Quincy shoves open the rusted service door, boots scraping grit off cracked linoleum. Mara follows, rifle shouldered, eyes scanning shadows that stretch across the old cafeteria. The air is thick with dust and the faint chemical tang of ancient food packs.
“Anything alive in here?”
Mara’s voice is steady, but low, sound carries in places like this. Quincy steps around overturned chairs and faded trays, his ruined skin prickling as memory rises: laughter echoing off tile, the clatter of lunch crowds, a world with fresh bread and music. He forces it down. Focus on the present. Mara peers through a busted window, watching for movement outside. Something stirs in the dark kitchen, a clatter, metal on tile, too purposeful for rats. Quincy draws his revolver, the grip worn smooth by decades. He nods to Mara, and together they move toward the noise, the past pressing close with every step, but danger is always now.