The room itself was small.
Cramped. Messy.
Just a temporary holding space.
I checked corners.
Behind the table. Under the windows.
Nothing.
Clear.
But I didn’t relax.
Not even for a second.
Something felt off.
I exited the room and faced the second door.
Locked.
I stopped in front of it and listened.
And then—
I heard it. A faint rustle.
Movement.
Behind the door.
My grip tightened on the Glock.
There it was. Something.
Or someone. Alive.
I kicked the door hard.
The hinges gave way instantly.
The door burst open with a violent crack, slamming inward and crashing against the wall.
Inside—
Piles of discarded tarps and torn clothing rose like burial mounds around me, swallowing sound.
The room smelled of mildew and old motor oil.
The air itself felt thick, stagnant, as if the place had been sealed off from the world and forgotten.
I moved deeper into the room, Glock raised in a two-handed grip, barrel sweeping in slow, deliberate arcs.
My eyes tracked every shadow, every angle, every possible place a man could hide.
Every breath I took tasted like dust.
