Today, the Tower is full of tourists snapping selfies with beefeaters, but the real vibe is that of a retirement home for royal drama. The last prisoners are long gone, but their echoes linger: the Quinn brothers probably bragged about it at school for decades, and the Krogers’ greasy-food complaints are now part of folklore.
So next time you visit, look at those thick, damp walls and think: I could do a night here. Maybe. If they served better chips. And if you see a Beefeater with a gleam in his eye, just remember—he’s legally allowed to lock you up. Behave yourself. And maybe don't ask about the polar bear.
End of the line, prisoners. The Tower’s dungeons are now just really, really atmospheric selfie backgrounds. And that is a happy ending, for once, in 1,000 years of blood, betrayal, and bad jail food.
