Julian Vance kept his weight on the balls of his work boots.
The brass catwalk was only three feet wide, suspended by six heavy steel cables that disappeared into the dark rafters overhead.
Walking along it felt like balancing on the edge of a straight razor placed between two warring worlds.
Beneath the perforated metal floor, a bottomless black shaft plunged into the roaring belly of the facility.
The heat of Sub-Level 6 rose in choking waves of scorched machine grease, hot lubricating oil, and fresh red fountain ink.
The rhythmic, ear-splitting heartbeat of the Dead-Letter Master Press thumped against Julian’s ribs like an industrial piston:
[CLACK-THUMP-HISS]
One hundred and sixty-six point six strokes every single minute.
