No resistance.
No traps.
No presence.
Just evidence.
Empty weapon crates stacked along the far wall. Burned documents in a metal bin. A few monitors still flickering faintly with static before dying out completely.
I stop in the center of the warehouse.
Silence settles around us. Heavy. Absolute.
Misha scans the perimeter. “No movement inside.”
I already know before he finishes speaking.
He’s not here.
My jaw tightens once. Controlled. Contained—but only barely.
I step closer to the nearest crate, kicking it hard enough to send it skidding across the floor.
“Fuck,” I mutter under my breath.
Misha lets out a breath behind me. “He knew we’d hit this first.”
I turn slowly toward him. “Let’s move.”
There’s no time to waste on frustration. No space for it. I shove it down and replace it with movement—sharp, deliberate, forward.
We hit the next location within minutes.
Another warehouse. Same pattern. Same silence waiting inside it like a trap that never fully closed.
“Clear it,” I order.
My men move in instantly. Doors breached. Entry secured. Flashlights slicing through darkness. Weapons raised. Every angle checked in seconds.
Nothing.
No bodies. No movement. No Anton.
Only signs that he was there—and left before we arrived.
We don’t stop. We don’t pause. We don’t regroup long enough for doubt to take root.
Safe house after safe house.
Abandoned factory.
Old logistics hub.
Two more warehouses near the river district.
Each one the same.
Empty.
