Hassan's Mustang screeched to a halt in front of an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Lewis Center. The structure, a skeleton of concrete and rusted steel, loomed under an ink-black sky, its shattered windows like empty eye sockets. The air reeked of oxidized metal and rancid oil, a frigid wind whistling through the cracks.
Hassan stepped out, leaving Kara in the car, his leather jacket gleaming under a flickering streetlamp. He leaned against the hood, his Glock tucked into his belt, and checked his phone. Messages from the group—Hugo, Ben, Yuki, Kaiser—flashed, full of speculation and the shit he'd been through.
"So, as I thought, Hugo's an Alpha..."
His mind was still focused on the Medusa Piece and Die Hand im Schatten. He growled, ignoring their messages. Tonight, he'd settle this mess.
