Silas drove through the deserted industrial zone in complete silence, the only sound being the daunting sound of his black car engine cutting through the night.
The coordinates on his phone screen glowed faintly as he navigated the maze of abandoned warehouses and rusted shipping containers.
Pier 17 loomed ahead — a decaying structure with broken windows and graffiti-covered walls. He parked outside the massive sliding doors, killed the engine, and stepped out into the cold air.
His eyes scanned the darkness. No visible guards. No obvious traps. Yet every instinct told him this meeting was anything but ordinary.
He pushed open the heavy metal door. It groaned loudly in protest.
Inside, the warehouse was dimly lit by a few hanging industrial lamps. In the center of the open space stood three women dressed in form-fitting blue ninja attire that hugged their athletic figures.
