What I'm Currently Working On.

CHAPTER ONE

The sky above Liverpool hung heavy with a thick, bruised grey, rain streaking down the window in twisting trails. Inside, Frank Byrne's flat was caught in disarray, a silent testament to unfulfilled promises. A pile of unopened final demands leaned precariously on the coffee table beside a plate of congealed toast. The air carried the stale ghosts of old cigarette smoke and the lingering scent of last night’s whisky, faint but suffocating, like a hangover in smell.

Byrne slumped in his armchair, the fabric worn thin after years of use, the springs wheezing beneath him. He wasn’t paying attention to the rain, the bills, or the dying breakfast. His mind was elsewhere—locked in a moment etched deep into his nerves. He saw it as if he were there again: a room twisted into impossible shapes, geometry folding in on itself in a way that made his stomach churn. The air in that place had buzzed with a strange charge, sharp with the acrid tang of ozone and the darker, rancid reek of something ancient, left to rot in darkness beyond time.

Even now, his muscles remembered the sickening, wet snap that followed. The sound lingered within him. The tearing of something more than flesh. Arthur’s mind hadn’t endured it.

A tremor revealed itself in Byrne’s hand, tea spilling over the edge of his chipped mug. The hot sting against his skin cut through the memory, and he let it ground him. Pain reminded him he was still here. Still whole.

But only just. His shoulder flared with agony as he shifted, a dull, grinding ache where the bone had healed improperly. Julian Kessler had given him that gift. Kessler, with his saintly calm and eyes that seemed to swallow light. A man who smiled while breaking the world.

Byrne forced his gaze back to his laptop, balanced atop a wobbly pile of books. One spine read Quantum Entanglement and the Holographic Principle; another, North-West English Folklore: A Compendium. Between science and superstition, somewhere in that boundary, lay the truth they were pursuing.

An email was open on-screen, reread so many times that its words had lost shape:

“…pleased to inform you that Detective Constable Aisha Khan’s promotion to the rank of Detective Sergeant has been approved, effective immediately…”

Promotion. Recognition. It should have meant something. It did. He saw her smile when the news came through yesterday—brief, bright, and genuine. But then the shadow passed behind her eyes. Not fear. Not quite. It was the expression of someone who knew too much and understood what it meant to rise in a world where monsters are real.

He remembered that look well.

A knock at the door. Sharp. Two exact raps.

Khan.

He rose with effort, his joints aching, and shuffled to the door. He ran a hand through his unwashed hair, as if that could erase the night, then opened it.

There she stood—coat zipped, hair damp from the rain, a cardboard box cradled in her arms. She looked tired, as always, but in the way of someone who had chosen to be.

"Morning," she said, voice low, even.

"Sergeant," Byrne replied, with a flicker of warmth that passed for a smile. "Congratulations. Properly this time."

"Cheers."

She stepped inside and navigated the chaos with ease, placing the box on the only available space—a table strewn with unopened medical letters and crumbs.

“This is everything from my old desk. Thought I'd save you the trip. Also brought something for morale.”

From her coat pocket, she retrieved a small, grease-stained bag. The aroma struck him instantly—fresh bacon, still warm. It was the most hopeful thing he’d encountered all week.

He took it with something close to reverence. "You’re a miracle."

"Just making sure my DI is upright and breathing."

Her gaze swept the flat. She said nothing about the mess, nor the weight it hinted at. But she noticed the books beside the laptop. When their eyes met, Byrne saw no judgment—only recognition.

Khan removed her coat and hung it neatly. Her posture softened just a little.

The promotion doesn’t feel real," she admitted. "Feels like they pinned a badge on me for staying alive, then walked away whilst the ground kept crumbling.

Byrne swallowed a bite of the sandwich. Salt, fat, warmth. Grounding. "That’s exactly what it is. But it’s also a weapon. Authority. Voice. The next time we have to tell McDonald that a local missing person is a tear in space-time, it might sound slightly less deranged from a sergeant."

She smirked. "Slightly. Won’t stop the rumours, though."

"No," he agreed. "But we’re beyond pretending that normal rules still apply."

Silence followed, but it was easy and companionable. A space remained between people who’d endured hell together.

Then Khan straightened. Her tone sharpened, voice becoming crisp, focused.

“The box isn’t just case files. I was in early. Something came in overnight. McDonald dismissed it outright—called it a prank. Passed it off to the community officers. But it’s not nothing.”

She reached into the box and pulled out a thin blue folder, placing it beside his laptop. The colour alone felt unfamiliar in the gloom.

“Report from a security guard at Williamson’s Tunnels. Happened just after midnight. He was in the Paddington section—the locked-off part. Said he heard… singing.”

Byrne’s stomach turned.

"Singing?"

"Not music," she clarified. "He described it as a thousand voices humming one broken note. Said the stone vibrated. Said it felt like something was listening."

"Who is he?"

"Ex-army. Solid record. Not a fantasist. He quit on the spot. Packed up, walked out."

Williamson’s Tunnels. A folly built of stone. No one had ever clarified their real purpose. A maze of unnecessary passageways lying beneath the city’s surface.

Byrne picked up the folder. The paper inside felt colder than it should have.

"McDonald thinks it’s a hoax?"

"Said it was wind. Faulty plumbing. Kids with speakers. Take your pick. Doesn’t matter. He wants it buried. No headlines."

Byrne exhaled slowly. He sensed the shift within himself, the gentle unfurling of purpose. The depression eased, not disappeared, but was pushed back by something older than despair. Duty. Pattern recognition.

"He thinks the Kessler case was about one man. He doesn’t understand. Kessler was the symptom. Not the infection."

Khan nodded. "And this? This is a new cough in the system. A warning sign."

Byrne now stood fully, rolling his shoulder and embracing the pain. "Where’s the guard?"

"Marcus Wheeler. Lives in Toxteth. His details are in the file."

He grabbed his jacket, heavy and familiar. "We talk to him. Then we go underground. See if the song is still playing."

Khan gave him a rare glance—not just approval, but relief. Her DI was back.

As they stepped into the corridor, Byrne cast a quick look at the flat. It was still a ruin, a reflection of his internal devastation. But the silence it once held had shifted. No longer stagnant, it now hummed with subtle meaning.

He shut the door behind them. The click echoed like a starting gun.