Nash opened the door with a cautious nudge, the key card beeping softly as the lock disengaged.
The room beyond was dimly lit, a single overhead bulb casting long shadows across what looked like a forgotten staff lounge.
Rows of metal lockers lined one wall, dented and scratched from years of use, while a battered couch sagged in the corner beside a small table cluttered with old coffee mugs, crumpled memos, and a dusty microwave.
The air smelled faintly of stale popcorn and cleaning supplies, the kind of utilitarian space tucked away for venue workers to grab a break during shows.
No windows, just the noise of distant bass from the pre-concert festivities audible through the walls.
Nash stepped inside, Sarra close behind, her hand still clasped in his.
"What is this place?" Nash muttered, more to himself than her, his brow furrowing as he observed the room.
