Just before midnight, a lone figure makes its way through the trees of Hyde Park.
Holding out a hand to check a watch, the figure waits and draws a blade that seems darker than the night around it.
At the precise moment, the figure carves what can only be described as a wound in the air.
The hidden rivers of London shudder. Effra stirs in her subterranean bed. Those riding the cars of the Underground spy leering faces in the tunnels for an instant before they blink.
The figure drops a smooth, opalescent stone into the wound. The gash in the air starts to pulse rhythmically, inward, outward, inward, outward.
"Grow well," the figure whispers before it departs.