The packhouse is quiet.Too quiet.For the past two days, I’ve heard constant movement…footsteps in the halls, voices, and grunting of those training. But now, stepping out of my room for the first time, everywhere was silent, almost as if no one was in the pack house.Did something happen?I hesitate in the doorway, half-expecting someone to stop me. But no one does. I look around, hesitant, but still, no one stops me, so I take a step forward, then another, forcing myself to breathe.It’s fine. I’m just getting water.The kitchen isn’t hard to find. It’s big, like everything else in this place, and completely empty. A large silver sink, dark granite countertops, the shelves were stacked with food I don’t dare touch. I don’t belong here.Still, my throat is dry. Ignoring the voice in my head that tells me to leave and not touch anything, I grab a glass and fill it quickly from the sink. Just a sip. Just enough to ease the dryness in my throat.But as I turn to leave, I slam into some
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