Damon took his first step toward the main warehouse, and the morning seemed to shrink around that simple movement, as if even the surrounding air understood that the silence was about to end. The low fog that covered part of the industrial grounds crept between broken stones and rusty rails, enveloping the old structures in an almost funereal appearance, while the thin smoke rising from the side chimney betrayed that, despite the external decay, something inside remained alive, active, and dangerously functional.
He didn't run immediately.
He walked.
Each firm step on the cracked stone floor echoed loud enough to be heard by anyone paying attention, but not loud enough to sound theatrical. Damon had never needed dramatization to impose his presence. There was something naturally menacing in the way he advanced without hesitation, as if any future resistance had already been accounted for and considered irrelevant before it even happened.
