Evander's POV
The warehouse reeked of smoke, antiseptic, and the iron-sweet tang of blood when we pulled in. Night hung low over the yard, lanterns swinging and throwing nervous light across men hauling bodies, shouting into the dark, rubbing numb hands and running checks.
News traveled fast; by the time the car eased through the gates, half the compound already knew the word: attack. The rest heard it in the way men looked at one another—hushed, hollowed-out, the way fear bent even the bravest shoulders.
I did not let the car stop completely before I was out. My boots hit concrete, glass underfoot crunching like brittle bones. My side burned where the silver had kissed me; a white-hot ribbon of pain threaded up my ribs every time I breathed.
