Phantom Strings

22:30

I'm at the orphanage door with Jerry and Dominus, my two best bodyguards—professional, silent, and efficient. They don't ask questions. They don't need to.

I don't bother knocking. I press the buzzer once. Twice. Then I hold it down.

A minute later, the door creaks open. A middle-aged woman in a faded gown peers out, her face lined with exhaustion.

"We're closed to visitors at this hour," she says, already reaching to shut the door.

I place my foot against it, my voice calm. "I need to speak with Daliya. Immediately."

She frowns. "Who—"

I pull out my phone.

"Your orphanage is underfunded, correct? No new beds in five years. The government subsidies aren't enough, and private donors are scarce." I tilt my head. "I can change that. Right now."

Her face tightens. "And if I say no?"

I smile. "You won't."

Her gaze flickers to Jerry and Dominus. Then back to me. She steps aside.

"Ten minutes."

I walk in. I always get what I want.

The walls are peeling, and the air smells of dust and something stale. I glance around, taking in the dim lighting and cracked tiles. A pathetic place, really. But what would I know? I've never felt hunger. Never gone without. I grew up comfortable—never rich, never poor. Just enough to never think about survival.

I watch a child—barefoot, maybe six—peek from behind a doorway before scurrying off. My chest tightens, just for a second. No one should live like this. No one should suffer like this. But the world doesn't care, and neither do the people who run it. I shake the thought away. I'm not here to play saviour.

I know what it's like to lose your parents. They weren't bad, really. I think they cared. But they were too focused on their business to really see us. Still hurt when they died, though. But grief is a funny thing. It doesn't care how well you knew them or how much time they gave you. It still sinks its claws in, even if just for a moment.

They left a pretty penny for me and my brother's 18th birthday. Not that it was meant for us—probably just another business arrangement. But when they died, the court decided it was ours.
Huh. Guess that's one good thing they did... even if it wasn't really for us.

My heels clack against the hard tile, a sound sharp enough to cut through the silence. A slow smile tugs at my lips as I turn the corner. The woman had told me Daliya was inside and that she would call for her.

Dominus and Jerry stood behind me—silent, imposing. A constant shadow at my back. I almost wanted to laugh at how perfect they were. Two men willing to take a bullet for me, no questions asked. A rare kind of loyalty. Or maybe just a well-paid illusion.

I check my watch. Then again. Then again.

Two minutes of suffocating silence.

The door creaks open, and the woman steps out, a girl beside her. Daliya. Her shirt is smudged with faint paint stains, a quiet rebellion against the dullness of this place. But it's not the stains that catch my attention—it's the way she holds herself. Soft, yet commanding.

Familiar.

A ghost of someone I used to be.

I hum under my breath, tilting my head. May the world spare her from what it did to me. Though not entirely—I'd like to believe I wasn't too far gone. There's still a part of me that hopes. A part of me that doesn't want to be this.