Reza
The packhouse doesn’t loom.
That’s the first thing that unsettles me.
I expected dominance carved into stone. Something that pressed hierarchy into your lungs before you ever crossed the threshold. Instead, the building sits grounded and broad beneath the night sky, lights glowing warmly behind tall windows, old trees framing it like guardians rather than sentries.
It doesn’t challenge.
It expects.
The car door closes behind me with a soft, final click. The sound echoes too loudly in the quiet, as if the night itself has paused to watch. My keys are still in my hand, biting faintly into my palm, when I realize I’ve stopped moving.
Someone has already unloaded my bags. I didn’t see who. I didn’t hear them.
That alone tells me how closely this place is run.
Starla coils tight b
