It seeps through the soles of your shoes, a cold, persistent reminder that you are underground. The air is thick with the smell of wet earth, old stone, and something else—something metallic and faintly sweet.

A single, bare bulb hangs from a rusted chain, casting long, dancing shadows across the rough-hewn walls of the cellar. Crates are stacked haphazardly against one wall. In the center of the room, on a simple wooden chair, sits a man.