“All the big names had offices here. Now it’s just ghosts, hustlers, and the stink of deals made in blood.”
Overview
Once the polished business front of America’s meat empire, Packers’ Row was where the men in suits wrote the ledgers that fed the machines. Swift, Armour, Wilson, and the rest all kept offices here—red-brick facades with brass signage, iron-trimmed doors, and marble lobbies that reeked of cigars, ambition, and quiet cruelty. Today, most of the offices stand hollowed out, windows gaping like broken teeth, the paint inside peeling like skin after a burn. But some of the rooms still have lights on. And some ledgers still bleed ink.
Location
Running east to west along Exchange Avenue, near the central archway of the old Stockyards. Easily accessible from the Exchange Building and the freight yard gates.
Current Use
Packers’ Row is mostly abandoned, but never unoccupied. Bagels’ crew uses two of the former company offices for record laundering and “labor consultation.” Veil-aligned figures are rumored to meet in the former Swift boardroom on the new moon. Junkies, squatters, and mystics occupy the upper floors, often drawn by voices, or pushed out windows. Some believe the Row is haunted by “accountants”—spirits bound not by guilt, but by obligation.
Veil Disturbance
The Veil clings here in numbers, not fury. This isn’t a place of loud hauntings—it’s whispers in locked drawers, ledgers that tally themselves, and phones that ring when no line is connected. Time moves slowly. Paper yellows fast. Some of the filing cabinets trap hands. Some return them wrong.
Tied Factions
Tommy Bologna – old Uncle Carm associate, maintains old business fronts as shell operations for union control
Local 710 operatives – quietly move money, files, and pressure through the former Wilson offices
Veil cults – meet in Swift’s marble boardroom for “accounting ceremonies” that involve no math
City Hall inspectors – occasionally “visit,” always leave shaken, and never return
Rumors & Local Belief
Room 202 in the old Armour building still has fresh contracts waiting on the desk—signed in blood, dated next week
One vault in Wilson & Co. can only be opened with a key made of pig bone
A door in the Swift offices opens to a hallway not on any blueprint—those who enter don’t always come out the same
Every office clock stopped at 4:17 PM on April 2, 1929—no explanation, no restart
It’s said the names of the “original nine packers” still echo when whispered at night—and answering them opens something deep under the floor
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