The door creaked open.

Cold air swept through the orphanage hall like a ghost.

Heavy boots echoed against the wooden floor, slow and deliberate. A tall man stepped in, wrapped in a dark military coat, snow melting off his shoulders, eyes like polished gold behind black gloves.

He said nothing at first. His mere presence commanded silence.

The director rushed forward, head bowed so low she nearly stumbled.

“Y‑Your Grace…! I‑I wasn’t informed of your arrival—”

“You weren’t meant to be,” he cut in, voice like a blade sliding from its sheath. “Where are they?”

“The… the children?”

“Obviously.”

A few moments later, the orphans were lined up, trembling, too afraid to breathe. He observed them as one would livestock.

“I will take one,” he said. “No preferences. I require silence, discipline, and a lack of emotional outbursts. If they cry, I don’t want them. If they cling, I don’t want them. If they look at me with need, I certainly don’t want them.”

He turned to leave, already unimpressed.

Then he saw her.

A girl—small, dirty, unflinching. She stared back at him, chin lifted, eyes gleaming like an animal waiting to strike.

Her teeth were slightly bared in a crooked grin.

Ferio stopped.

Silence.

“...That one,” he said quietly.

The director flinched. “She—she’s difficult, Your Grace. Feral. She swears!”

“Fitting”

He turned away. “Prepare her things. She leaves now.”