Mason

The old lumber mill is rotted to shit—rusted metal bones and splintered timber swallowed by pine, the kind of place that still stinks of blood even if you can't see it.

Fitting.

I'm holed up in the foreman's office, or what's left of it—three walls, half a roof, and enough cover to run surveillance without being seen. The floor's slick with oil and rat piss, but I've got the high ground and the view's perfect.

My laptop hums against the silence, three live ...