The group reached a small, inconspicuous inn near the docks. The building, dusty and dark, bore signs of disrepair—planks stacked against the side, cobwebs in the corners, and a faded sign barely holding on to its hinges.
Though it appeared abandoned, there was a quiet tension in the air that told otherwise.
Martina led the way, her boots silent on the wooden bridge leading to the inn's rear. She pulled out a silver, metallic mask from her cloak and placed it over her face. The mask clinked softly, locking in place, its design sleek and smooth with only thin slits for the eyes.
The rest of the team followed suit, each pulling out their own mask—custom fit, concealing their identities with efficiency.
"Remember," Martina said, her voice muffled slightly through the mask, "don't let anyone see your face. If you're recognized… this mission could turn very brutal."
Sol scoffed, confident as ever. "For real? You all act like we aren't ghosts in the night."
