Liam pushed open the large double doors and stepped into the factory. The sound hit him immediately—a loud, relentless blend of machinery grinding, metal clanging, and bottles clinking as they moved along an automated line. The noise was deafening, explaining why none of the men outside had heard the brutal fight that had just taken place. Nor did they hear the doors open.
The space was massive, industrial lights hung from the ceiling, flickering now and then. The whole place reeked of chemicals and fermented alcohol. It didn't take long for Liam to piece it together. This place was a drink factory. But something felt off. The sheer number of workers, the silence on their faces despite the noise, the uniformity in their movements—none of it sat right with him. He crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, adjusting the black scarf covering the lower half of his face. Tight. Secure.
