The second compound squatted in Miami's industrial district like a concrete parasite sucking life out of urban decay.
Forget sleek villain lairs—this dump was a shipping warehouse in cosplay, razor wire crown and chain-link smile, the kind of place where screams vanished into traffic noise and nobody batted an eye.
I killed the Maybach's engine half a mile out, pulling behind a gas station that hadn't seen a customer since Reagan was still forgetting Russia's name. The luxury sedan looked criminally overdressed, like I'd brought a tuxedo to a knife fight, or worse—like I'd RSVP'd to a gang war with valet parking.
"Soo-Jin," I said, turning to her in the passenger seat, "you're staying here. Engine running. Monitor all channels."
Her face went pale in the dash light, eyes wide like I'd just told her we were about to livestream Saw from the inside. "What if bad men come? What if you don't come back?"
