Bishop kept close to my left leg, his shoulder brushing against my knee with every step.

He did not sniff the ground or look around; his focus was entirely on the dark path ahead.

The air smelled of salt, dead fish, and diesel fuel.

We walked along the side of the gravel road, keeping to the shadows of the old shipping containers.

Warehouse four was a massive, corrugated iron structure with broken windows near the roofline.

A single yellow light bulb flickered above the small side door.

The door was slightly ajar, squeaking back and forth in the wind.

Lucian drew his weapon, holding it close to his chest.

He nudged the door open with his boot.

Inside, the warehouse was vast and cold, filled with the shadows of old crates and stacked pallets.

In the center of the concrete floor, under a harsh, dangling halogen light, sat a metal chair.

Alina was tied to it.

Her head was bowed, her shoulders shaking as she sobbed into the wet cloth tied around her mouth.

“Alina,” I whispered, but Lucian caught my shoulder, pulling me back into the shadow of a wooden crate.