Trenton Avenue at night is a whole different world. The kind of place where the streetlights aren't bright enough to actually light anything up, just tint everything an ugly, sickly yellow. The kind of place where the city just sort of forgets to send maintenance crews, so there's always trash clumped in the gutters, half-ripped posters stuck to telephone poles, and potholes deep enough to eat a bike tire whole.

It's not abandoned--not like some parts of the city--but it's quiet. The kind of quiet that's only possible in places people pass through but don't really live in. During the day, this stretch of warehouses and loading docks is busy as hell, trucks and forklifts and warehouse workers keeping the whole supply chain monster moving. At night, though? It's different. It's the lull between shifts. The hour where the people who work here have gone home, but the people who use places like this are just getting started.

Flashpoint and I are crammed into the narrow space between a dumpster and a loading dock, half-hidden in the shadow of a busted floodlight. The air is thick with the smell of hot asphalt, oil, and whatever's rotting in the dumpster next to us. It's gross, but it's good cover. Nobody looks at dumpsters.

She shifts her weight slightly, balancing on the balls of her feet, adjusting her mask. "Cool uncle was watching sports," she mutters, half a conversation late. "He never tattles. As long as I don't get arrested again, he doesn't care what I do."

"Convenient," I whisper back.

"Yeah, well, my mom thinks I'm asleep, so let's try not to screw this up," she says, rolling her shoulders.

I nod, focusing back on the warehouse entrance. People come and go in small groups, moving slow, casual. Nobody's sprinting. Nobody's acting like they're doing anything illegal. They don't have to. You don't get cops out here unless someone's already bleeding out on the sidewalk.

There's a guy standing by the roll-up door, leaning against the wall, scrolling through his phone like this is just another shift. Could be Kingdom. Could be Rogue Wave. Could be one of the million other crews running things out here. The thing about North Philly is that crime isn't a couple of big organizations fighting for turf--it's a mess of little ones, tangled together like tree roots, with just enough structure to keep things from completely imploding. Some of these guys probably work for multiple factions. Some of them don't even know who they're actually working for.

It's too much to track all at once. I try not to think about it too hard. Some of these warehouses are probably just like... normal warehouses. Like Jordan said - normal people work here.

The front door opens again, and a new pair steps out, talking just loud enough to carry in the still night air.

"...tell me why they need another shipment now. We just ran a batch three days ago."

"It's not for them, it's for new clients. I dunno, they don't tell me that part. It's moving fast, though."

I glance at Flashpoint. She glances back. New clients. That means distribution. That means something is moving through here. It doesn't mean, exactly, that we're right, but that it's suspicious.

I press a finger to the comm in my ear. "Safeguard, we've got movement. They're talking about shipments. My heart of hearts tells me that they are talking about drugs."

There's a short pause before Jordan's voice comes through, steady, almost bored, and whisper-light. "Copy that. Keep eyes on them. Don't move yet. Also, it's probably just normal Kensington stuff. Don't go crazy if it's not Jump or Cocaine or whatever that new thing is."

Flashpoint exhales through her nose, shifting slightly. "They better not have us squatting behind a dumpster all night."

"Patience, Flashy," Jordan says, the dry amusement in their voice barely masked. "Some of us have real jobs to do before we make our grand entrance."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Flashpoint just mutters, "Drama queen."

I go back to watching the warehouse, ignoring the itch of sweat under my helmet, the sticky heat of the city at midnight, the faint hum of distant traffic, the buzz of a streetlight flickering somewhere down the block.

You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

Nothing's happening yet. But it's about to.

The door clicks, and a little electronic buzz hums through the quiet. It's soft--so quiet I might have missed it if we weren't already listening for it. The latch shifts, the side entrance nudging open just an inch, and then Jordan's gloved fingers curl around the edge and ease it open the rest of the way.

They don't say anything--just tilt their head slightly, the dim light from inside catching the edge of their visor. If their face was visible at all, I know they'd be grinning.

Flashpoint and I move fast. Silent. We're inside in three seconds, door easing shut behind us. No alarm. No red lights flashing. Just still air and the faint hum of an industrial ventilation system, filtering out whatever fumes this place is constantly pumping into the air.

Jordan's voice comes through the comm, barely a whisper. "Don't get near strange cardboard boxes, kids."

I glance at them, raising an eyebrow behind my visor. "Seriously?"

They shrug. "Security guy got too close to the wrong crate. Keycard got cloned. Not my fault."

Flashpoint shakes her head, but she doesn't say anything. We're moving now, sticking close to the wall, eyes sweeping the aisles. The warehouse stretches out ahead of us, rows upon rows of metal racks stacked high with chemical drums, IBC totes, and crates marked with barcodes and manufacturer labels.

The air smells weird--not strong, not overwhelming, but a lingering chemical bite at the edge of my senses. It reminds me of science class. That sharp, plasticky scent of lab gloves and ethanol wipes. But it's mixed with something else, something heavier. Industrial. The kind of smell that sticks in your nose even after you leave.

Flashpoint breathes out slow, turning her head slightly to look at me. "Are we gonna talk about the fact that we're basically standing in the middle of a supervillain Costco right now?"

I don't answer. I'm too busy reading the labels. Some of them are totally normal--solvents, adhesives, chemical compounds with long, complicated names that I only vaguely recognize from the time I tried to pay attention in chem. Others... others are more suspicious. Barrels marked with coded labels. Drums of unregistered compounds. A few crates marked Stheno Biopharma--Restricted Handling.

Flashpoint tilts her head slightly, staring up at the stacks. "Should we be, like... worried about breathing this in?"

"Ventilation's running," Jordan says, calm as ever. "If there was anything airborne, you'd already be dead."

"Wow, thanks," Flashpoint mutters. "Super reassuring."

Jordan doesn't react, already moving ahead, leading us into one of the aisles. Their voice stays low, steady. "Storage takes up most of the first floor. Chemicals, precursors, synthesis materials--some of this is probably legitimate industrial supply, but a lot of it isn't. Far side of the building is the processing area. That's where the good stuff happens. Manufacturing, mixing stations, whatever active synthesis they've got going."

I glance toward the back, where the rows start to thin out into open floor space. A few metal tables, workbenches covered in tubing and glassware. A chemical fume hood. A fridge with a biohazard sticker slapped onto it.

"And security?" I ask.

"Office is back right," Jordan says. "That's where the cameras are. Maybe a safe. Maybe someone watching the feeds. Haven't gotten a look inside yet."

"And upstairs?"

"Break room and a supervisor's office," they say. "Second floor is small. Just a couple of rooms overlooking the floor. Could be someone in there, could be empty. Hard to tell without going loud."

I don't like the unknowns. I don't like how big this place is, how much space there is to cover, how much we don't know yet. We're not here to burn the place down. We're not here to get into a fight. We're here to find something--evidence, information, anything we can use to prove what this place really is--but the longer I look at the sheer amount of stuff in here, the more I realize how much harder that's gonna be.

How do you find the one thing you need in a sea of everything?

Flashpoint nudges me. "We're moving or what?"

I nod, pushing the thoughts back. No time to spiral. One step at a time.

We keep close to the shelves, ducking into the blind spots Jordan points out--places where the racks block the line of sight from the second-floor office, where the light doesn't quite reach, where we won't cast obvious shadows. We move slow. Controlled. Listening for footsteps.

Nothing, yet. Just the hum of machinery. The distant creak of a metal beam settling. The faint beep of a forklift backup alarm from outside.

Jordan pauses at the end of an aisle, glancing around the corner before motioning us forward. "Footsteps upstairs. One person, maybe two. Slow pacing."

I glance toward the upper level. The office window overlooks the storage floor, but the blinds are drawn. No movement behind the glass.

Flashpoint exhales through her nose. "You think they're watching the cameras?"

"Probably," Jordan says. "Depends how lazy they are."

I don't like it. If someone's watching the security feed, that means we have a time limit. If they get up to stretch their legs and do a walkthrough, that time limit gets even shorter.

I tap my comm. "Blink, you picking up anything from outside?"

There's a soft crackle before Lily's voice comes through. "Nothing weird. Same rotation of people. Truck just left about five minutes ago."

"Good," I say. "Keep watching."

I glance at Jordan. "We need to get to the processing area. See what they're actually making."

Jordan nods once. "I'll keep an eye on the security office."

I exhale slowly, shifting my weight. The walls feel closer now, the ceiling lower. The air feels thicker.