The Mercato Del Muerte had never known silence.
It breathed—metal shutters rattling, generators growling beneath the floors, voices layered in ten languages, deals sealed in whispers and gunmetal stares. It was a living thing, stitched together by blood, greed, and devotion.
That night, it inhaled smoke for the first time.
Matthew felt it before he saw it.
A wrongness in the air.
A vibration beneath his feet that didn't belong to machinery.
The sharp, unmistakable scent of burning oil.
"Stop," he said abruptly.
Vinny halted beside him, brow creasing. "What?"
Then the alarms screamed.
Not the Mercato's usual warning sirens—those were controlled, measured, obedient. This was chaos. A fractured howl echoing through steel corridors as emergency shutters slammed down in sections, trapping some people in and forcing others forward.
Red lights strobed.
Fire suppression systems failed one by one.
"Fire," someone shouted over the comms. "South wing—no, wait—east corridor—"
