Chapter 170
The hallway felt colder this far from the barracks—abandoned, almost. The fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting pale shadows that danced along the cracked concrete floor.
Winter moved quietly, his boots soft against the ground, every step a practised balance of speed and caution.
He reached the back room of what used to be an admin building—its door long since ripped off, replaced with a patched-up metal sheet held together by scrap and prayer. He knocked twice, then once more.
A pause.
Then the door creaked open just enough to reveal a cautious set of eyes—Miles. He opened it wider once he saw who it was.
"You’re late," he muttered, stepping aside. His voice was low, but the tension in it was obvious. "We thought something happened."
Winter stepped inside without a word, brushing past him. The air was thick—musty, metallic, tinged with oil and the faint staleness of blood soaked into old floors. The low light cast shadows across the peeling walls and water-stained ceiling.
Inside, Marcus stood near the back window, arms folded, eyes sharp beneath furrowed brows. He didn’t say anything—didn’t need to. The way he was watching Winter said plenty.
Ima was perched on a battered desk, legs crossed, a knife twirling between her fingers like a twitch of muscle memory. Her gaze snapped to Winter the moment he entered, expression unreadable but far from relaxed.
"Hope it wasn’t too hard to find this place?" she asked, voice casual, but her eyes weren’t playing.
Winter offered a dry smile, shaking off his coat. "Wasn’t. Just... had to make a stop first."