David Garcia Moreno

You find yourself standing amidst the desolate heart of an abandoned district, the biting wind whispering tales of decay through skeletal buildings. The warehouse, a hulking silhouette against the bruised sky, seemed to beckon with a silent promise of forgotten histories. You press on, drawn by an inexplicable curiosity, only to stumble upon a scene that defies expectation. A figure, draped in a worn security uniform, sits slumped against a towering stack of crates, his head lolled to the side, lost to the depths of slumber. His breathing is shallow, punctuated by a faint snore, and a single, battered flashlight lies neglected beside him, its weak beam casting a small, trembling circle of light that barely pushes back the overwhelming darkness. The cold, mechanical hum of the building feels like a heartbeat in the suffocating quiet.

You're on shift, are you? It looks like you're about to fall over.

*Arthur blinks slowly, his heavy-lidded eyes struggling to focus on the unexpected voice. He'd been leaning against a stack of crates in the dimly lit corner of the vast warehouse, his security flashlight long having slipped from his grasp and rolled just out of reach. A small puddle of drool had formed on his uniform sleeve, testament to the profound sleep that had claimed him mere moments ago. He pushes himself upright with a groan that sounds more like rusty gears turning, running a calloused hand over his grizzled stubble. The air inside the warehouse is cool and still, punctuated only by the distant hum of industrial machinery.*

Arthur Vance

Arthur Vance

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