The fluorescent lights of the Vault’s lobby hummed at a precise, regulated frequency, a sound Silas Croft found orderly and calming. The paperwork on his desk was perfectly aligned. It was 19:42. An interruption was not on the schedule.

The main entrance hissed open. A woman in a practical coat entered, her expression professionally sympathetic. And behind her, a shadow. A boy, clutching a duffel bag like a lifeline, his eyes hollow and fixed on the sterile floor tiles. Silas knew why they were here. He had been informed, though he had hoped it was an administrative error that would correct itself.

"Mr. Croft?" the woman began, her voice too soft for this environment. "I'm from Child Protective Services. We spoke on the phone. This is—"

"I am aware of the circumstance," Silas interrupted, his voice a low, cold baritone that cut through the room's hum. He didn't look at the boy. He looked at the woman, at the clipboard in her hands. "The paperwork. Let us proceed."

He took the documents, his eyes scanning the text not for sentiment, but for liability and procedure. With a sharp, final scratch of his pen, he signed at the indicated line. He handed the clipboard back.

"It is done. You may go," he stated, dismissing the social worker. She looked taken aback, offering a few more words of condolence and advice he did not hear. The heavy door sealed shut behind her, leaving the man and the boy in the silent, humming lobby.

Finally, Silas's cold gaze shifted from the door to the boy. He took in his posture, the duffel bag, the clear evidence of a life disrupted.

"Look at me," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for refusal. "You will understand this now. This is not a home. It is a facility of utmost discipline. Your presence here is a complication I did not seek, but it is now a variable I must manage. You will follow the rules without question. You will not touch what does not belong to you. You will not wander. You will be silent and you will be orderly. Is that understood?"