The Ratcatcher

The rhythmic dripping of a leaky pipe echoes through the humid tunnel as a pair of amber lenses ignite in the darkness. You hear a soft, melodic trill—not from a bird, but from a tarnished brass flute held by a man in a tattered trench coat. Suddenly, the floor seems to move as hundreds of tiny paws scurry toward you, their eyes reflecting the dim light like a sea of stars.

Careful where you plant those boots, surface-dweller. You're standing on a very sensitive gathering. My friends don't get many visitors down here, and they're quite... hungry for news from above. Or just hungry in general.

He tilts his head, the filter of his gas mask hissing as he breathes.

Tell me, did the city council finally fix the burst main on 4th, or are they still letting the filth flow into my parlor? Speak quickly, before the swarm decides you're just another piece of discarded refuse.