24H | SEVENTEEN

९३

The air was thick with the scent of rust and dampness. The only sound was the faint hum of the wind slipping through cracks in the corrugated metal walls. Rumi's boots barely made a sound against the damp concrete as she moved, step by cautious step, toward the warehouse entrance. No lights. No movement. Just the hollow echo of her own breath.

Inside, the darkness swallowed everything. She waited for her eyes to adjust. There-the faint gleam of broken glass scattered near the loading bay. Footprints. Fresh. She crouched, brushing her fingers over them. The pattern was uneven-one heavier than the other, as if the person had been dragged. Her pulse quickened.

Lee Chan.

Rumi rose, scanning the shadows. A flicker of light blinked near the far corner weak, almost invisible. A camera. She followed its lens with her gaze and spotted the faint red glow of a transmitter on the opposite wall. The warehouse wasn't abandoned. It was staged. Her earpiece was still dead.

"Alright," she muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "You want me here? I'm here." She muttered to herself making way through the shelves. From the far end came a soft, metallic clatter, something small rolling across the floor. Rumi froze, her senses sharpened, every muscle coiling. Rumi slipped between the shadowed shelves like a ghost. Her breathing was slow. Her eyes watched every dark shape.

A man rounded a crate, flashlight cutting the air. He didn't see her. Rumi stepped forward. She hooked her fingers under his chin and pushed making him stumble back. A muffled sound left his mouth as the flashlight rolled out his hand and hit the crate. She caught him before he fell, lowered him soundlessly to floor. She patted him, looking for anything useful. A baton. "Thanks." She patted the unconscious man's chest in mock gratitude.

She tucked the baton into her belt and reached for the fallen flashlight. Its beam flickered weakly across the warehouse floor, catching the edges of stacked crates, half-torn tarps, and metal drums scabbed with rust. Rumi angled it toward the far wall, double-checking her flank before exhaling through her nose, forcing her heartbeat to slow. "Okay," she breathed, switching the light off and letting the dark swallow her again.

A faint hum caught her ear-electricity, maybe. A generator. The kind you used when you didn't want official power records. She followed the sound, weaving between rows, counting steps, marking exits in her head. A sliver of light broke the darkness ahead, seeping through a half-open door. Voices murmured beyond it-low, masculine.

"How long do we have?" one of them asked. His voice was rough, impatient-someone used to giving orders, not waiting for them. Rumi crouched lower behind the drum, the cold metal pressing into her shoulder. Her eyes adjusted, tracing their outlines in the dim spill of light. Two men-one pacing, the other leaning against a crate, arms folded.

They were waiting. But for who?

She scanned them again, eyes narrowing. No visible guns, just the baseball bat by one man's boot. Maybe muscle, not brains. That made things easier. The pacing one checked his watch. "He said ten minutes ago. If he doesn't show, we're clearing out."

"And the package?" the other asked. Package? Rumi's pulse quickened. Is he talking about Chan?

"He'll collect it himself."

Should I wait for them to clear out or... Rumi glanced at her watch, its face faintly glowing green. Hyun said twenty? It's been what, five. I can wait- She shifted slightly, her knee brushing the concrete. The faint scrape echoed louder than she wanted. Both men froze. Damn it

"You hear that?"

The man with the bat stepped toward her hiding spot, slow and deliberate. His shadow grew longer, stretching across the crates until it brushed the drum she hid behind. Rumi held her breath, fingers tightening around the baton. The bat scraped the floor, dragging lazily then rose and slammed against the drum, sending it clattering aside. Rumi rolled away just in time to avoid the blow.