Crimson Ties

Friday, October 11, 2024

Solara, Solstice, Bog Bay City

Abandoned Warehouse

Midnight

He grabbed her arm gently, guiding her as they moved swiftly, staying low and close to the shadows of the warehouse. The ground beneath them was uneven, and they had to avoid the scattered piles of debris as they crept closer to the back entrance. The silence was almost oppressive now, broken only by their muffled footsteps.

They reached the back door, and Vince took a quick look over his shoulder. There was no sign of movement, no more watching eyes. For the first time in what felt like hours, the sense of being followed, of being trapped, seemed to lift. His heart still pounded, but his mind was clear. He carefully tested the door handle. It was unlocked.

With a small motion of his hand, he signaled to Chloe to be ready. Then he slowly pushed the door open, a creak echoed in the stillness of the night. The inside of the warehouse was dark, the only light coming from the occasional flicker of a dying bulb overhead. They slipped inside, their bodies tense, eyes scanning the vast, empty space as they moved deeper into the shadows.

The air was thick with dust, the faint scent of metal and mildew hanging heavy in the atmosphere. The warehouse felt like it had been abandoned for years, yet something about it—something about the closed-off space—made Vince uneasy. He held his breath, listening for any sounds, any signs of life.

Chloe followed close behind him, her hand brushing against the cold, crumbling walls. "What now?" she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Inside, the place was a mess, with overturned crates and scattered debris, but it wasn't just the disarray that caught his attention. The air was thick with a strange stillness, the kind that hinted at something having been recently disturbed.

He took a few more steps, glancing around carefully. "Looks like there were at least two or three people here recently," he muttered, his voice low and careful. Chloe followed his gaze, noticing what he was seeing.

"How can you tell?" she whispered, her voice a mix of curiosity and caution.

Vince pointed toward a few clues that didn't sit right. "Footprints, four of them," he said, nodding to the ground where the dust had been disturbed. There were four distinct sets of prints in the dirt—one pair large and heavy, the other two slightly smaller, the last set more shallow. "They weren't in a rush. But they were definitely moving through here, one after another."

Chloe bent down to inspect the area. She could see the uneven, fresh marks now—the sizes were varied, but all distinctly male. The prints suggested the men had been deliberate in their movement, not hurried, just walking around. It was unsettling, the quietness of the place in contrast to the clear signs of recent activity.

Vince didn't linger long on the footprints, his sharp eyes catching something more unusual. He surveyed the far wall, something caught his attention—a strange irregularity in the structure. A section of the wall looked slightly different from the rest, as if it didn't belong. It was a subtle shift, but something about it nagged at him.

He walked toward it, motioning for Chloe to stay back. He ran his fingers along the wall, feeling for any hidden seams or unusual textures. It was when his hand brushed against an old, rusted pipe near the wall that he heard it—a faint click, followed by the soft sound of gears shifting.

His heart rate quickened, but he remained calm, his fingers working with practiced precision. The wall shifted ever so slightly, revealing a hidden mechanism, a trapdoor of sorts embedded in the wall, concealed by years of grime and neglect.

"What is that?" Chloe asked, her voice tense with the realization.

Vince didn't answer immediately. He was still running his hand along the edges, making sure the mechanism was real. There was no mistake—it was some kind of hidden entrance, possibly a secret room. A thrill ran through him, the mystery just beyond his reach. Whatever was hidden here, it was no longer just a feeling—it was real.

He pushed the door open, and a low, mechanical groan echoed through the warehouse as the hidden passage revealed itself.

Vince looked at Chloe, his expression grave, but there was a spark in his eyes. "We need to go."

They stepped into the hidden passage, the door groaning as it closed behind them, sealing them in the cold, suffocating darkness. Dim, flickering lights cast long shadows across the concrete walls, their weak glow doing little to cut through the oppressive gloom.

The passage was narrow, the air thick with dust and the faint, unsettling smell of mildew. Every few steps, they passed small cells, each one barely larger than a 10 feet square box. Rusted metal beds, stripped of any comfort, sat against the walls, with threadbare blankets piled haphazardly. A few trays, once filled with food, lay abandoned on the cold floor, their contents dried and rotting.

Vince paused, his eyes scanning the rooms as they moved deeper. His voice was tight, heavy with the realization. He stepped forward, glancing at the rusted bars of a nearby cell. "This wasn't just a temporary hideout. This was a prison."

Chloe looked at the dark, empty rooms, a chill crawling down her spine. Each cell told a silent story—of confinement, fear, and desperation. She shuddered but didn't say anything. The reality of the situation was sinking in, and she knew the worst was yet to come.

The passage stretched on, the walls made of rough-hewn stone, and the dim light flickered intermittently, casting fleeting shadows. Further down, they came across a larger room, its door slightly ajar. The muffled sounds of low voices drifted out, and the air was thick with the smell of stale alcohol.

Inside, three men lounged in a dilapidated room that once might have served as a makeshift living space. The walls were scarred with graffiti and the remnants of hastily thrown-together furniture. A single, unkempt bed sat in one corner, its sheets tangled, while a makeshift table covered with spilled liquor and empty bottles took up another part of the room.

One man, sprawled across the bed, was snoring loudly. His round, bloated face was partially hidden beneath a thick beard, and his oversized clothes—an old, faded black hoodie and torn jeans—stretched tightly across his frame. A half-empty bottle of booze was clutched loosely in his hand, the label peeling away from its glass surface.

At the table, another man leaned forward, furiously concentrating on a game of cards. His muscular arms were covered in tattoos, his shirt—a tight, sleeveless black tank top—clinging to his broad shoulders. His gaze was fixed on the cards in his hands, but his movements were jerky, as if the alcohol had already started to take its toll.

The third man stood near the door, his body tense and alert, eyes constantly scanning the shadows. His lean frame was draped in a dark leather jacket, and his jeans were faded with wear. His posture screamed that he was ready for a fight at a moment's notice, a sharp contrast to the other two, who were lost in their drunken stupor.