Robert’s POV

The stench of rotting wood, mold, and gasoline filled the abandoned warehouse. I leaned against a rusted metal pillar, staring at the flickering lightbulb swinging from the ceiling.

It cast long shadows over the crates, making the place feel even more like a graveyard than a hideout.

Lola sat a few feet away on an overturned crate, picking at a piece of stale bread we had stolen from a back-alley market earlier that day.

Her hair was a tangled mess, her usually pristine nails chipped and filthy. She looked exhausted, her eyes sunken, her movements sluggish.

We had been here for days.

Days without enough food.

Days without...