Twenty meters below the streets of Paris, there are hundreds of kilometers of passages. They are forbidden to enter. It is a portal into another world, an escape from the city above. Labyrinthian, dusty, and dark, decorated and furnished through the inspiration of those who have trudged through their damp corridors for decades.
Bedecked in rubber hip waders, fingerless gloves, and backpacks stained with lime, cataphiles sprint through the passages, bass-heavy electronic music echoes in their footsteps. They have different names down here, and nothing from above matters. Their acetylene lambs clank and sputter as they tromp through the corridors.