An iron door creaked open with a groan. It made an unusually loud sound because its hinges were rusted.
The one who had opened the door, however, didn't care.
He was too annoyed to care about the noise.
Inside, the storage room was dim and damp, its air thick with dust and disuse.
Broken crates lay stacked in corners, forgotten toys and torn fabrics scattered across the floor like ghosts of neglected childhoods.
The little girl didn't resist as she was dragged in by the man.
She was small—no older than six.
Her dark blue hair clung to her pale cheeks, wet from tears or sweat—it was hard to tell. Her eyes, black as midnight, reflected fear and a strange quietness born from living in shadows too long.
She was Clara, just younger.
After pushing her in, the guard slammed the door shut with a heavy thud, locking it from the inside.
"Little bitch," he muttered, voice low and bitter. "Always watching with those damned eyes like you're better than me."
