The sky had burned down to a bruised orange by the time I reached the slums. The air tasted faintly of smoke and old rain; even from a distance, the orphanage looked more like an abandoned warehouse than a place anyone should live. No laughter, no sound of life — just the brittle silence of a street that had learned to keep its head down.
An old woman stopped me at the corner. "You don't seem to be from around here," she said without preamble.
"Hard to hide this uniform," I replied evenly. "Why do you ask?"
"Because if you were from here, you wouldn't be standing out this late." Her tone carried a worn, weary warning. "Kids have been disappearing lately."
My answer came automatic, almost lazy. "Thanks for the warning, but I can take care of myself."
She stared for a moment longer — like she wanted to argue — then turned away, muttering something about fools in uniforms.
