"Hmm? What…. is that smell?"
The smell hit her first.
Rust. Oil. Stagnant water.
Stephanie's wrists burned where coarse plastic ties cut into her skin, her arms bound behind a cold metal chair that scraped against the concrete floor every time she shifted. The warehouse loomed around her the moment she regained conciousness—an abandoned freight depot near the eastern canal, its walls corroded by years of neglect, its ceiling groaning softly as the storm outside battered the district.
"Where… am I?"
Rain hammered the rusted roof like fists.
Her heart pounded so hard it felt like it might break through her ribs.
This was different.
This wasn't pressure or tension or professional intimidation.
This was fear.
Real fear.
Three men stood nearby.
Not uniformed. Not masked.
Casual clothes. Boots caked with mud. The kind of men who looked ordinary enough to disappear into a crowd—and that made it worse.
