Scout’s POV
"This is your space," the omega said, her voice dripping with a dry, practised indifference.
I stepped inside and felt the air turn heavy. The room was a coffin of neglect. It was tiny, the kind of floor plan that made the walls feel like they were inching toward each other. In the far corner, a patch of black mould crept up the plaster, spreading like bruised veins toward the ceiling. The furniture looked like it had been salvaged from a scrap heap. There was a bed with a mattress so thin I could see the frame beneath it, a dresser with a drawer hanging at a broken angle, and a single lamp that buzzed like a trapped insect.
I kept my face like stone. I refused to give them the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. Maybe Nixon had handpicked this dump to remind me of my place. O
