The M-TEAM, go misfits
The rusty double doors of the disused dockland warehouse didn’t just open—they were forcefully deleted from existence. With a deafening CRUNCH, Ye Olde Large Lad hit the corrugated steel like a runaway freight train. He didn't bother using a breaching tool; he simply leaned his immense frame into the metal, taking the hinges, frame, and half the surrounding masonry with him. He stepped over the wreckage, dusted off his high-vis jacket, and looked around the cavernous room with deep, unimpressed boredom. "Door's open," Ye Olde Large Lad rumbled. "Mind the step." Behind him, the matte-black, dented utility van—known affectionately as The Salty Dog—screeched to a halt at a 45-degree angle across the entrance. In the driver’s seat, McFinleyyy kept the engine revving, his hands a blur as he slapped the steering wheel. "That’s three seconds faster than the dry run! Tell me someone timed that!" "Focus, McFinleyyy!" Sarah snapped from...