CASSIAN
The air in the old meat processing plant was thick with the copper tang of blood and the damp, cloying scent of concrete rot. It was a beautiful symphony of decay, really. The kind of place where the world forgot you existed, which made it the perfect stage for Antonio Lopez's final performance.
He was currently screaming. It was a guttural, wet sound that echoed off the soundproofed walls, losing its edge before it could reach the street outside. I didn't look up.
I was busy.
I sat in a sleek leather chair, brought in specifically for the occasion, as I refuse to let my suit touch industrial filth, and tapped the screen of my tablet. The screams were nothing more than white noise, like the hum of an air conditioner or the distant thrum of traffic. They were the background music to my research.
Alexander Hendrix. The "Angel CEO." The man who had looked far too comfortable with his arms around my toy earlier today.
