Chapter 13

Derek shoved the warehouse door open, and it creaked loud enough to wake the dead, rusty hinges grinding in the stillness. Rain dripped off his jacket, splattering on the concrete floor, already slick with puddles. The place smelled like a dump—wet rot, spilled oil, something sharp and sour hanging in the air. A single bulb dangled from the ceiling, flickering like it was about to give up, throwing shaky shadows across stacks of busted crates. He squinted into the dark, ears straining. Somewhere deeper in, he caught it—shuffling feet, a low grunt, the kind of sound that sets your nerves on edge. “Elena?” he called, voice hoarse from shouting in the rain. It bounced off the walls, coming back at him hollow. He swiped a hand across his face, shaking off water, trying to see anything through the gloom. His shoes squished with every step, soaked through, and his shirt stuck to his chest like a second skin.