Dr. Victor Corvo adjusted his wire-rimmed spectacles with two gloved fingers.
The iron floor of the Prisoner’s Dock shuddered beneath his polished Oxford shoes. A high-pitched, metallic squeal rose from the suspension hinges bolted to the underside of the cage.
The scent of ancient river mud and oxidized copper drifted upward from the flooded dry-dock sixty feet below. It was an aroma Corvo knew with intimate forensic precision: the damp, anaerobic rot of a maritime crypt sealed since nineteen twenty-four.
High above, hanging upside down from the vaulted ceiling bulkheads, Chief Magistrate Horace Glass held his fifty-pound lead gavel poised above his head like an executioner’s broadaxe.
On the front rail of the dock, the brass sentencing clock clicked down with ruthless precision: [50 SECONDS TO GRAVITATIONAL RELEASE].
“The structural integrity of this enclosure is failing, Mr. Vance,” Corvo said, his velvet baritone utterly smooth despite the drop yawning beneath them.
“The shear pins are rated for four hundred pounds of dynamic load. With seven adult occupants, we are exceeding the safety threshold by sixty-two percent.”
“Mac,” Julian said, his eyes scanning the upside-down ceiling. “Can you wedge the floor bolts with your tire thumper?”
