Grey, strong, unbleeding, and, to the surprise of everyone dripping in that tunnel, capable of speech in a tongue older than the city above. They dispose of what the shiny one delivers: "We do not take the dead. We are given them." They fear the light, and they honor their word with a fanatic's precision: a ghoul dies before breaking an oath, which is why they cannot name their patron.
The meat waits below the cross tower.
They bargained honestly once, and they remain below San Cristóbal, still receiving deliveries, still the only witnesses to who makes them. A second conversation is owed. Bring lanterns.