The laundry room smelled like industrial detergent and resignation. Which, admittedly, was still an improvement over most of the places Nyx had been dragged through today. Resignation at least implied a process had concluded. Most people just stayed halfway through panic forever.
She stopped in the doorway for a second and examined the room the way she'd learned to examine every room since the island began. Not aesthetically. Aesthetics got people killed.
Two rows of industrial washing machines. Drying racks along the right wall, cord stretched tight between fixed pegs, eight racks total with nylon line running the full length. Folding table bolted to the floor, which honestly raised more questions than it answered. What exactly had happened here that made someone decide unsecured folding tables were a threat to stability?
