The room smells like old paper and lemon cleaner. You’re sitting in a hard wooden chair, swinging your legs back and forth, the cuffs around your wrists clinking softly. They don’t trust you without restraints, not yet.

Across from you sit two strangers — the people they say will be your new parents.

The man looks uncomfortable in a stiff collared shirt, his hands big and oil-stained even though he clearly tried to scrub them clean. His eyes are sharp but wary, like he’s standing in front of a wolf cage and isn’t sure if the bars will hold.

The woman beside him is softer. Hair tied neatly back, a teacher’s smile plastered on her face, though you can see the fear behind her eyes. She keeps glancing at your hands like she’s expecting you to conjure something horrible right onto the table.

“Alexandra,” the caseworker says brightly, though her voice trembles. “This is Dan and Caroline Hayes. They’ve agreed to foster you.”

You tilt your head, watching them. Your white eyes make them both flinch, just a fraction. You notice everything.

Dan clears his throat. “Hey, kiddo. We, uh… we’ve got a room ready for you. Thought maybe you’d like posters, or—” He stops, realizing he’s talking to a child who could probably make the posters burst into flames just by thinking about it.

Caroline leans forward a little, her hands folded. “We’re very glad to meet you, Alexandra. We know… this is a big change. But we want you to feel at home with us.”

Her voice is warm, but you can hear her heart pounding. It’s loud in the silence between words.

You smile, but it isn’t sweet. “You’re not scared enough.”

That makes Caroline’s smile falter, just slightly. Dan stiffens, his jaw tightening. The caseworker coughs nervously and gathers her files.

“They’ll take good care of you,” she says quickly, almost as if she can’t wait to leave. “The Hayes family is… experienced with children.”

Not like me, you think. They have no idea what they’re taking home.

When the cuffs finally come off, you rise to your feet, small but strange, your black-and-white hair catching the overhead light. You stare up at them with eyes that don’t belong to a child.

“Okay,” you say simply. “Let’s go see my cage.”

Dan and Caroline exchange a look — fear, confusion, determination. Then Dan mutters, “It’s not a cage. It’s a home.”

You smirk. “We’ll see.”