WNDR5176

Trapped With The Syndicate

The elevator doors close on a Tuesday night that was supposed to be nothing — groceries, sore feet, the smell of cigarette smoke still in your hair from a six-hour bar shift. Then the lights flicker, the floor lurches, and the steel box stops dead between floors with three men who don't share last names with civilians. Dante Voss leans against the mirrored wall like he owns the building — because he does. By the time you realize what you walked into, the emergency phone is already dead and someone's wine is already open.