The transition from the sterile, neon-lit Metro to the ancient underbelly of Paris felt like sliding down the throat of a prehistoric beast. Jace led the way through a rusted maintenance hatch he'd discovered during his months of "underground" touring, his flashlight cutting a weak, yellow path through the suffocating dark.
"Watch your step," Jace whispered, his voice echoing off the damp limestone walls. "The floor hasn't been level since the 1700s."
Ren followed, his fingers brushing against the cold, weeping walls of the tunnel. They were miles away from the Palais Garnier now—miles away from the digital billboards flashing Ren's face and the "Missing" posters. Here, the only audience was the bones of six million Parisians, stacked in silent, macabre rows.
They reached a small, circular chamber where the air was surprisingly dry. Jace set down his crate and the drum pads, the sound of the equipment hitting the stone floor ringing like a bell.
"This is it," Jace said, turning to Ren. His eyes were bright in the flashlight's beam, the protective obsession in them flared by the isolation. "Our own private studio. No lawyers, no cameras, no Laurents. Just the echo."
Ren pulled the melodica from his backpack. He felt small in the vastness of the dark, his breath hitching in his chest. "What if they find us down here?"
"They won't," Jace vowed, stepping closer until his heat was the only thing Ren could feel. "Elias Thorne is a man of the surface. He doesn't know how to navigate the dark. He likes his enemies where he can see them on a screen. Down here... we're ghosts."
Jace sat on the crate and began a slow, rhythmic tap on the pads. It wasn't the aggressive, driving beat of the Metro; it was something more primal, more internal. It sounded like a heartbeat slowed down by cold.
Ren closed his eyes. He thought of the three months of silence, the marble floors of his father's estate, and the way the world had tried to turn him into a statue. He pressed his lips to the melodica and blew a single, long note.
The acoustics of the catacombs were unlike anything Ren had ever experienced. The sound didn't just travel; it expanded, soaking into the stone, vibrating through the very bones stacked against the walls. It was a "Sanctuary" built of silence and history.
As the music grew, Ren began to lose track of where he ended and the noise began. He wasn't playing for coins anymore. He wasn't playing for survival. He was playing because the noise was the only thing keeping the darkness from swallowing him whole.
Jace's rhythm intensified, his hands moving with a frantic, desperate energy. He was no longer just a drummer; he was the conductor of a ghost orchestra. He pushed Ren, challenging him to find a note that could break through the weight of the limestone.
In the middle of a particularly haunting bridge, Jace stopped suddenly.
Ren lowered the melodica, his chest heaving. "What is it?"
"Listen," Jace whispered.
From far down the tunnel, past the rows of skulls and the dripping water, came a sound that shouldn't have been there. It wasn't the sound of footsteps or a car. It was a hum—a low, mechanical frequency that made the flashlight's beam flicker.
"Drones," Jace hissed, his face draining of color. "They're using thermal drones in the maintenance shafts."
Arthur Laurent wasn't sending men anymore. He was sending technology. He was hunting them like insects in a hive.
"We have to go," Jace said, grabbing Ren's hand. "Now!"
But as they turned to flee back into the labyrinth, a red light blinked in the darkness of the tunnel ahead. Then another. And another.
The "Catacomb Rehearsal" had just become a trap.