Service tunnel
A full-height service door sits in the quay wall under Dante's Gilt Crown—ordinary door size, set back so most ferry eyes miss it. Lit. Damp, not filthy. Nobody stops you from looking in. Nobody briefs you either—no crest talk, no mafia story, no smile at the Dante's Gilt Crown desk about what the tunnel is for.
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Quay door
Concealed, not tiny
Ferry end. A human-height service door—brass hasp undone, frame set into the quay wall so it reads as maintenance, not a rat hole. Salt air at the threshold. A chalk arrow on concrete points inland—no crest, no signboard.
Laundry carts sometimes come this way. Whoever pushes them does not look up. No one asks why you are standing at the door.