Draven's Point Of View
I stepped out of the sub-basement room, the heavy iron door sealing shut behind us with a pneumatic hiss, muffling the shivering groans of those three men. The air in the corridor wasn't much better… stale, reeking of damp pipes and forty years of accumulated dust, but at least it didn't carry that sharp, metallic tang of frying skin.
That smell had a way of clinging to your clothes, your hair, the back of your throat, embedding itself in your memory like a brand. I'd learned to hate it years ago, back when I still had the luxury of feeling disgust instead of just numbness. Now it was simply another occupational hazard, another reminder of the man I'd become.
