Damon was soon proven right as Nicholas' story unfolded.
The area darkened, and the marble tiles beneath Nicholas' feet dissolved into weathered cobblestone, damp and coated in soot. Rain fell from an overcast sky, not in sheets but in a steady drizzle, turning grime into sludge.
The skyline was unmistakably London, but not the one in postcards… this was the underbelly.
A narrow alley appeared ahead, lit only by flickering streetlamps and the occasional neon sign. Trash bins overflowed, and rats darted from one shadow to the next.
A boy no older than eight emerged from one of the side doors, dressed in clothes far too thin for the season. His hands were scraped, his shoes didn't match, and his breath fogged the air, but his eyes were sharp.
A soundless projection appeared above the boy: [His name was supposed to be Lord Nicholas Spencley, second son of a Viscount and heir to a comfortable life.]
