I didn't follow them inside right away.
Not because I hesitated—
but because everything outside the old factory felt wrong in a way that hesitation alone couldn't explain.
There were too many people.
So many that the crowd itself lost weight, became hollow. Bodies moved, shoulders brushed, footsteps overlapped, yet no real conversation took place. Voices existed, but none connected. It was as if everyone had already been told what to do, where to stand, how long to wait. A mass of figures responding to something invisible.
Like shadows tied to the same thread, all waiting for it to tighten.
I stayed at the edge of the crowd.
I bent my head slightly, pretending to adjust the hem of my jacket. My hands moved, but my eyes didn't stop. I let them drift, slow and careful, counting patterns instead of faces.
This wasn't a spontaneous gathering.
Cars were parked in lines that looked accidental at first glance, but weren't. Enough space between them to open doors quickly. Enough clearance to leave without blocking one another. The angles were wrong for panic, too clean for chaos.
The factory entrances weren't clogged.
They were guided.
Narrow channels had been deliberately left open, wide enough for steady movement, narrow enough to control flow. At several higher points—rooftops, scaffolding remnants, broken conveyor frames—figures stood still.
They weren't watching the factory.
They were watching the people.
Those figures didn't speak. They didn't gesture. But their eyes moved constantly, tracking shifts in the crowd like sensors recalibrating.
This wasn't a gang meet.
It felt closer to a pre-event inspection.
"Hey. Kid."
The voice snapped me out of my count.
The thug leading us glanced back, irritation flickering across his face. "Stay close. Don't wander."
His tone wasn't threatening.
It was procedural.
"I need the bathroom," I said, pointing toward the side of the factory. "Won't take long."
His brow furrowed. For a brief moment, I could almost see the decision tree run behind his eyes. Delay versus disruption. Control versus speed.
Then he waved me off.
"Be quick."
I didn't thank him.
I turned away immediately, merging into the movement without ever looking back.
The factory loomed larger the closer I got.
From the outside, it looked like a corpse that hadn't finished decaying. Concrete walls scarred with age. Rusted steel ribs exposed where panels had fallen away. Windows blacked out or shattered, their frames jagged like broken teeth.
Inside, light existed—but only in fragments.
Most of the structure was swallowed by darkness. Only certain corridors were illuminated, strips of pale industrial light cutting through the shadows. They looked intentional. Too clean. Too selective.
Paths meant to be used.
Or paths meant to be seen.
I stayed close to the outer wall.
The concrete beneath my fingers was rough, crumbling in places. Cracks ran like veins across its surface. At several points, entire chunks had collapsed, leaving cavities filled with dirt and weeds.
Nature had been trying to reclaim this place for years.
It hadn't succeeded.
That's when I saw it.
Low. Almost invisible unless you were already looking down.
A break near the base of the wall, half hidden behind collapsed concrete. A hole no taller than my chest. Corrugated metal sheets and broken wooden planks leaned against it—not sealing it, just pretending to.
A cover meant for appearances.
As if someone didn't want to draw attention to it, but also didn't care enough to erase it.
I paused.
Listened.
The crowd noise faded quickly this far out. No footsteps near me. No voices directed my way. The watchers above were focused inward, toward the entrances.
No one was watching the ground.
I crouched.
Pulled the planks aside.
Cold air brushed my face as I lay flat and slid in.
This wasn't part of the warehouse proper.
It was the foundation.
Concrete slabs pressed down overhead, low enough that I couldn't lift my head. The space stretched forward, long and narrow, forcing me into a crawl. Dust coated everything—thick, heavy, old. Every movement stirred it, clinging to my sleeves, my palms, my knees.
It smelled like metal and damp stone.
And the air moved.
A slow, steady current, brushing past my face.
This wasn't sealed.
Discarded cables ran along the ground, bundled and unbundled in places, all pointing forward. The deeper I crawled, the more organized they became. Pipes joined them, bolted neatly to the side walls.
Someone had planned this space.
This wasn't decay.
This was infrastructure.
There were no branches. No alternate paths. This tunnel existed for a single purpose—to serve one place.
I followed.
Time lost meaning. My shoulders burned. My elbows ached. Dust worked its way into my mouth, gritty between my teeth. Still, I kept going.
Then the space changed.
The ceiling opened slightly. A hollow structural beam crossed overhead. Beside it, a maintenance ladder was welded into place.
Old. Rust-darkened. But intact.
I stopped.
Pressed myself flat.
Listened.
No footsteps above.
No voices.
Just a distant, constant hum. Machinery, still alive somewhere deep within the factory.
I began to climb.
Slowly. Carefully. Every movement measured. I controlled my breathing, my weight, the pressure of my boots. The ladder held firm. Solid. More solid than it had any right to be.
When I emerged, it wasn't onto the floor.
I came out high above it.
A steel beam ran along the wall, lost in shadow. Light from below couldn't reach this far. I kept my body low, sliding along the structure, almost crawling, until I reached an open access hatch.
Beyond it lay the upper level of the main hall.
The overhead crane rail stretched ahead like a spine.
I pressed myself against it, cold steel biting through my clothes. Roughly ten meters above the ground. Below me, the factory opened wide.
I didn't look straight down.
I tilted my head.
Forty-five degrees.
Enough to see everything.
The skeleton of the building stood exposed. Support pillars. Crossbeams. Walkways. Some corridors glowed faintly. Others were completely dark.
The lighting pattern wasn't random.
Certain routes were preserved. Others erased.
On the floor, marks overlapped—footprints, scuffs, dragged equipment. All moving the same way. Repeated. Deliberate.
This place had been used.
Again and again.
Then movement.
Figures entered.
Not from one direction.
From several.
Almost simultaneously.
They didn't talk. Didn't signal. Each person moved with purpose. Some fanned out along the perimeter. Some advanced inward. A few stopped and looked up, scanning the upper levels.
Scanning places like mine.
This wasn't gathering.
It was deployment.
My chest tightened.
I started planning without thinking. Pillar to mid-level platform. Platform to debris stack. From there, into the crowd. Find Seven.
I didn't move.
Because the lights changed.
New lights.
Not the factory's old fixtures.
These came on from above. One segment at a time. White. Clean. Ruthless. They peeled back shadow like skin.
Maintenance paths. Beams. Pillars.
Every hiding place vanished.
My breath caught.
This wasn't a gang.
These were soldiers.
No warnings. No announcements.
They took the space the instant they entered. High ground. Low ground. Routes sealed. Timing so precise there was no gap left to exploit.
In that moment, clarity hit me like cold water.
This wasn't a place for infiltration anymore.
It was a clearing zone.
A place designed to remove whatever remained inside.