The room smelled like cedar and something older underneath it. Something I couldn't name yet.
I did what I always do with a new space. Measured it.
One door. One window with a latch that was decorative at best. Ceiling high enough that the crown molding was useless information. Furniture too heavy to move quickly — solid walnut dresser, a headboard like something out of a house that had been standing for a century and planned to keep standing. A fireplace I wasn't going to use. A mirror above it showing a girl with two years of rogue camps still sitting in the hollows under her eyes.
I looked away from the mirror.
The heat had dropped to a low pulse behind my ribs. Not the feral wave from this morning. Not fine either — just aware in a way that made everything too sharp. The grain in the floorboards. The muffled sound of the pack house settling around me like a living thing. The specific stillness that meant I was the only person on this floor and someone had made sure of that.
