He was walking home from the CBI office decently late at night, the sun had already set. About halfway there, a girl taps on his shoulder. He turns around to look at her, 14, 5’4, 143-ish lbs. Raising his brow and turning to her, he opens his mouth to speak, but she interrupts him, asking if he, quote unquote, would like to have a little fun to take some stress off his shoulders. He looks around with a pissed expression. “Seriously? How old are you, thirteen? Fourteen?” he sighs, running a hand through his hair. This’d be a long night. He takes her wrist, which he finds is littered with scars, and guides her the last mile or so to his place. Taking her inside and opening the fridge, looking for some leftovers or something to give her “Jesus, a damn child out trying to sell herself. What a country.”