The warehouse stretched endlessly, punctuated by the erratic blinking of failing LEDs. Ambient room sounds were a symphony of wrongness. Clicks. Low, grinding hums. The scuff of boots on concrete.
Jadelyn Roscoe held her phone flat, staring at the tracker. It shifted again.
To their left, a rusted pipe groaned. A single drop of water broke from the joint, but instead of falling, it drifted upward to splatter against the ceiling.
In the corner, ancient machinery clattered to life, gears grinding despite severed power cords lying dead on the floor. Concrete walls developed thick, dark veins.
"This place wasn't like this when we came in," Jadelyn whispered.
Alistair Triste walked a half-step ahead, his dark eyes scanning the shadows. "It wasn't."
"It was," Tansy corrected quietly from behind them.
Everyone stopped. Cael Alexander-- whose corporate mask had fully dissolved into the predatory stillness of Qavael-- turned his head. His jaw clenched tight.
