An orphanage home sat in a remote stretch of land, far from the main road. The building looked worn and tired, its walls cracked and faded from years of neglect. Anyone passing by would have thought it abandoned.
Yet children lived there.
Strangely, the place was quiet.
An orphanage should have been filled with noise and laughter, but here the silence hung heavily. Only faint whispers and cautious footsteps broke the silence.
Inside the hallway, a rough burly man dragged two boys toward the director's office.
One was about fifteen,— dark-haired with steady gray eyes. His clothes were plain and worn, yet even in such rough condition he carried a striking presence. His features were sharp and unusually handsome for his age, though hardship had hardened the youthful softness that should have been there.
The other was no more than eight.
The younger boy trembled the closer they got, his small feet stumbling against the floor. His eyes darted nervously toward the door ahead.
The older boy walked without resistance, his expression almost careless, as if the situation did not concern him at all.
The burly man shoved the office door open and dragged them inside before pushing them forward.
The older boy steadied himself easily.
The younger boy fell to his knees.
Before he could fully collapse, the older boy caught him and pulled him back up.
Behind the desk, the orphanage director sat in a cushioned chair that looked far too luxurious for the building it occupied. The office itself was decorated with expensive ornaments and polished furniture, completely out of place in the dilapidated orphanage.
The plump man had a thick mustache and a dark mole on his cheek that only made his face more unpleasant.
His head was bent low as he counted a stack of notes with deep concentration. Files and books were scattered across the desk, alongside an unfinished burger.
The moment the door burst open, he jerked upright.
With surprising speed, he shoved the money beneath the scattered files.
"I've told you to knock before coming into this sacred place!" he barked.
The burly man pushed the boys forward.
"I've caught them."
The orphanage director, Mr. Hawthorne, cleared his throat and adjusted himself, sliding a few remaining notes beneath the files with practiced ease.
He rose slowly, trying to regain the appearance of dignity.
Reaching beside the desk, he picked up a long thin wooden cane and placed both hands behind his back before circling the two boys.
The younger one flinched each time he passed.
The older one stood still.
The carefree look was gone now.
His face had hardened, his gaze fixed on Hawthorne with thinly veiled disgust.
Hawthorne stopped in front of him and poked his shoulder with the cane.
"Eyes down."
The cane jabbed again.
And again.
The boy did not look away.
A faint smirk even appeared on his lips.
Hawthorne frowned, then suddenly smiled.
He moved back toward the desk and leaned against it as if his body could no longer support his weight.
"You know what happens when runaway children are caught, right?"
His eyes shifted to the younger boy, whose face had gone pale as if his soul had already fled.
The older boy's expression hardened.
"We didn't pass the field fence," he said flatly.
Hawthorne tilted his head, smiling.
"So?"
The boy's jaw tightened.
"The rule is not to cross the field fence. As long as it is not crossed, you can't say we attempted to run."
"What logic," Hawthorne scoffed.
"Wasn't it your intention to run?"
He poked the younger boy's shoulder with the cane, making him stagger.
The older boy pulled the child slightly behind him.
"We didn't cross the field fence," he said again.
Hawthorne suddenly burst into laughter.
"Oh Damon… do you think you are the guardian of these brats? Always trying to keep them out of trouble, hm?"
Damon only frowned in silence.
"It's a pity they never appreciate it. Always making foolish attempts, dragging you into their mess. You chase after them, then come here telling me they never crossed the field."
He chuckled.
"Over and over again. Aren't you tired of it? Suffering for others who don't even appreciate you."
Damon's fists tightened.
"He wouldn't have run if he wasn't continuously starved," he said through clenched teeth.
"What was that?" Hawthorne asked.
The burly man behind them spoke.
"It's that boy that wouldn't stop crying. Mrs. Miller punished him."
"Ohh."
Hawthorne nodded as if understanding.
"Well, that's his problem, not mine. If he can't follow simple rules, then he must take the punishment."
He sighed dramatically.
"Sorry Damon. I can't let you be the hero this time."
Mockery filled his voice.
Damon's fists clenched harder.
"Take the brat and lock him in the obedience room."
The younger boy panicked instantly.
"Damon! Damon!"
He tried to grab onto him, but the burly man dragged him away.
The door slammed shut.
Damon stood rigidly, his hands shaking slightly at his sides.
"You never will change," he said, eyes bloodshot.
Hawthorne laughed.
"And so do you."
He stepped closer and placed a hand on Damon's shoulder.
"When was it you were brought here? You were so small then… but you had those same fiery eyes."
He chuckled.
"The moment I saw you, I knew I would like you."
Damon remained still.
He knew resistance here meant nothing.
"Don't think too much," Hawthorne continued. "Tell your little followers to behave. Maybe they'll get adopted and leave this place."
"Adopted?" Damon said coldly.
"You mean selling them to psycho parents."
"Casper's case was just unfortunate," Hawthorne said, returning to lean against the desk.
"Your friend passed peacefully. Why are you still holding onto it? He wouldn't want this for you."
Damon's voice trembled despite himself.
"Why… why are you doing this?"
Just then—
Hawthorne's eyes shifted toward the door.
He had noticed a figure standing silently behind it.
Seeing Hawthorne glance toward the door, Damon turned as well.
A figure stepped inside.
The man was dressed entirely in black, long sleeves, dark trousers, a face cap pulled low and a nose mask hiding most of his features.
But Damon saw the eyes.
Those dark eyes.
They were fixed on him.
Damon stiffened slightly.
He had seen this man before.
Whoever controlled the hidden dealings of this place always sent the same person whenever a child was taken away. The man came quietly and left quietly, even his name was never mentioned.
"Oh, here you are," Hawthorne said eagerly.
His tone changed instantly, the rough authority gone, replaced by something closer to obedience.
He even straightened his clothes.
Damon's eyes narrowed slightly.
Always hiding his identity. Always appearing without a trace. Doing things not wanting one to discover.
"Hey."
The sharp jab of the cane cut through Damon's thoughts.
"Hey!"
Damon didn't react immediately.
The cane struck his shoulder again.
"You're no longer needed here. Leave."
Hawthorne was already moving, hurrying to free up the cushioned chair as if preparing it for an honored guest.
Damon did not move at once.
He looked once more at the man in black.
The stranger had already shifted his gaze away, as if Damon no longer existed.
That brief moment of attention had vanished completely.
Damon turned and quietly left the office.
The door closed behind him.
Hawthorne hurriedly dragged the cushioned chair aside, angling it invitingly.
"Please…"
But Ace ignored him.
He walked past and stopped at the desk instead.
With a gloved finger, he casually flipped through the scattered files.
Hawthorne rushed over at once.
"Oh — I was going to attend to those after dealing with that slight issue. You know managing this place hasn't been easy," he said quickly, shuffling the papers.
His hands moved fast, but his true aim was to cover the cash hidden beneath them.
"It must have been a lot of work," Ace said.
His voice was calm.
He had already moved away.
Standing by the window, he looked out over the wide empty fields surrounding the orphanage, past the distant one-way road that led toward the city.
Then his eyes lowered slightly.
Dust lined the window sill.
"Hehe… of course it is a lot of work. But for Master, I can do this much."
Hawthorne smiled stiffly.
The money was now safely hidden.
Ace turned back.
He walked toward him slowly.
Step by step.
"I still think…" Ace said quietly, almost as if speaking to himself,
"It would be better to relieve you of your duties."
"What—"
The smile vanished from Hawthorne's face.
Ace's eyes drifted toward the stacked files on the desk.
Hawthorne shifted slightly.
"Well… serving Master is my fortune. I'd gladly do it even if I were born again," he said nervously.
Ace stepped directly in front of the desk.
His hand reached out.
Toward the hidden cash.
Hawthorne grabbed his wrist instantly.
"Wh–what are you doing?" he asked, forcing a shaky laugh.
Then—
Crack.
A piercing scream tore out of Hawthorne's throat.
His other hand shot up, clutching his wrist as it twisted at an unnatural angle.
But Ace did not release him.
The pressure increased.
Another scream burst out.
Hawthorne dropped to one knee, his weight no longer supporting him.
"Wh–why are you doing this?" he gasped between ragged breaths.
Ace looked down at him.
Expressionless.
"Why do you think?"
"I–Did I do something wrong? Did Master send you? I didn't do anything! I've been leading this place just as Master— haa—!"
Another sharp cry escaped him.
The joint shifted again before Ace finally let go.
Hawthorne collapsed fully to his knees.
But he scrambled forward, grabbing at Ace's clothes.
"P–Please… give me one last chance…" he begged, tears and snot running down his face.
Ace stepped back silently.
"The children you sold," he said calmly.
"Bring them back."
Hawthorne froze.
"Without Master's orders, they are not to be taken anywhere."
"He will be the one to decide when they move — and where."
"Yes! Yes!" Hawthorne nodded frantically.
"I'll send someone — no, I'll go myself. I'll bring them back. All of them."
His broken hand trembled violently.
Ace bent down until they were at eye level.
"Master has great plans for you… and this place."
His voice was low.
"It's entirely up to you whether you live to see it."
His gaze dropped briefly to Hawthorne's twisted wrist.
Then he grabbed it again.
Hawthorne's eyes widened in terror.
"This… is only a slight warning and, the last."
Ace twisted.
Hawthorne's vision went white.
The pain surged.
And then stopped.
The joint slid back into place.
Hawthorne gasped, barely conscious.
Ace released him and stood.
Hawthorne clutched his arm, too afraid to move it.
By the time Hawthorne forced his eyes open again,
Ace was already walking away.
The door closed behind him.
He left the orphanage as quietly as he had come.
The corridor remained still long after his footsteps faded.
From a narrow shadowed corner near the turn of the hallway, Damon stepped out.
He had not gone far after leaving the office.
The first scream had stopped him.
Hawthorne's voice carried easily through the building, and Damon had lingered just out of sight, listening.
Now the man in black was leaving.
Damon's eyes followed the retreating figure through the open doorway at the end of the corridor.
Even Hawthorne answered to someone.
And whoever that man served…
Was far more dangerous.
Leaving this place suddenly felt even more impossible.