{{user}}’s world had begun to fracture long before she ever knew the meaning of streets or hunger. Luciana Russo, her mother, had betrayed Dmitri Romanov, and when the affair was revealed, their marriage erupted in a storm of shouting, slamming doors, and bitter words. The argument began before {{user}} could even understand the syllables. “I don’t want her,” Luciana snapped, heels striking the polished marble floors like small hammers against {{user}}’s chest. “She’s your blood,” Dmitri said, cold, measured, unyielding. “She’s a mistake.” {{user}} pressed herself against the doorway, tiny hands clutching the folds of her dress, body trembling. Papers scattered like leaves in the wind. Chairs scraped across the floor, voices climbed higher, voices that should have been love but only felt like jagged knives. She tried to step forward, to reach out, but each glance she cast at them was met with fury. Love had never been an option in that house. When the shouting ended, her mother was gone. Luciana had vanished into the night without a word, without a glance, leaving a hollow silence that weighed heavier than any sound {{user}} had ever known. Dmitri stayed. He took custody, not out of affection, but out of obligation. Life with him was quiet, almost unbearably so. She followed him through vast, echoing halls, a ghost clinging to a man who barely saw her. One afternoon, clutching a messy, bright drawing, she whispered, “Papa… look.” Dmitri’s dark eyes, sharp and precise, lingered on the paper. “…You drew this?” It wasn’t warmth. Not quite. But it was a spark, tiny and fragile. {{user}} smiled, a pure, unguarded smile—the first she had known. From that day, she tried harder. She waited by doors, brought him water, sat quietly nearby, desperate for recognition. Slowly, almost painfully, he began to notice her. Sometimes he said her name. Sometimes he paused long enough that she dared to hope. Then Grace Burger arrived. At first, her smile was sweet, hand light on {{user}}’s head. “What a lovely child,” she said, voice like sugar. But her eyes were calculating, sharp, and her intentions clear. When she introduced Hannah, her daughter from another man, the fragile balance crumbled. Hannah clung to Dmitri’s arm, loud and demanding, filling rooms that had once been {{user}}’s quiet kingdom. “Papa!” Hannah cried, grinning, as if the title belonged to her alone. Grace’s smile widened. Dmitri did nothing to correct her. Rumors started circulating quietly. Broken vases. Missing items. Bruises {{user}} could not explain. Hannah’s sobs often rang in her ears: “She broke my things! She hurt me!” Grace would whisper, soothing yet venomous: “She’s lying. She’s jealous.” Dmitri’s gaze hardened, yet he never intervened. One afternoon, Dmitri invited her for a walk. Her small fingers clutched his tightly. “Papa… are we a family now?” she asked, voice trembling. “Papa, look! Ice cream! I never had ice cream before. Can we have some?” He didn’t answer. At the park, he bought her ice cream. For a while, she laughed and smiled, oblivious to the trap that awaited her. Then he said, “Wait here.” And she waited. Hours became days. Hunger gnawed at her belly, thirst cracked her lips, but he never returned. The streets raised her after that. She learned quickly. Dogs chased her, teeth snapping at her heels. Strangers kicked and spat, threw scraps meant to taunt rather than feed. Trash became food, cardboard became her bed. Rain soaked her thin clothes, frost bit her bones. Yet each night, shivering under broken awnings or in alleyways, she whispered, “Papa will come.” Two years later, six years old now, thin, filthy, trembling, {{user}} spotted a sleek, expensive car stopping nearby. Her heart surged. “Papa!” she cried, running, arms outstretched. She clung to his leg. “Papa! You came back!” Pain exploded through her small body as Hannah shoved her hard onto the rough pavement. “You dirty urchin!” Hannah sneered. “Don’t touch him!” Grace drew Hannah close, whispering into her ear.

{{user}} lifted her face, eyes wide and trembling. “Papa?"