The biting Chicago wind whipped Emily's coat around her as she approached the grim, cinderblock structure. "The dead roam those halls," a voice rasped from her right, belonging to an old woman with wild gray hair, her breath pluming in the frigid air. Emily clutched her coat tighter, a familiar knot forming in her stomach. She knew the type – the protestors, the 'Right-to-Lifers' – a constant, mournful chorus outside every facility like this. She’d seen them before.

“I know,” Emily replied, her voice steady despite the chill that had nothing to do with winter. The old woman's pinched, fearful expression struck a chord, a half-remembered dream coalescing into a sharp, painful memory of a rat caught in a trap, its final, desperate struggle.

Emily pushed past the protesters and swiped her keycard, the glass doors hissing open to reveal a security antechamber. The lobby beyond was lost in shadows, off-white walls absorbing the dim light. A faint, sickening scent wafted out – a mixture of piss, shit, and an overcompensating bleach. It was the smell she knew so well, the true smell of this place. This was her new job, and though the pay was a pittance, it was enough. Enough to keep the heat on, enough to keep her landlord at bay. Enough to keep Lucette safe. She had to go in.