Dante arrived at the warehouse faster than lightning.
When he finally pulled up, the night sky was painted in orange and black. Flames licked the collapsing skeleton of the warehouse, sending up plumes of smoke that rolled into the air like choking storm clouds. The heat hit him even from where he stood, a dry, suffocating wave that made the air itself feel heavy.
The men were scrambling, faces streaked with soot, voices rough from shouting orders. Buckets of water and hoses fought against the fire, but it was useless. The building was already reduced to little more than charred beams and rubble.
It wasn't just destroyed—it had been erased.
