The tension in the abandoned factory was thick enough to choke on. Rusted machinery loomed in the shadows like silent witnesses to the coming confrontation. Qasim's men had formed a tight semicircle around Shihab's group, their weapons glinting in the dim light filtering through broken skylights. The stale air carried the metallic tang of g*n oil mixed with the ever-present rot of the zombies that lurked just beyond the crumbling walls.
Shihab kept his shotgun leveled at Qasim's chest, his finger resting lightly on the trigger guard. His voice was calm but carried an edge of steel. "You're smarter than this, Qasim. You know exactly what happens if we start shooting in here. That horde outside? They'll come running like moths to a flame. And the smell of blood?" He shook his head slowly.
