The warehouse smelled of oil and cold steel, the kind of place that never truly slept. Grayson walked the length of the concrete floor with his hands tucked into his jacket, his gaze focused and unyielding as it moved from crate to crate. Everything was stacked exactly where it should be. Barrels sealed. Labels aligned. No gaps. No mistakes.
Still, he checked.
He always did.
He stopped beside one of the pallets and bent slightly, fingers pressing against the edge of a crate as if he could feel dishonesty through wood and metal. His jaw tightened, a familiar tension settling there. Control was the only thing that kept everything upright. One loose end and the whole structure could collapse.
“Be careful with the shipment,” he said without turning.
One of his men straightened immediately
