The snow outside wasn't falling. It was suspended — like ash, drifting in slow spirals against the glass. The orphanage hallway was warm, buzzing faintly with fluorescent light and the static hum of too much cheer.
"Would you like to see the playroom?" the attendant asked, already guiding her toward the pastel-colored noise spilling from the far door.
Alex Reed didn't answer. She simply walked — no limp today, though one leg dragged a little, subtly, like her bones remembered something her nerves tried to forget.
Inside the room, ten children played like they were trying to sell happiness to the walls.
A tiny blonde girl threw a foam block into the air and squealed. Two boys fought over a dinosaur plush. Someone yelled something about snack time.
Alex didn't smile. Her eyes moved like sonar, not affection — scanning, measuring.
"Most of our little ones are between four and six," the staffer chirped nervously. "Sweet, adaptable, very emotionally open—"
"I said I needed older," Alex interrupted flatly.
The staffer blinked. "O-older?"
"Eight minimum," she said. "Preferably older. Someone who remembers things."
That quieted the room faster than a power outage.
"…Of course," the attendant said finally. She smoothed her skirt, adjusted her ID badge, and offered a polite, brittle smile. "This way, please."
They moved out of the warmth. The next hallway was darker. Not dim — just… quieter. Fewer posters. Fewer cartoon animals taped to the walls. The paint had peeled in one corner and no one had covered it up.
Here, the air was different. Not dangerous. Just… cautious.
"They don't bring donors down this wing," the attendant muttered, more to herself than to Alex.
"I'm not a donor."
"No. Of course not." Her voice got smaller. "We call this the 'older adjustment ward.' Eleven children. All above eight."
"Eleven?" Alex asked.
"Yes. Six girls, five boys. Just ahead."
They reached the main room — a square rec area with old couches and shelves filled with unloved books. Ten kids looked up as they entered.
Ten.
Alex scanned them once. None looked scared. None looked particularly friendly, either. They had that aged-young look — kids who'd stopped expecting anything from adults.
"Where's the eleventh?" Alex asked, voice sharp.
The staffer stiffened.
One of the girls, small and dark-eyed, spoke up.
"He's in his room. Listening to music. I'll get him."
Alex watched her go without saying a word.
The girl disappeared down the hallway, her steps quick but not panicked. Not fear. Familiarity.
Alex stood still, hands in the pockets of her coat. Her shoulders relaxed, but her posture was alert. Eyes moved slowly across the ten remaining children like pieces on a chessboard.
The staffer cleared her throat softly. "The boy you asked about... he doesn't always join group sessions. He prefers solitude."
"That so."
"He's… independent. Self-sufficient, mostly. Sharp. But not very… warm."
Alex turned slightly. "Is that a problem here?"
The woman hesitated. "It can be."
Alex didn't answer. Just walked further into the room.
The kids didn't shift or smile. They didn't pretend to be interested in her. In fact, as the seconds passed, most of them avoided her eyes altogether. Not out of shame — but strategy. They were watching something else.
Or waiting for something.
She stopped near the end of the room. Eleven beds. Ten made. One — farthest in the corner — sat perfectly arranged but untouched. The frame was scuffed. The locker beneath had an extra padlock. The mattress hadn't sagged the way the others had.
No clutter. No stuffed animals. No personal photos taped to the wall.
Just sterile, quiet, and perfectly aligned.
Alex glanced down. Under the bed, a pair of shoes — neatly placed, laces coiled. Above the headboard, barely visible in the painted cinderblock wall, a faint carving:
D.V.
"Does he talk much?" Alex asked the room, not turning around.
The children said nothing.
Then — quietly, from a girl with her knees pulled up on the couch:
"He talks when it matters."
The staffer shifted uncomfortably. "We encourage verbal expression. He just… doesn't participate in that way."
Alex didn't look back.
"Mm."
Silence returned.
Then — footsteps.
The girl was back.
And she wasn't alone.
He entered like he wasn't summoned — just decided to appear.
Black hoodie, headphones hanging around his neck, hood half-up over uncombed hair. Skin brown. Eyes darker — until the light caught them and something gold shimmered in the iris like metal under flame.
He didn't slouch. Didn't swagger. Just walked in like he owned the air and didn't want it.
Alex didn't blink.
Neither did he.
"So," he said, voice flat, almost bored, "you're here to adopt."
Not a question. A statement. He looked her up and down — not like a child. Like someone evaluating threat vectors. Pressure points.
"You've got ten smiling dolls right here," he continued, nodding vaguely at the other kids, "Why're you wasting time on me?"
The staffer inhaled sharply.
Dev glanced at her sideways.
"You want to pretend I'm the problem, go ahead. Just don't act surprised when someone else picks me apart."
Alex still hadn't moved.
The boy squinted slightly.
"You gonna say something, or you just collecting body heat?"
Silence stretched.
Then Alex finally spoke — calmly, like she was ordering coffee.
"I want this one."
The staffer stammered. "Ms. Reed, if I may—he's not—he has behavioral records, flags, there's a review board process—"
"I didn't ask for the others," Alex said without looking at her. "I asked for this one."
Even Dev paused.
For a half-second, his mask cracked — not surprise, but… confusion. Like someone moved a piece off the board he hadn't seen yet.
Then his face hardened again.
"You'll regret it."
Alex stepped closer, coat still closed, tone unchanged.
"I usually do."
The staffer stood frozen for a moment, as if waiting for Alex to change her mind and laugh it off as a joke.
She didn't.
"Ma'am," the woman said, voice soft, like stepping around broken glass, "there are several wonderful children with no red flags, no resistance issues—"
"I read the file," Alex said. "I know what he's done."
"He hasn't hurt anyone, if that's what you're implying," the woman said quickly, glancing at the boy.
Dev gave a dry, empty chuckle. "I don't waste effort on people who don't matter."
"That's not helping," the staffer hissed under her breath.
Alex didn't look at either of them. Her eyes stayed on Dev — not studying, not judging. Just confirming.
"You're not scared of him?" the woman asked, a little too honest.
"I don't scare easy."
Dev crossed his arms. "You think I'm going to suddenly behave for you? Act like I care?"
"No," Alex said. "I'm counting on the opposite."
That shut him up.
She turned back to the staffer. "If the paperwork's a problem, I'll escalate it through my channels."
The woman blinked. "Your… government channels?"
"Something like that."
More silence.
Dev finally muttered, "You don't know what you're getting into."
Alex shrugged. "Neither do you."
The staff tried, politely, to delay.
Policy this. Protocol that.
Alex didn't argue. She didn't raise her voice. She just stared until they folded.
Forms were brought out. Printed in triplicate. Signatures required at the bottom, then the middle, then again at the top because someone brought the wrong version.
Dev didn't sit. Didn't speak.
He stood just outside the room, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket, posture lazy but eyes locked on the pen moving across the paper.
The girl who had fetched him earlier lingered nearby. She watched Alex with a kind of distant curiosity—not hope. Just interest.
"You're really taking him?" she whispered.
Alex didn't glance up. "That's what the pen says."
The girl's voice dropped lower. "He's scary sometimes. But he doesn't lie."
Alex looked up at that. Just briefly.
Then signed the last page.
Behind the glass, Dev leaned against the wall.
He didn't smile.
Didn't nod.
But he didn't walk away either.
As the final signature dried, Alex capped the pen, exhaled slowly, and turned toward the window.
Dev was still there. Watching.
The light from outside caught his eyes again — gold flickering beneath the brown, like something warm buried deep where no one could reach it.