Krasny Oktyabr, once an old chocolate factory, now played host to Moscow's underbelly dressed up in expensive coats and encrypted shipments. The warehouse sat like a tumor behind the main district, all broken windows and hollow echo. I arrived just before dusk. Floodlights bathed the floor in white slabs of light. Men moved crates onto a truck with quiet efficiency, shadows shifting against concrete. Clipped conversations echoed off concrete walls. Orders barked in rapid Russian bounced between loaders, techs, and armed security. Steel crates clanged against each other as they were stacked and locked. I stood still. Watching. Listening. Letting the place introduce itself before I spoke to anyone.
But the noise didn't stop.
Until it did.
A sudden hush rippled across the space. A collective breath drawn and held. All heads turned, gaze swinging left. So did mine.
