Chapter Text
The air in King’s Cross was a thick soup of diesel fumes, expensive perfume, and the frantic energy of several thousand people who all seemed to be in much more of a hurry than Robin Buckley. It was September 5th, the humidity was clinging to her skin like a second mortgage, and she was currently losing a wrestling match with a hardshell suitcase that had a mind of its own. One of the wheels was sticking, causing the bag to fishtail wildly into the shins of a businessman in a sharp navy suit.
"Sorry! So sorry! It’s got a mind of its own, honestly, it’s sentient!" Robin yelled over her shoulder, not actually stopping to check for damages. She had her phone wedged between her ear and her shoulder, her hands busy trying to navigate the sea of tourists blocking the entrance to the Underground.
"Yes, hello? Are you still there? I’m so close, I swear on my life!" Robin shouted into the microphone, dodging a group of teenagers taking selfies by the Harry Potter shop. "I am currently at King's Cross. Well, technically I am under King's Cross. I am a subterranean creature now. Just hold the keys for ten more minutes? Five? I’ll buy you a coffee. I’ll buy you a franchise. Just don’t leave!"
The voice on the other end was muffled by the roar of an arriving train, but the impatience was clear. Robin didn't wait for a response. She saw the black circle of the Northern Line sign and lunged toward the escalators. "I’m coming! I’m moving at the speed of sound! Okay, the speed of a very burdened tortoise, but I’m moving! See you soon!"
Getting onto the carriage was less like boarding a train and more like being packed into a tin of sardines by a giant, invisible hand. Robin shoved her suitcase in first, hearing a satisfying but guilt inducing thwack as it hit the back of a pole. She squeezed in after it, the doors hissing shut just millimeters from her backpack.
The carriage was sweltering. Every seat was taken by people staring intensely at their phones, wearing noise canceling headphones like shields against the outside world. Robin, however, was a one woman noise machine. Her suitcase was positioned awkwardly in the center of the aisle, blocking the path of anyone trying to move toward the doors.
"Excuse me, sorry, just going to... nope, that’s your foot, my bad," Robin mumbled as the train lurched forward, sending her stumbling into a woman holding a very expensive-looking leather handbag.
"Could you move that? It’s taking up half the standing room," a man in a trench coat groaned, glaring down at Robin’s luggage.
Robin gave him a strained, manic grin. "Believe me, sir, if I could shrink it with my mind, I would. It’s mostly books and a very dramatic musical instrument. It’s a literal burden. We’re all suffering together, isn't that what London is about? Shared misery in a tunnel?"
The man just huffed and looked away. Robin sighed, leaning her forehead against the cool metal of the grab handle. She watched the dark tunnel walls whiz by, her heart hammering a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was really doing this. She was in London. She was a Linguistics student at UCL. She just had to survive the next four stops without being lynched by a mob of angry commuters.
The moment the automated voice announced Kentish Town, Robin was already in motion. She dragged her suitcase off the train with a heave, ignoring the collective sigh of relief from the other passengers. She didn't take the lift, she didn't have the patience. She hauled the bag up the stairs, two at a time, her breath coming in ragged gasps by the time she reached the ticket barriers.
She fumbled for her wallet, frantically tapping her card against the yellow reader. Beep. The gates swung open, and she was out, bursting onto the street like she’d just escaped a vacuum.
The sun was glinting off the windows of the pubs and cafes lining the road, but Robin didn't have time to admire the scenery. She turned onto Gillies Street, her suitcase clattering loudly over the uneven pavement. Every person she passed seemed to move in slow motion compared to her frantic pace. Finally, she saw it. Number 18B. A tall, slightly weathered Victorian building with a black door that looked like it had seen better centuries.
Standing by the entrance was a young man in a high vis vest, looking pointedly at his watch.
"I'm here! Don't move! I'm an athlete!" Robin yelled, waving one arm wildly while the other gripped her suitcase handle. She skidded to a halt in front of him, doubled over, her hands on her knees as she tried to reclaim her oxygen.
"You're late," the guy said, holding a single set of keys up between his thumb and forefinger.
"I know, I am so, so sorry," Robin wheezed, wiping a stray hair from her sweaty forehead. "I got lost. Twice. The Underground is a labyrinth designed by people who hate outsiders. I took the wrong branch of the Northern line and ended up halfway to Edgware before I realized the colors on the map don't mean what I thought they meant. It's a psychological experiment, isn't it?"
The man didn't seem interested in her theory. He just let out a short, dry laugh and dropped the keys into her open palm. "Sure thing. Your flat is at the top. Good luck with the stairs."
Without another word, he turned and started walking toward a parked van. Robin blinked, watching him go. "Wait, that’s it? No 'welcome to your new home' speech? No safety briefing? Okay then! Great talk! Have a stellar day!"
She shrugged, tucked the keys into her pocket, and faced the black door.
The climb to the fourth floor was a test of will. The staircase was narrow, winding, and smelled faintly of old wood and floor wax. By the time Robin reached the top landing, her arms felt like they were made of lead. She found the door marked 4B and took a deep breath, the metal of the key cool against her sweaty palm.
"Okay, Buckley," she whispered to herself. "New year, new city, new Robin. Try not to break anything in the first hour."
She turned the key and pushed the door open. The room was bathed in the soft, dusty light of a London afternoon. It was small, definitely an attic conversion, with sloped ceilings and two narrow beds pushed against opposite walls. But as Robin stepped inside, her brow furrowed.
The floor was almost entirely obscured by a mountain of cardboard boxes. There were stacks of them, neatly taped and labeled with precise, black ink. Some were large, some were small, but all of them looked expensive and professional.
"Huh?" Robin muttered, stepping over a small box to get to the center of the room. "That’s... a lot of stuff. Did Mom go rogue? Did she send my entire childhood bedroom via express courier?"
She walked over to the nearest stack, squinting at the labels. There were dozens of them. Far more than the two suitcases and one box of "essentials" she had shipped from home. She reached out, running a finger over the smooth cardboard of a box sitting on the bed to the right.
"Maybe the university provides a welcome kit?" she wondered aloud, looking around the cramped space. "A really, really extensive welcome kit including... what is this? A high end espresso machine?"
She stood in the middle of the room, hands on her hips, feeling a strange prickle of confusion. The silence of the flat was a sharp contrast to the chaos of the street outside, but as she looked at the sheer volume of organised luggage that definitely didn't belong to her, the silence felt a lot less like peace and a lot more like a question.
-
The London morning felt crisp and full of promise as Nancy Wheeler stepped out of her temporary hotel near Euston. While the rest of the city seemed to be vibrating with a frantic, uncoordinated energy, Nancy moved with a deliberate, quiet grace. Her outfit was a masterpiece of sensible layering, perfectly suited for a transitional September day in the UK, and her small leather backpack felt light against her shoulders. She had planned this transition for months, obsessively researching the logistics of international shipping to ensure that her life would be waiting for her when she arrived.
Every single one of her possessions, from her carefully curated wardrobe to her pristine desk organizers, had been packed into sturdy crates and shipped weeks in advance. It was an expensive endeavor, but for Nancy, the cost was a small price to pay for the luxury of autonomy. She had already survived a disastrous living situation during her previous year of university, one involving a roommate who had a penchant for "borrowing" clothes without asking and a complete inability to understand the concept of a dish rack. This time, Nancy had been firm. She had applied for a private, single occupancy studio. No distractions, no needy strangers, and absolutely no shared messes.
She entered the Underground station with her phone already in her hand, the contactless payment register chirping a friendly greeting as she tapped through the gate. The Northern Line was crowded, a pulsing artery of commuters and students, but Nancy didn't let the throng bother her. She spotted a vacant seat near the end of the carriage and claimed it, smoothing her skirt before sitting down. She adjusted her headphones, and the muffled roar of the tunnels was instantly replaced by a calming, low study playlist. As the train surged forward, Nancy watched the blurred lights of the tunnel through the window, a small, satisfied smile touching her lips. Everything was going exactly according to the plan.
When the train pulled into Kentish Town, Nancy stood up before the doors even opened, her movements efficient and practiced. She stepped onto the platform and followed the signs toward the exit, her eyes scanning the surroundings with a sharp, journalistic curiosity. She liked the neighborhood already. It had character, a bit of grit, but enough leafy trees and quiet side streets to feel like a place where one could actually get some work done. She made a mental note of a nearby bakery that looked promising for morning coffee as she turned onto Gillies Street.
The building at 18B was exactly what she had expected from the photos, a stately, if slightly worn, Victorian structure. Standing out front was a man in a neon vest who looked like he had spent the day dealing with a series of very stressful people. Nancy approached him with a polite, professional smile, already reaching into her bag for her identification.
"Good morning. I’m Nancy Wheeler, here for the keys to Flat 4B," she said, her voice clear and composed.
The man looked up, blinking at her as if she were a hallucination. He checked a clipboard, then looked back at Nancy, then checked the clipboard again. "Right. Wheeler. The studio on the fourth floor." He reached into a small pouch and pulled out a heavy metal key, handing it over with a shrug that felt oddly dismissive. "Congratulations, I guess. You’re the second one in the last twenty minutes. Busy morning for 4B."
Nancy frowned, her fingers closing around the key. "The second one? You mean the shipping company? My boxes were scheduled for delivery this morning."
The man just let out a short, tired laugh. "Sure, let’s go with that. Have a good one, Miss Wheeler." He didn't wait for a follow up question before turning toward a van parked at the curb. Nancy watched him go for a moment, a small knot of unease forming in her stomach. She shook it off, telling herself he was likely just confused by the influx of international students. She opened the heavy front door and began the long climb up the stairs.
By the time Nancy reached the fourth floor, she was slightly out of breath, but she refused to let her posture slump. She stood in front of the door marked 4B and took a steadying breath, the key ready in her hand. This was it. Her sanctuary. Her private space to think, write, and excel. She slid the key into the lock, expecting the heavy silence of an empty apartment, but as the bolt clicked over, a strange sound drifted through the wood.
It was a wheezing, rhythmic groan, followed by a sudden, jarring melody that sounded like a pop song being put through a medieval meat grinder. Nancy paused, her hand still on the doorknob. Was that music? It sounded like it was coming from inside her flat. A sharp spike of irritation flared in her chest. Perhaps the landlord was finishing some last-minute repairs, or maybe the neighbors were incredibly loud. She pushed the door open, stepping into a small entryway.
"Hello?" she called out, her voice firm. There was no answer, only the continued, bizarre music. She set her backpack down on a small table by the door and walked toward the room she assumed was the main living and sleeping area.
The door was slightly ajar, and as Nancy swung it open, the music stopped abruptly. The room was not the spacious, empty studio she had seen in the digital brochure. It was a cramped attic space with two separate single beds, and the floor was a chaotic sea of cardboard boxes. But what caught her attention most was the girl sitting on the bed to the left. She had messy, sandy brown hair and was currently strapped into a large, shimmering accordion, her eyes wide with shock.
The two of them froze, the silence in the room suddenly so heavy it was deafening. Nancy’s gaze darted from the accordion to the second bed, then back to the girl who looked like she had just been caught in the middle of a bank heist.
The shock broke at exactly the same second, their voices overlapping in a sharp, defensive unison.
"Who are you?"