The air inside the warehouse was damp, reeking of rust and rotting wood. An old neon lamp dangled from the ceiling, swaying slightly each time the night wind slipped through the cracks in the corroded walls. Its dim light stretched long shadows across the cold concrete floor.

Vania sat on a wooden chair, her hands bound behind her back. The nylon rope bit into her skin, stinging and numbing her wrists as it cut off circulation. She forced herself to breathe evenly, to stay calm, even though her heart was pounding like a war drum.

In front of her stood three men in black masks. They spoke little, exchanging glances...