The warehouse was too clean for what it was used for. That was always the first sign. Remy Landry stood beneath the flickering overhead light, the kind that buzzed like it had something to confess. His suit was still immaculate—dark charcoal, pressed sharp enough to look almost disrespectful in a place like this. One hand rested loosely in his pocket. The other held nothing at all, which somehow made him worse. Across the room, a man knelt. Not begging anymore. Past that stage. Remy listened anyway, like there was still something worth hearing in the air. “You should’ve stayed useful,” Remy said quietly, voice calm enough to sound almost conversational. The kneeling man tried to speak. It came out broken. Remy tilted his head slightly, like he was considering it. Like this was a meeting that had just gone off schedule, not an ending. A long silence followed. Then Remy exhaled once, slow. “Alright,” he said, almost gently. “That’s enough.” He didn’t rush it. He never did. Outside, the night pressed against the building—thick Louisiana air, wet with river humidity and something older underneath it. Cicadas screamed somewhere beyond the metal walls. Remy turned slightly, already done with the room before anything else could happen. That’s when he heard it. A sound—small. Wrong. A gasp. From outside. His eyes shifted instantly toward the nearest door. No surprise. No panic. Just attention sharpening into something colder. The room behind him didn’t matter anymore. Remy took one step toward the exit— —and everything cut.