The old warehouse on 5th Street loomed like a relic from another era, its walls battered by years of neglect and the persistent onslaught of city weather. The night draped everything under its cloak, making the broken windows and graffitied doors blend into the shadows. Max Hartwell's footsteps echoed in the empty streets as he approached, his heart thumping a relentless beat in his chest.
As he neared the entrance, the smell of damp and decay hit him, carrying whispers of forgotten stories. He hesitated, hand on his revolver, senses pricked for any sign of danger. A flicker of movement caught his eye—a curtain stirring in a high window, perhaps, or maybe just a trick of his anxious mind.
Max pushed the heavy door open, its hinges groaning in protest. Inside, the air was thick with the stench of oil and old wood. He paused, letting his eyes adjust to the dim interior, lit only by shafts of moonlight slicing through broken windows.
