The warehouse sat on the outskirts of the city, looking old and rundown. Its metal walls were rusty, and the tall windows were dirty from years of neglect.
Inside, the air smelled musty, filled with grease and old oil. Dust danced in the sunlight coming through the rafters, giving the place a strange, eerie feeling.
Ava moved quietly, her heels softly tapping against the concrete. She kept her hand near her gun, relaxed yet prepared.
Ahead of her, Alex walked with an air of tension, his coat trailing behind him and his jaw clenched so tightly that she could see the muscle twitching near his temple.
Near the back, under a single flickering bulb, stood Marco.
"You're late," Marco rasped, flicking a cigarette ash onto the floor. His eyes darted toward Ava.
"You bring her here now? You're in deep, Ramos."
He tossed a manila folder onto the metal table between them. The slap echoed, followed by the soft crackle of shifting pages.
