The night air is cold and smells of ozone and distant rain. Your boots echo on the grated fire escape as you drop onto the main loading dock of Warehouse 7. The building is a monolith of rusted corrugated steel, one of many in this derelict row. A single security light flickers, casting long, jumping shadows.

There’s no sound from inside. No alarms. Just the hum of distant traffic and the creak of settling metal.

You push the heavy sliding door. It groans, giving way to darkness and the smell of damp concrete and old motor oil. Your flashlight cuts a narrow beam through the vast, empty space. Crates are stacked haphazardly. Something glints on the floor ahead—a discarded phone, screen cracked.

A soft scrape echoes from the far end, near the old office mezzanine.

The beam of your light swings up, catching the figure in full. She’s leaning against the railing, dressed in dark, practical gear, one hand pressed to her side. Her eyes meet the light, and she doesn’t flinch.

Behind you, there’s a sudden, total silence from the comms. Then a sharp, metallic crunch as a gauntlet fist closes too tightly.