The warehouse loomed ahead, its silhouette fractured by broken windows and rusting metal beams. Moonlight spilled across the cracked pavement, illuminating the graffiti-covered walls and casting long shadows. Sofiane moved with quiet determination, Younes pressed close against his chest.
Inside, the air smelled of damp wood and stale water, carrying a faint echo of something long abandoned. Sofiane's eyes swept the space, noting every potential hiding spot, every angle where an enemy could emerge. Mouna and Julien flanked him, weapons ready but movements careful, silent.
"This place will work," Cynthia whispered, stepping ahead. "It's secure for the night, and we can barricade the entrances. No one will see us unless they come directly inside."
Sofiane nodded, lowering Younes onto a stack of crates. The boy's small hands clutched his father's arm instinctively, but he trusted him completely. Sofiane's gaze softened briefly before hardening again. There was no time for comfort—only survival.
Mouna began inspecting the broken locks and doors, while Julien checked the windows, ensuring no weak points remained. Sofiane moved to the back of the warehouse, tracing the path along the canal that Cynthia had mentioned. It would serve as an escape route if needed.
"Something's off," Julien muttered, crouching near a puddle reflecting the dim light. "I can't shake the feeling that someone's been here recently. Tracks. Footprints leading in and out."
Sofiane's jaw tightened. "Then we need to assume we're not the only ones looking. There's a network, probably watching the boy. Whoever it is, they're cautious, organized."
Cynthia stepped closer, her eyes scanning the shadows. "I've noticed signs before—small marks, messages hidden in cracks or under loose boards. Someone was mapping this area. Watching who moves, who stays."
Sofiane's mind raced, calculating risks. The Netherlands was supposed to be quiet compared to the chaos in Germany and Spain, but it seemed danger followed him like a shadow. Yet, there was a methodical calm in his thoughts, a rhythm he trusted.
"We rest here tonight," he decided, "but tomorrow we move upstream. The canal will hide us from most patrols, and I have contacts in the next town who might help us track anyone who's following."
Younes yawned and curled into his father's side. Sofiane felt a weight of responsibility heavier than ever before. Each step, each decision, carried the lives of those he cared about. The slightest miscalculation could cost him everything—especially his son.
Hours passed quietly, the warehouse alive only with the distant rush of water and the occasional creak of metal settling. The group shared whispered plans, noting the geography, potential allies, and threats. Sofiane found moments to study Cynthia, realizing she was more than just a neighbor keeping Younes safe. Her calm efficiency, her unwavering vigilance, and the way she understood the stakes—they hinted at something deeper, something that, slowly, began to stir in him.
By the time the first pale light of dawn filtered through the broken windows, Sofiane had made a decision. They would move quickly, efficiently, and stay ahead of anyone trying to reclaim Younes. He carried the weight of his mission and the faint glimmer of trust in those around him.
The canal outside whispered a silent promise of the journey to come, and Sofiane knew there was no turning back.