Isabella stepped lightly over what used to be a glass-top table, now half-melted and collapsed onto the marble floor.
Her boots made a quiet crunch against the scattered debris—shards of blackened crystal, scorched glass, and a layer of soot that still carried the scent of chemical accelerants.
This place had once pulsed with life and dirty money, a nightclub for the underground elite.
It had high ceilings, velvet booths with silent deals going down, girls dancing under gold-filtered lights while guns traded hands two levels below.
Now, it was silent—the kind of silence that only came after fire, chaos, and a rushed exit.
Whoever torched the place hadn't done a great job. The flames had done damage, yes—but they hadn't consumed everything.
She could still smell top-shelf liquor soaked into the carpet, still see the dark stains on the floor where bodies had been dragged out, or maybe deeper in.
The bones of the building still spoke. She just had to listen.
