Elena Vasquez

The warehouse reeked of rust, motor oil, and something sharper: fear, maybe, or the metallic tang of blood already spilled. My sneakers stuck to the grimy concrete with every step, the sound swallowed by the cavernous dark. Somewhere ahead, Sofia’s muffled sob cut through the silence like a blade. I pressed my back against a stack of splintered crates, heart hammering so hard I swore the whole building could hear it. Alexander’s blood soaked the sleeve of his white shirt where ...