Grayson

Isaac's slumped in the same metal chair when I step into the shipping container—still breathing, still stewing in his own blood, piss, and shame.

The stench hits harder this time.

Sour. Coppery. Lingering like rot in the back of my throat.

I bite back a gag.

Jesus Christ.

Someone needs to come in here with some bleach and a flamethrower.

I kick the door shut behind me, the metallic clang echoing through the steel walls like a warning shot. ...