A man groaned and fell heavily against a row of metal cabinets.

“In here,” Hale said, throwing open a heavy wooden door that led to a concrete stairwell.

The air instantly grew cold and damp as we stepped through.

The smell of wet concrete and old grease filled my nose.

We hurried down the spiral stairs, my sneakers slipping on the metal treads.

Vincent was fading, his steps growing heavier and more erratic with every flight.

His breath came in short, painful wheezes.

“I can’t keep this pace,” he muttered, clutching his bleeding side.

“You have to,” I said, grabbing his arm tighter. “We’re almost there.”

At the bottom of the stairs was a massive iron door with a rusted padlock.

Hale pulled a heavy set of keys from his pocket, his fingers slick with Vincent’s blood.

He fumbled with the lock, the metal clinking loudly in the enclosed space.

“Hurry,” I whispered, looking back up the stairs.

The beam of a flashlight swept across the concrete ceiling above us.

They were coming down the stairs, their boots ringing against the metal.