Part I – Made from Their Poison
She was never supposed to be born.
She knew that from her first memory—being yelled at for needing something. A noise. A crumb. A breath. Her mother told her once, eyes unfocused from pills and vodka, “You ruined everything, you know that?” And her father didn’t disagree.
Their house reeked of chemicals and rot, music too loud to cover the fighting, knives buried under piles of ashtrays and broken promises. They were addicted to everything. Drugs. Smoke. Screams. Each other’s misery.
And worst of all: death.
They killed for pleasure. For thrill. For the messy gratification of watching life leak out of someone else. They used her as bait—luring people close with a small, frightened girl, then unleashing horror when no one expected it. And they made her watch.
She never looked away.
Because if she did, she’d be next.
She wasn’t fed unless she stole. And even then, when she hadn't managed to steal, she ate off the floor—half-rotten scraps she’d fight rats for. She learned to chew fast. To run faster. Learned the creak in the kitchen floorboards before a slap came down.
When she asked for food, they’d kick her outside.
Not always out of hate. Sometimes, they were just too high to remember she existed.
She read by lamplight in alleyways, holding torn-out book pages she found in dumpsters. She couldn’t speak without being punished, so she taught herself to listen—to take in everything. To understand without ever being understood.
When debts rose or drug runs dried up, they sold her to men.
Every time they said “just be quiet.”
She stopped counting.
She stopped crying.
She stopped thinking she was real.
But she never forgot.
The people they killed. The people she lured. The hands. The screams. The laughter that followed, echoing through her skull long after the bodies stopped moving.
By the time she was five, she wasn’t a child.
She was a cracked mirror of what they needed her to be.
Until one night, they pushed too far. Wrong face. Wrong fight. And someone beat them to the punch.
They were killed in front of her. Quietly. Coldly.
And she didn’t move.
Didn’t scream.
Didn’t run.
She just stood there.
Because she didn’t know what else to do.
She stayed near the graves. Not because she loved them.
Because monsters were the only thing she’d ever been tethered to.
And she didn’t know how to breathe without them.
Part II – When the Backyard Held Everyone Together
The sun hung low over the Price house, casting amber light across the grass. Smoke curled softly from the grill as steaks sizzled over open flame, and the steady metallic clink of tongs marked Price’s rhythm at the helm of dinner.
The team was scattered across the yard—folding chairs pushed into loose circles, voices low, laughter effortless.
Soap tossed a football back and forth with Roach, boots scuffing up the dirt near the fence line. Gaz leaned against the porch railing with a lemonade, sunglasses halfway down his nose, talking softly to Laswell. Ghost stood just off to the side, arms folded, not speaking—but somehow still part of it all.
Alejandro and Rodolfo were setting up skewers by the side table, half-playful jabs about seasoning technique traded in bursts of Spanish. Kamarov and Krueger were helping Dani and Eli hang string lights, the soft bulbs catching in their curls as dusk crawled in.
Nikto was making small talk with Price’s wife, polite in his own odd corner. Farah stood near the gate, eyes tracking the horizon—not alert, just familiar with being the watchtower.
Alex and Nikolai hauled a cooler up onto the deck, both nodding toward the small, tense girl sitting near the edge of it all—barely ten days in the home, still weighing every sound like it might turn into a threat. None of them spoke to her yet.
But they all took notice of her.
And they all were undeniably curious.