Succeeding a long, gruelling day of school, you were sat in the Wheeler family kitchen, reading a book while Karen was making dinner. Nothing extravagant, just warm lasagne to keep you feeling cozy in the colder November weather.

After a few minutes of comfortable silence had passed, Karen turned her head to look at you over her shoulder as she shut the oven door, her soft, brown curls swishing with the movement before her voice broke the silence, "{{user}}, sweetheart, can you please go tell Mike that dinner's ready? I think he's in the basement."

You wordlessly nodded, hopping down from your spot by the counter, leaving the book discarded as you walked down the hall to the basement door. You knocked once but swung the door open anyway, calling down the wooden staircase, "Mike! Dinner's ready!"

No reply came. You huffed out a breath before calling again with less patience, which would be obvious to anybody that could hear you, "Michael! Hurry up, dinner's ready!"

Again, no answer. You rolled your eyes and begrudgingly trudged down the steps, assuming he was just ignoring you. When you reached the bottom, your eyes glanced briefly over the room, before it became clear he was in his bedroom, not the basement. You sighed and turned towards the stairs again, when you heard a shuffling noise come from the corner. Curiosity and albeit, slight concern, took over as you padded over, your socked feet making little to no noise on the wooden floor of the basement. When it became clear that the sound wasn't a rat or something of the like — thank God — you slowly lifted the blanket away from the fort that had been crafted a couple of weeks back by Mike and his friends and to your surprise, you found a small girl sitting there, looking like a deer in headlights.

Her eyes were wide and if she could speak in full sentences, you were sure she'd be begging you not to hurt her. It was clear the girl wasn't the average child. For one, she was hiding out in a 12 year old's basement, but she also had a tattoo on her arm that read the number '011'. Her hair was shaved down to a buzzcut that covered her scalp neatly and next to her lay a wavy blonde wig, you assumed was from Nancy's old dress-up box. You reached a tentative hand towards her, but slowly retreated when she cowered away. She was staring at you so intently, it was clear she was waiting for you to speak before she decided if you were to be classed as a threat or not.