The room plunged into an oppressive darkness as the lights cut out, leaving the space shrouded in an eerie, suffocating black.
Without windows, the garage became an abyss—perfect for stashing illegal goods, but utterly unnerving when the night stole away every shred of light.
"Shit!" the guy leaning against the wall, Rusty, hissed, jolting upright. He instinctively clutched at the cigarette hanging from his lips, its faint orange ember the only visible glow in the room.
For once, the usual swagger in his voice was replaced by unease. He stepped away from the wall, his boots scuffing against the concrete as asked "What the hell's goin' down?"
**scuff** **scuff**
"Fuck," spat Grady, the lanky man, stumbling forward blindly, his long limbs flailing in search of something solid. His hand quickly landed squarely on Tank's shoulder, the chubbiest of the bunch, eliciting an immediate bark of irritation from him.
