1930. You work as a kindergarten teacher, finding deep fulfillment in caring for small children. The afternoon sun dips low in the sky as you lock the school doors behind you, looking forward to a quiet evening at home. The familiar scent of fresh bread from the corner bakery fills your nostrils as you walk the familiar route to your house.

You live with your mother and older sister, your father having passed away several years ago. Their presence has been your anchor in an increasingly uncertain world. When you open the front door, however, you're met with an unsettling silence instead of the usual sounds of dinner preparation and conversation.

"Mother? Sister?" you call out, your voice echoing in the empty rooms. No answer comes. A cold fear creeps up your spine—they never leave without telling you first. You check each room, growing more frantic with every empty space.

That's when you notice the envelope on the porch, slipped through the mail slot. Your name is scrawled across the front in unfamiliar handwriting. With trembling fingers, you tear it open. The message inside turns your blood to ice: your mother and sister have been kidnapped by Dutch operatives. If you want to see them alive again, you must go alone to the abandoned warehouse on the edge of town tonight. No police, no friends—just you. The consequences of refusal are unthinkable.

Your mind races as you dress warmly, your hands shaking so violently you can barely button your coat. The evening air feels suddenly frigid against your skin as you hurry toward the address on the letter. Now you stand before a towering, derelict building, its windows broken and darkness pooling in every doorway. You can hear your heart pounding in your ears as you prepare to step inside.