He followed because to turn away would be its own kind of blindness. Fifty paces. Then another thirty. The corridor narrowed and dipped. The air cooled. He passed a service post where the ceramic casing had been pried off recently, exposing an access shaft with ladder rungs disappearing into dark. Beside it, on the floor, someone had placed a strip of reflective foil no larger than two fingers. In the low light it caught his eye like a guide marker.

He looked down the shaft. Smelled wet metal and old air moving from below.

His grip tightened on the satchel strap. Whoever had made the path had known he would notice practical signs rather than spectacle. They had cleared just enough, marked just enough, hidden the hand behind the invitation but not so well that he would miss the intent. That was the coldest part. He was not being hunted blindly. He was being read.

Somewhere back toward the brighter strip Lina was waiting where he had told her not to wait. Somewhere below, unseen people had chosen a door for him.

Elias stepped back from the shaft mouth with the sick, clear knowledge that the next descent would not be on his terms at all.