The Turner's secret Hideout
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It was the witching hour, but not everyone slept. Beneath an abandoned warehouse, The Turners were wide awake manufacturing chaos.
From the outside, the building was nothing more than a rotting warehouse on the pier, with the windows cracked, roof sagging, and a rusted sign clinging to the wall by one bolt. Anyone who passed by would assume it was condemned.
Because that was the point.
Beneath the warehouse, hidden behind a false panel in the floor and accessed by a freight elevator, was the real operation:
The Turner's underground lab.
Rows of stainless-steel tables stretched across the concrete bunker, cluttered with trays of syringes, vials filled with milky liquid, and bags of chemical compounds. The Industrial ventilation fans hummed overhead, struggling against the sting of chemicals in the air.
A voice called her attention. "The boy has taken the bait, madam. He just placed an order for another supply."
