The building looms ever closer, and Natasha stalks toward it, barely sparing a glance over her shoulder to see if he’s following. She can feel the stickiness of cum drying between her legs, the disgusting line of sweat down whatever it is she’s wearing (white dress? nothing she’d have chosen for herself and she wishes for her jumpsuit). She needs a shower and to rest - preferably in that order.

“And you don’t recognize anything about this place?”

Now that they’re drawing closer, the building seems to be a falling down farmhouse of some kind. The door seems sturdy enough, but there are no other signs of life; dust (or pollen) stands an inch thick on the stairs, it’s no footsteps in it.

The fucking flowers bloom all the way up to the front door. Because of course they do.