The truck door swung open, and icy air flooded the cramped space. Johannes was hauled to his feet, his briefcase still nowhere in sight. He was dragged out into the courtyard of a decrepit building, the once-proud Ruthenian architecture now cracked and crumbling under the weight of neglect and decay.
"So this is where you plan on holding me," Johannes said calmly.
The officer grunted in response, his grip on Johannes's arm tightening as he dragged him toward the imposing iron doors.
"You won't be here long. The state police have a special interest in foreign agitators like you."
The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a dimly lit corridor lined with cold, damp stone. The air was thick with the acrid stench of mildew and despair. Each step Johannes took echoed ominously, a grim reminder of the many before him who had likely walked these halls never to emerge.
