They reached a warehouse—the kind of place with metal siding so corroded you could peel it like burnt paper. Cain pushed the door open with a shove of his shoulder. The hinges screamed but gave way.
Inside: emptiness. Dust. A few scattered crates. No cameras, no cult symbols, no signs of recent occupation.
Good enough.
Cain stepped in, did a quick sweep, then motioned to Sirin. "We stay here for now."
She crossed the threshold, eyes adjusting instantly. "This place isn't safe."
"Nowhere is safe," he replied. "This is just less fatal than outside."
Sirin considered that, then nodded.
Cain dropped onto an overturned crate. The panic that tried clawing at him earlier finally caught up, sitting heavy in his chest. He ignored it. He'd learned to breathe around that kind of thing years ago.
He looked at Sirin. She watched him openly, studying every tiny movement.
"I need answers," he said. "And I need them fast. Start talking."
