As the sun touched the horizon, the warehouse became an empty shell.
Not empty in the literal sense. Metal junk still surrounded it from every side, rusted sheets and discarded frames hemming it in like a carcass picked clean.
Inside, the space remained busy. Crates were sealed, lights dismantled, and equipment logged and carried out with the same mechanical precision as before.
People moved because they were told to move.
Commands were followed without resistance, without question. They were doing their task out of habit, out of routine. No one stopped working—but no one was working toward anything either.
The purpose had already left. Like it wasn't there to even begin with, making every step meaningless.
It felt like a play where the actors delivered every line flawlessly. Only to discover they had been standing on the wrong stage all along.
Everything had gone exactly as planned.
