The bare bulb overhead continued to swing, casting long, moving shadows across the walls.

We stood frozen, listening to the heavy, deliberate footsteps approaching the door.

The shadow outside the door lengthened, stretching across the dusty floorboards.

My heart hammered against my ribs.

I pressed my back against the peeling wallpaper, holding my breath.

Beside me, Adrian did not move.

His hand went to his coat pocket, his fingers wrapping around something solid.

On the floor, Marcus let out a soft, ragged groan.

The footsteps stopped right at the threshold.

A sliver of yellow light from the streetlamp outside caught the edge of a heavy work boot.

“Who’s in there?” a rough voice called out.

It wasn’t Grant.

The voice was deeper, thicker, carrying the harsh accent of the outer boroughs.

“Show your hands,” the voice demanded.

A flashlight beam sliced through the darkness, sweeping across the empty crates.

The light bounced off Marcus’s pale face.

Adrian lunged forward.

The movement was fast and silent.

He caught the intruder by the jacket collar and slammed him against the doorframe.

The flashlight dropped to the floor, rolling toward my feet.