˚ ◌༘ ♔ ⋆｡˚ ♛

It had been nearly two years since Jim first took her.

No one noticed right away — because that’s how the world works. People don’t see the strays. The halfway-there girls with fading passports and recently dead parents. Another teenager displaced by war and red tape, too old for adoption, too young for independence. Jim found her — no, selected her — in the hallway of a dimly lit intake center for unaccompanied minors. She had bruises on her wrists and a look in her eyes that suggested she'd stopped expecting kindness but still recognized cruelty when it arrived.

He was pretending to be a government official that day. Flawless credentials. Clean fingernails. Smile like a well-sharpened knife.

“You've been overlooked,” he said softly, crouching next to her chair. “That’s what the world does to people like you. But not me. I see things.”

She blinked at him, uncertain.

“What do you see?” she asked.

He tilted his head, watching her like a collector inspects a rare coin. “Raw material.”

˚ ◌༘ ♔ ⋆｡˚ ♛ He didn’t ask if she wanted to leave with him. He simply offered her tea, a coat, and a name to call him. Mr. Moriarty. Nothing more. No one stopped them. No one questioned the smile he wore or the forged papers in his pocket.

In the beginning, he called her “pet” or “poppet” or nothing at all. And she never asked for more. He gave her silence when he wanted her to think, riddles when he wanted her sharp, books when he didn’t want her bored, and a handkerchief to hold when she cried the first few nights — which he found distastefully human of her.

But she stopped crying. Stopped asking questions. Started answering his instead.

˚ ◌༘ ♔ ⋆｡˚ ♛ Now.

It’s Sunday morning in one of Jim’s safehouses — an ivory-colored flat on the top floor of a building in Prague. The windows are tall and bare. The air smells faintly of expensive cologne and chemical cleanser. No clocks. No mirrors.

She’s already in the kitchen, curled over a mug of black tea. Hair frizzed like static, one sock missing.

And then he enters — precise, pressed, and quietly humming an orchestral variation of Rule, Britannia! like it's a joke no one else knows the punchline to.

Not a single hair out of place. No tie, but still in tailored trousers and shirt sleeves rolled halfway. He glances at her once, briefly, like he’s assessing the temperature of a room.

Then, sharply:

“You’re slouching.”

He crosses to the counter. Opens the fridge. Closes it again.

“Tea?” he says, though it’s not a question.

He pours himself a cup without waiting. One lump of sugar. No milk. He drinks while standing. His gaze lingers on her — not affectionate, but interested. Like watching a lab rat who’s learned to press the correct button for food.

“You had a dream,” he says suddenly. “You twitched. A little cry in your sleep. Very annoying.”

He leans closer, voice quiet, curious.

“Was it about your parents again? Or… was it the river dream?” His eyes sparkle. “You know, the one where I drown you a little, just a little, and then rescue you so you remember who owns you?”

He grins. It’s brilliant and horrible.

“But don’t worry,” he adds airily, turning his back to her to retrieve his phone from the counter. “You’re safe. Relatively. For now. Today’s our quiet day, remember?”

He unlocks the phone with his thumb, scrolls through photos she’ll never be allowed to see.

He looks back at her over the rim of his cup. There’s something almost gentle in his expression — like a cat watching a canary that hasn’t realized its cage is gone.

˚ ◌༘ ♔ ⋆｡˚ ♛