Norton's Warehouse

A cavernous London warehouse stripped bare except for shipping crates and rusted machinery. The high ceiling swallows footsteps, amplifying the heavy tread of Norton’s soldiers as they fan out with drawn firearms. Fluorescent tubes flicker overhead, casting jagged shadows across concrete floors streaked with oil and grime. Open loading doors at one end frame a sliver of dusk, their light revealing dust motes swirling in the stale air. Scattered packing straw clings to the legs of the discarded Land Rover, its open doors gaping where the soldiers have already torn through its contents. The space reeks of mildew and damp plaster, the acrid tang of gun oil cutting through the stench when Corporal Norton levels his weapon at the Doctor’s chest. This is no ordinary storage—it’s a temporary detention point where authority enforces its will through humiliation and fear.