The abandoned church looms before us in the grey morning light, its stone walls blackened with age and neglect. Broken stained glass windows gape like dark, jagged mouths. The front door hangs askew on rusted hinges.
"No signs of forced entry," Han notes as we approach, weapons drawn. The air feels thick, almost suffocating, despite the cold morning.
We move inside in formation, flashlight beams cutting through layers of dust and cobwebs. Our footsteps echo on the rotting floorboards. The pews are mostly overturned, hymnals scattered and molding. Everything suggests years of abandonment.
But something's not right. There's a pressure in my head, building slowly - not quite pain, but a presence. Whispers at the edge of hearing, just below comprehension.
"Han," I say quietly, pressing my fingers to my temple. "There's something..."
The whispers grow stronger. Not words exactly, but intentions, pulling my attention downward. Down.
