya shouted.

“The place is waking up!”

Panels along the walls slid open, revealing mechanical arms tipped with lenses and scanners. Rashford grabbed Maya’s hand. “This way!”

They ducked into a side passage just as a beam of light sliced the air where they’d stood. Breathing hard, Maya whispered, “We’re trapped.”

Rashford looked around. The walls pulsed faintly, same rhythm as his heartbeat. “I can feel it,” he said.

“Feel what?”

“It’s alive. It’s me.”

He stepped forward, pressed both palms to the wall. “Rash, don’t”

A burst of light surged from his hands, racing through the tunnel like lightning. Machines froze mid-motion.

The hum shifted pitch, softening to a single, steady tone. Maya stared. “What did you just do?”

“I told it to sleep.”

“You talked to it?”

He turned, face pale. “No. It talked to me first.”

From deeper in the dark came a new sound, slow footsteps, echoing. Maya lifted her torch. A shadow moved just beyond the light. “Dempsey?” she whispered.

The silhouette stopped. “Not anymore.”

The voice was distorted, layered. Rashford’s pulse spiked. “Who are you?”

The figure stepped closer, face hidden beneath a glass mask swirling with light. “I’m what your father tried to build,” it said. “And what you’re becoming.”

Maya backed away. “We need to go. Now.”

But the figure raised a hand; the tunnel trembled. “You can’t run from your own code, Rashford.”

Rashford stared at his glowing palms, the same pale light threading through his veins. Maya grabbed his arm. “Come on!”

They sprinted toward the exit ladder as the walls pulsed violently, the hum turning into a heartbeat. Behind them, the masked figure’s voice followed, calm and final: “Welcome home, Seraph Three.”