By the time evening settled over the city, Jenny and Irene had packed their few belongings and left the hospital. They stepped out into the cold, indifferent streets with nothing but their luggage dragging behind them—two girls against a world that had already shown them how cruel it could be.
They looked like homeless wanderers, struggling with bags too heavy for their tired arms. The weight wasn't just in the luggage; it was in their shoulders, their steps, the hollow look in their eyes.
Irene stumbled, her small frame giving out. She dropped her bag and sank onto a nearby street bench, her chest heaving.
"Jenny, I can't do this anymore," she whispered, her voice cracking. "I'm so tired."
Jenny set down her own bags and turned to her sister. The streetlights flickered overhead, casting long shadows across Irene's tear-streaked face.
"We have to go," Jenny said, her voice gentle but firm. "No one is going to save us, Irene. We have to survive."
Irene broke down completely, tears streaming freely. "Why must it be us?" she cried, her words muffled by sobs. "Why must we suffer like this? What did we do wrong?"
Jenny's heart clenched. She knelt down in front of her sister, ignoring the cold concrete beneath her knees, and took Irene's small hands in hers.
"Irene," she said softly, waiting until her sister's tearful eyes met hers. "Remember what I always told you. Strong girls don't cry."
Irene sniffled, trying to compose herself.
Jenny smiled—a small, fragile thing, but real. "Clean your tears. Let's go. We'll find a way. We always do."
For a long moment, Irene just looked at her sister. Then, slowly, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and nodded. She stood up, her legs shaky but determined.
Together, they picked up their bags and continued down the street, two small figures swallowed by the vast, indifferent city. They didn't know where they were going. They didn't know if they would make it.
But they walked. Because that's all they could do.
And somewhere across the city, in a warm, elegant restaurant, Zeke Black laughed politely at a joke he hadn't heard, unaware that the sisters he'd discarded were now wandering the streets he claimed to own.
A few blocks down the street, the weather turned. Without warning, the sky opened up and rain came pouring down in thick, relentless sheets—raining cats and dogs, as the old saying went. Within seconds, they were drenched.
Jenny grabbed Irene's hand tighter and pulled her along. "Come on! There's a motel up ahead. I think I have some change left in my purse."
They ran, luggage splashing through puddles, until they stumbled through the doors of a cheap, flickering motel. Water dripped from their clothes, pooling on the stained linoleum floor.
The receptionist—a woman with heavy makeup and a blouse strained to its limits—looked them up and down while chewing gum with loud, wet smacks. Her expression was pure indifference.
"We need a room," Jenny said, breathless.
The woman rattled off a price without blinking. Jenny's heart sank, but she reached into her purse and counted out the crumpled bills. It was barely enough. For two days.
"We'll stay for two days," Jenny said, pushing the money across the counter.
The receptionist slid a key toward her and jerked her head toward a dim hallway. "Room 12. End of the hall."
Jenny grabbed the key, took Irene's hand, and they hurried down the corridor. The carpet was worn thin, the wallpaper yellowed with age, but it was dry. It was shelter.
When they entered the room, Jenny locked the door behind them and leaned against it, her eyes sweeping over the small space—a single bed with faded sheets, a rickety nightstand, a tiny bathroom with a flickering light. It was far from luxury, but in that moment, it felt like a fortress.
Irene stood shivering in the middle of the room, her small frame trembling from cold and exhaustion. Jenny pushed off from the door and grabbed a thin towel from the bathroom, wrapping it around her sister's shoulders.
"Get out of those wet clothes," she said gently. "We'll figure out the rest tomorrow."
Irene looked up at her, eyes wide and red-rimmed. "Jenny... what are we going to do?"
Jenny paused. She looked at the cracked window, at the rain streaking down the glass, at the anonymous city stretching beyond.
"I don't know yet," she admitted quietly. "But we're alive. We're together. That's a start."
She knelt down and began helping Irene out of her soaked jacket, her movements tender despite her own exhaustion. The night was cold, the room was cheap, and the future was uncertain.
But for now, they were safe.
And sometimes, that was enough.
Zeke was already on his third date of the evening when his gaze drifted toward the rain-streaked window. The sight of the downpour triggered an unbidden thought—the sisters. Jenny and Irene. Out there. In this.
He excused himself with practiced ease, stepped away from the table, and dialed Bakar's number in the quiet of the restaurant's private hallway.
"Get them somewhere," Zeke said without preamble. "Shelter. Tonight. Maybe they can—" He paused, something caught in his throat. "Maybe they can go somewhere tomorrow."
There was a heavy pause on the other end. Then Bakar's voice, careful and low.
"Sir... it's already too late. I tried. They've already left the hospital. I have no trace on where they went. They just... vanished into the city."
Zeke closed his eyes, the phone pressed to his ear. The distant sound of rain filled the silence between them.
"They didn't leave any trace behind ," Bakar added quietly. "The room is empty."
Zeke said nothing for a long moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was flat. "I see."
He ended the call and stood there, alone in the corridor, the muffled laughter of diners seeping through the walls. Somewhere out in the storm, two sisters were walking the streets because he had decided they were no longer his concern.
What happens to her after that... none of our business anymore.
His own words echoed back at him, colder now.
He straightened his jacket, composed his expression, and walked back to the table. The woman across from him—some heiress, some socialite, he'd already forgotten her name—was talking animatedly about her family's yacht. He nodded at appropriate intervals, smiled when expected.
But his mind was elsewhere.
He couldn't wait for this night to be over. For all of it to be over.
But deep down, he knew: some things don't end just because you walk away.