The hunger spread beyond walls.
Jarvis no longer waited for them to come to her. The house felt too small now—too quiet between visits, too ordinary. She needed the risk. The exposure. The knowledge that someone might see. One Thursday night she texted the station’s non-emergency line—number memorized from the first call—a single message: “Warehouse on County 17. Midnight.” No signature. She didn’t need one.
The abandoned training warehouse sat on the edge of town—chain-link fence sagging, windows boarded, concrete floor cracked and stained from years of drills. After hours it was empty, lights off, only the distant hum of the highway for company. Jarvis arrived first. Parked behind a rusted dumpster. Stripped in the car—coat, boots, everything—until she was naked, skin prickling in the
