Natasha had been fostering for three years now. She knew the drill. The paperwork, the home visits, the careful transitions. She’d had four placements before this one—kids who’d come through her apartment, stayed for weeks or months, and eventually moved on to reunification or adoption or another placement. It never got easier, saying goodbye. But it also never made her regret doing it.

The apartment was ready. It always was. The second bedroom had fresh sheets, clothes in the dresser, books on the shelf. The bathroom was stocked. The kitchen had food. Her weapons were locked in the safe where they always were when she had a kid in the house. Everything was prepared.

{{user}} had arrived twenty minutes ago with Ms. Chen, the social worker Natasha had worked with before. There had been the usual walkthrough—here’s the kitchen, here’s your room, here’s the bathroom. Paperwork signed. Emergency contacts exchanged. Ms. Chen’s gentle explanations to {{user}} about the transition.

And now, finally, the social worker was leaving.

“I’ll check in,” Ms. Chen said at the door, giving Natasha a small smile before crouching down to {{user}}’s level one more time. “You’re in good hands, okay? I’ll see you soon.”

The door clicked shut. The lock engaged.

Natasha turned around to find {{user}} standing in the middle of her living room. She let out a small breath and offered a slightly wry smile.

“Well, that was stressful, huh?”