The warehouse didn’t just smell of abandonment; it smelled of the metallic tang of dried blood. Located at the end of a dead-end street in the heart of the Rust District, the locals called it 'The Slaughter-Box.' Three previous tenants had failed here—one went bankrupt, one was found in the rafters, and one simply vanished into the smog. Denzel Reddington didn't believe in curses, but as he knelt on the cracked concrete with a bucket of lye, he felt the weight of the failures built into the soot-stained walls.The grease was a thick, black skin bonded to the floor over decades. Denzel’s massive frame heaved with every rhythmic stroke of the wire brush. He didn't use a machine; he used raw effort, muscles rippling beneath a sweat-soaked shirt. Every scrape was a deliberate act of reclaiming the space."Hey, Doc! You missed a spot of bad luck in the corner!"The voice crackled with a dry, hacking laugh. Outside, a group of homeless men sat on discarded tires, passing a bottle of rotgut.