The corridor leading to Apex Laboratory's lower entrance reeked of chemical solvents, iron, and old blood. It was hidden beneath what looked like an abandoned pharmaceutical distribution warehouse—complete with rusted trolleys, crates labeled "Medical Supplies," and cameras that followed movements like silent vultures.
Argo adjusted the ratty hood of his oversized coat and hunched his shoulders forward, letting the damp cold make him look smaller, more pathetic. Grease streaked his cheeks, and the fake grime on his nails was so convincing he could smell it. His face was partially hidden behind the collar of the coat, and the cracked foam container in his hand smelled like cheap noodles and fish paste.
A metal door buzzed open. No one spoke.
The guard inside, face obscured by a gas mask and helmet, waved him in wordlessly. Argo shuffled through, murmuring something unintelligible and looking down at his feet.
