Night, when words fade and things come alive. The leaves murmured as the cool winter breeze gushed through them, Grime Street was illuminated by an old lamp that flared to follow the light.
Unsure footsteps of a man echoed in the surroundings as his black shoes crunched the broken glass pieces. His eyes roamed around the warehouse, grey paint peeling off from the walls, cobwebs hanging like chandeliers, deep cracks glorifying the broken walls and all of this covered in a silvery quilt of moonlight. His wide eyes searched for a source of light as his senses were filled with the smell of rotten wood.
"Welcome to Silvermoore." A gruff voice said.
The man immediately turned towards to source of the sound as the lights in the warehouse flickered back to life. The scared man blinked rapidly as his shrinking pupils examined the warehouse again the place looked rusted, filled with unshipped cargo, splintered machinery, expensive furniture pieces resting under dirty white clothes; the man gulped visibly as he moved forward.
"I am not sure if I can do this," he said wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead.
"Oh! My backing up at the last moment ha? You know what’s at stake just follow the orders." The man growled in a gravelly voice as he caged a burning cigar in between his smirking lips.
The nervous man shook his head as he exited the warehouse not before he heard an eerily laugh from behind.