Winter's grip tightened around the door handle, his breath steady but his pulse hammering against his ribs. He hesitated—not out of fear, but instinct. They weren't making a mistake, right?
Behind him, Harlow shifted his weight, tension vibrating through his stance. His rifle was raised, the muzzle barely moving as his sharp eyes flicked between the guards who had tried—and failed—to stop them. The men's faces were pale, rigid.
With a slow exhale, Winter shoved the door open, gun leading the way.
The room beyond was—
Empty.
Not cleared out. Not ransacked. Just… untouched.
Something was wrong.
Winter had walked into abandoned bases before, places stripped clean by scavengers or nature reclaiming the ruins. But this wasn't that. The air was too still. It carried no trace of decay, no dust disturbed by hasty retreat or violent struggle. It was sterile—too sterile, like someone had wiped the place clean of any evidence before sealing it away.
