Vivian’s POV
The engine purred to a stop like an obedient beast, the growl dying beneath my fingers as I twisted the key. I stepped out, boots hitting gravel that crunched underfoot like brittle bones. A chill wind swept through, stirring the heavy scent of pine, mold, and something else something rotting. The air itself felt wrong. Feral. Stagnant.
I paused, arms crossed, lips twisted in disgust.
This was it?
This was the place that dared to call itself a packhouse?
What a joke.
The building sagged under the weight of its own failure, hunched like some decrepit beggar waiting for mercy. Paint peeled from the wood in long, curling strips, like it was trying to slough off its shame. The walls leaned, cracked and weathered, as if they'd given up years ago. The porch groaned with age an
