The moment Winter stepped out of the truck, his gut twisted.
The place looked like a goddamn horror film.
Dried blood smeared the concrete like grotesque murals, leading streaks toward darkened corridors. The air reeked of rot and rust, even through their filters. Flickering overhead lights cast long, distorted shadows, making the wreckage seem alive.
Debris littered the ground—shattered equipment, overturned desks, weapons discarded in desperation. Bullet holes riddled the walls, some surrounded by old, dried handprints.
"Jesus," someone muttered.
Harlow surveyed the destruction, exhaling sharply. "We called this a stronghold once."
"Not anymore," Winter murmured.
Harlow shook himself and straightened. "Well, what's done is done. We are splitting into three groups."
