Abandoned warehouse – outskirts of Milan. Midnight.
silence, heavy with tension. Dust dances in the slivers of moonlight filtering through cracked windows. Shadows stretch along rusted beams. Georgie May Adler crouches behind a stack of crates, ear tuned to every sound. Ethan Aviel stands nearby, gun in hand, his stance calm, deadly.
Georgie May Adler (fl)
(Whispering)
“They’re late.”
Ethan Aviel (ml)
(Lowly, eyes scanning the dark)
“Or smart. Maybe they know it’s a trap.”
Crack. A distant footstep. Another. Silence. Then—chaos.
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