Elijah moved silently through a warehouse, boots whispering against the cold concrete floor. The smell of metal, old wood, and dust clung to the air, blending subtly with his own winter-crisp pheromones—a scent sharp enough to cut through any lingering warmth in his mind. He paused, tilting his head as though listening for a sound that didn't exist, then shook it off. Nothing yet. Not a sound, not a sign, not a clue. But he didn't need one. He already knew everything.
