Alessia
I don't know how long I've been driving. The world outside the windshield is smeared in streaks of gray rain, turning the streets into little rivers, the lights into ghostly halos. My hands grip the steering wheel like it's the only anchor left between me and the truth I've been freefalling through for weeks.
Adriana's words echo in my mind: "The warehouse was never truly abandoned. Go to the back wall. You will see a message."
I park a few blocks away and walk the rest of the distance on foot. No headlights, no witnesses. Just me and the rain. My boots crunch against gravel as I cross the overgrown lot toward the rusted, skeletal frame of the old Romano safehouse, once a fortress, now a mausoleum.
The warehouse sags. Its walls are coated in ivy. The back entrance is rusted but yields after a solid kick. I step inside, flashlight trembling in my grip.
Dust. Mold. That's what this place smells like.
