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Finn’s breath rasped in his ears as he descended into the Monarch Club’s hidden basement, flashlight bobbing a jittery path through the darkness. The narrow stone steps spiraled downward, damp air brushing over his cheeks. With every step, an uneasy prickle climbed his spine. He paused briefly, glancing behind him at the door he’d left ajar above—a distant rectangle of faint light. Am I out of my mind, going down here alone? he wondered, heart hammering at the thought. The memory of Jeremy Ford’s panicked flight spurred him on, but a voice in his head warned that only trouble lay ahead in the labyrinth.

He pressed on, hands skimming the rough walls for balance. The corridor at the base of the stairs opened into a cramped, low-ceilinged space. Old wooden beams supported the stone overhead, and dust trickled from unseen cracks. A single overhead bulb flickered like a dying firefly, giving more shadow than illumination.

He advanced carefully, shining his flashlight in a wide arc. Rows of stacked wine racks blocked his view, each crammed with vintages so old their labels had half-rotted away. But his attention caught on a side door, slightly ajar, which he hadn’t noticed before. The door was splintered at the edges, a relic from a bygone era. Painted above the frame—barely legible in the gloom—was Storage B .

Cautiously, Finn approached.

Inside, he discovered a dusty chamber filled with large shapes draped in gray sheets. A whiff of stale air and mothballs assaulted his nose. Curiosity got the better of him. “Jeremy?” he ventured, voice echoing. No response.

He stepped inside, panning the flashlight over various mounded forms beneath the sheets. Old antiques, presumably— furniture, statues, maybe even outdated Club memorabilia. One figure stood taller than the rest, the sheet forming a human-like silhouette in the half-light. Is that… a person?

Suddenly, the sheet quivered—just a tiny flutter at the hem, but enough to send a jolt of adrenaline coursing through him. Finn froze, flashlight aimed at the shape, half expecting it to lunge. A scuttling sound near the floor suggested a rodent had scurried by, causing the fabric to stir. Still, it made every hair on the back of his neck rise.

He gulped and crept forward, telling himself don’t do it even as he reached out. The sting of fear warred with the need to know. Gripping a corner of the sheet, he gave a swift yank downward. A cloud of dust billowed, stinging his eyes. When the air cleared, he found himself staring at a life-sized mannequin with glass eyes and a half-worn tuxedo, decades out of style.

“Why in the world…” he muttered, blinking writhing dust away from his nose and eyes. The hollow stare of the mannequin felt uncomfortably close to the macabre environment. “I'm convinced someone leaves stuff like this lying around just to freak people out.”

His heart drummed as he replaced the sheet loosely. Another sign that The Monarch’s basement is full of relics best left forgotten. He turned to leave, intent on continuing his search for Jeremy, when his flashlight flickered. In that moment of near-darkness, he thought he saw a shadow pass just beyond the threshold. There’s definitely someone else down here.

A cold chill slid across his neck. Is it the killer? Or Jeremy again? He forced himself to breathe steadily, though his pulse thundered. Why had he come down here alone? He could have called Amelia first, or found a backup plan. Anger at his own recklessness sparked in his mind. If I die down here, it’s my own stupid fault.

He slipped back into the corridor, moving as silently as he could. Outside the storage room, the basement corridor branched into multiple passageways, each lined with boxes and old club paraphernalia. The temperature seemed to drop with every step. Then a soft, distant rumble reached his ears—barely audible, but enough to jar him. He halted, lifting his head.

Could it be an underground train line? The notion made sense; some older parts of London had subterranean rails running just below the surface. Suddenly, he recalled that night—chasing Max Vilne through abandoned tunnels beneath the city. How the echoing screech of trains had punctuated the mad pursuit, and how he’d been certain neither of them would emerge alive. Adrenaline spiked at the memory, and he half-expected to see Vilne’s haunting grin materialize in the gloom.

“Vilne’s dead,” he muttered under his breath, forcing the memory back into the past. Focus, you idiot, he told himself. There was a real threat here, now—a possible killer. Another set of footsteps pattered somewhere, resonating through the barrels and crates. He pushed Vilne’s ghost from his mind and pressed on.

“Jeremy?” he called again, tension thick in his voice.

A faint clang responded from the left. He angled his flashlight in that direction, weaving between more wine racks. A sense of dread crawled through him. He was off the beaten path of the basement corridor, stepping into a disorienting maze of stacked crates and antique casks. The slightest movement echoed in overlapping footsteps, making it impossible to pinpoint their source.

Suddenly, a scuffle of shoes—Jeremy’s, he presumed—came from up ahead, followed by a frantic cry. “Leave me alone! Mansfield’s come for me!”

The words rang sharp in the musty air, compounding Finn’s fear that Jeremy had lost all rational thought. Could Terrance Mansfield truly be back? Finn clenched his jaw, forging onward. He had to save the man if he could.

He twisted around a corner into a much larger vaulted cellar. Here, the roof stretched higher to an arched apex, and a patchy overhead fixture threw sporadic light across the floor. Rusty metal shelves lined one wall, stacked with boxes labeled Records or Ledgers. A row of centuries-old barrels dominated the other side. A creeping sense of unreality seized Finn—this basement was bigger than he’d imagined, more like a secret catacomb than mere storage.

He heard Jeremy’s stumbling footsteps somewhere near the far side. But there was another pair of footsteps, measured and predatory. The killer. Finn’s flashlight flickered again, revealing swirling dust and the faint outline of a fleeing figure.

Finn hurried, mind racing: If Jeremy’s cornered, it’s over. The hush in the air seemed to hold its breath, waiting for violence.

Then, from nowhere, Jeremy appeared in the wavering glow of Finn’s beam. His eyes were wild, chest heaving. He clutched his phone overhead for light, its screen casting a sickly pallor across his sweat-slick face.

“Oh God, Mansfield has come for me! ” Jeremy cried, voice cracking.

Before Finn could respond, a second silhouette lunged from the shadows. Finn pivoted, only to feel a crushing blow strike the back of his skull—pain exploded, bright and savage. His flashlight tumbled from his grip, clattering across the stone floor with a nerve-jangling racket. Black spots filled his vision, and he nearly dropped to his knees.

Christ—defend, he told himself. He twisted, grappling blindly, unable to clearly see his opponent clearly in the gloom. The glint of metal arced downward, and he managed to catch the attacker’s wrist—his limbs fueled by adrenaline. With a grunt, he flung the figure over his shoulder. A cascade of crates crashed as the attacker slammed into them, glass and wood splintering.

On unsteady legs, Finn stumbled. The impact had scrambled his senses, and the pounding in his head felt like thunder. He pawed for his flashlight, found it, and swung the beam around just in time to see Jeremy’s silhouette vanishing into another row of racks. The attacker was only a shadowy outline, recovering swiftly, vaulting to their feet and tearing after Jeremy with impossible speed.

“Jeremy, run!” Finn shouted, taking off after them. The passage twisted into a gloom so thick he could barely track their movement. His foot snagged on a broken wooden shard—he stumbled, nearly losing precious seconds.

A sudden shriek pierced the darkness. Finn’s blood ran cold. He picked up speed, but the flickering overhead light near the ceiling offered only a strobing haze, making each shift of shadows unnerving. He nearly bowled into a cluster of barrels before skidding to a stop. A swath of warmth splashed across his shirt— blood.

He aimed his flashlight, heart dropping at the sight: Jeremy, collapsed against a massive cask, a hand pressed futilely to his throat. Crimson poured between his fingers, staining his white shirt beyond recognition.

“No!” Finn roared, stumbling forward. He saw the attacker, a featureless outline in the dying light, dart away into the pitch-black recesses of the cellar. In an instant, they were gone, swallowed by the labyrinth.

Finn knelt beside Jeremy, pressing desperately to halt the bleeding. The pungent odor of copper filled his nostrils, merging with the dusty scents of mold and old wine. “Stay with me,” he pleaded, but Jeremy’s eyes were already glazing. He coughed, trying to speak, but no words came—only a final breath that rattled, then ceased.

For an awful heartbeat, Finn found himself paralyzed, arms trembling around Jeremy’s body. He was so terrified… now it’s too late. His mind spun: We lost him, and with him, any chance to learn the full truth about Terrance Mansfield or who the killer might be.

A clang echoed in the distance—perhaps the murderer fleeing through some side exit. Finn lifted his gaze, scanning the gloom. No sign of movement. They’re gone. He felt numb. Forcing himself to let Jeremy's body rest gently on the floor, he rose unsteadily. Anger warred with despair inside him. Doubt and regret clawed at his nerves. If only he'd been faster or had a weapon…

Blood stained his hands and shirt. He exhaled, tasting metal on his tongue. Staying longer in the basement, unarmed and alone, made little sense. The killer knew these passageways—or at least seemed comfortable disappearing into them. Finn wasn’t about to hunt aimlessly in the pitch dark. We need to lock down the building, he thought. We can’t let them slip away.

“Sorry, Jeremy,” he whispered, voice echoing in the deathly hush. “I’ll make sure we catch whoever did this.”

Snatching up his flashlight, he retraced his steps, ignoring the shards of glass and trickling wine. Every corner felt menacing now. Faint illusions of Max Vilne resurfaced—memories of that fateful chase in the underground tunnels. Except Max was dead, and this was a different enemy, just as lethal. Would there always be a madman in the darkness? Gritting his teeth, Finn pressed onward, returning to the winding corridor.

The stone stairs leading up beckoned like a lifeline. He ascended two at a time, blinking when he reached the top, the relative brightness of the corridor making him squint. The whisper of activity on the main floors drifted in—civilized, refined, a world away from the violence below.

Finn staggered against a wall, breath ragged. Keep it together. They must not leave the club. With each heartbeat, he felt the basement’s chilling atmosphere cling to him like a second skin. But he squared his shoulders. He had to warn Amelia, Rob, everyone. The killer had struck again and was still inside the building.

Trying not to think of Jeremy's final, terrified stare, Finn started down the hallway. "Amelia, can you hear me now?" he asked. "Lock down the building. The killer is here..."

“Finn,” Amelia said sternly. “We're coming.”