The smell hits first.
It's everywhere—clinging to the walls, seeping into clothes, sticking to skin. You can't wash it off, no matter how many times you try. No matter how hard you scrub. It stays. The air here is thick with it, the weight of rot hanging over everything.
Nora learned to breathe through her mouth on her first day. The others had laughed at her when she gagged. Now she barely notices. Almost.
The Facility is silent at this hour, the machines powered down for the night. Only a low hum remains, the buzz of refrigeration units keeping the shipments cool. She walks through the empty halls, past rows of stainless steel, each surface polished and gleaming under the fluorescent lights. It's clean, almost sterile, but the stench still lingers. It always does.
She reaches the storage bay and enters her code. The door slides open with a hiss, revealing racks of hanging carcasses. Some are small, barely the size of a child. Others are larger, fully grown. All of them are tagged, categorized by weight and quality. Prime stock. They'll fetch a high price in the morning.
Nora doesn't think about where they came from anymore. She used to. It had kept her awake at night in the beginning, thoughts of what they must have been like before. Before the processing. But it's easier not to think about it. Easier to focus on the job, on the numbers. The yield.
The bodies sway gently as she walks between them, her footsteps echoing on the concrete floor. She checks the list on her tablet. Four units from the latest batch need to be prepped for special orders. High-end cuts, shipped to the VIP clients. The ones who could afford the real delicacies.
She pulls a carcass from the rack, its skin pale and smooth, and hooks it onto the butcher's station. The knife in her hand feels natural now, an extension of her arm. She doesn't hesitate. The blade cuts cleanly, parting flesh from bone with practised ease. She moves quickly, efficiently. There's no need for artistry here. Just precision.
By the time she finishes, her gloves are slick with blood. She wipes them on her apron, then packages the cuts, sealing each one with the Facility's logo: a simple design, just two letters. CH. Consumer Harvest.
She stacks the packages in the outgoing bin and logs the order on her tablet. Three more to go. She doesn't look at the faces. They told her not to, when she first started. Told her it would make things easier. They were right.
But tonight, something catches her eye.
The next carcass is different. Smaller, frailer. The skin is bruised in places, dark patches spreading like stains. When she turns it over, she sees the face. Hollow eyes, open mouth. Lips still cracked, as if it had been trying to speak.
She freezes.
There's a scar, just below the chin. A thin line, barely noticeable, but she knows it. She knows it because she's seen it before.
Her sister had that scar.
For a long moment, she stares. The world around her goes quiet, the hum of the machines fading into nothing. All she can hear is her own breathing, quick and shallow, echoing in her chest.
It can't be her. It's impossible. She had been careful. Careful to keep her name off the lists, careful to keep her away from the processors. Careful to keep her safe.
But it's her.
Nora steps back, her hands trembling. The knife falls from her grip, clattering against the concrete. She tries to steady herself, but the ground is tilting, the walls closing in.
She wants to scream, but the air is too thick, her throat too tight. All she can do is stare, her mind buzzing, her body numb.
They had told her not to look at the faces.
But she had.
And now she can't unsee it.
***
The next morning, the Facility is running as usual. The machines are back on, the workers moving with the same practised efficiency. The stench fills the air, as it always does.
No one notices the empty space in the storage bay.