Clint didn't need to be told, turning on a heel and bolting had basically been his plan in the moments since he half came up it. It seemed Varric had caught on though. Varric had a head start but Clint Barton had long strides so made ground quickly through the strip club parking lot and across the street with weeds growing through cracks in the pavement to the abandonned--hopefully abandonned--shelter.
He stopped before the stoop, leaning up to peer down the exposed and weather-worn hallway to what had once been a sort of sterile and judgemental welcoming hallway. A stairway that led up or down, probably a hallway with offices, a day room, kitchen. Residential upstairs. Who the fuck even knew for the basement. It didn't matter how many places like this you stopped by they were all shades of the same.
"Think it's safe....?" His hand curled like a cat crouching to spring on the railing by the door because honestly. He couldn't tell. This place had definitely been looted, definitely had squatters, and by the dark stains on the stairs, definitely hadn't ended well. But that was blood stains, not fresh or congealing blood. So today?