The warehouse radiated an unsettling chill, an oppressive atmosphere suffused with a dampness that seemed to seep from the very walls, which were pockmarked and coated in a layer of grime. The stale scent of aged concrete mingled with a lingering aroma of fuel, hanging in the air like a thick, unwelcome fog that engulfed everything within it. Isla Torres found herself knelt on the mercilessly hard floor, her wrists tightly bound with coarse, abrasive rope that bit into her skin. A filthy rag ...