"Two lost bombers?"
Boloko was sitting in the office with his superior—also his mentor—Senior Inspector Duryukovo. He held a copy of today's newspaper in his hands, only now finding the time to read it due to work. Meanwhile, Duryukovo was puffing quietly on a pipe beside him, cloaked in swirling smoke.
"It only says the bombers missed the factory. Not a single word about the circus next door being blown to bits..."
Duryukovo pulled the pipe from his lips as he spoke. The warm twilight filtered through the blinds, casting a long rectangle of light where the smoke was dyed golden orange.
"That's just like the Ministry of News…"
Boloko shook his head and continued reading. The rest of the article was full of the usual lines—"Thanks to the valor of the Imperial Air Force, the bombers failed to hit their target," and "Two bombers were successfully downed during the final pursuit." Whether any of it was true was anyone's guess. Nobody had seen any fierce dogfights over Bratia that day. But the tragedy at the circus on the outskirts—unreported by the press—he had heard plenty about from colleagues and Duryukovo himself.
Half a month ago, over half the police force had been urgently reassigned, but Boloko had stayed behind with the group holding the station. It wasn't until the following afternoon that the others returned, exhausted and pale. Some were in such poor condition they were granted a few days of leave. Only later did Boloko hear the truth—the circus troupe touring in Bratia had been bombed. The chief even made a point in a meeting to tell them to keep their mouths shut.
"By the way… Did you find that girl's family?"
Duryukovo straightened up slightly in his chair as the thought struck him.
"No. She won't say a word. There's nothing we can do…"
Boloko set the newspaper down, ready to use the moment to properly discuss the matter with Duryukovo. There wasn't anything useful in the news anyway.
"That really is a bit of a problem…"
Duryukovo exhaled smoke and leaned back in his chair again, his tone tinged with helplessness.
"Maybe we should send her to a children's shelter. We can't keep her at the station forever…"
"Let's wait a couple more days. Even for us old cops, that scene was gut-wrenching. Imagine how it was for a kid."
Young officers might not know what the shelters in Bratia were really like, but Duryukovo had been there himself. The filth and disorder aside, the cowering looks in the children's eyes said enough about their everyday lives. The Empire had official policies for orphan aid, sure—but how much of that aid ever reached the children, with corrupt staff and crooked officials pocketing the funds? Who would know, or care, for a bunch of powerless, background-less orphans? If there was any way around it, Duryukovo didn't want to send that poor girl to a place like that.
"Alright then. But the chief did say the matter needs resolving within three days."
"Three days, huh…"
Duryukovo sighed, quietly hoping things might somehow work out.
...
Morning. The sun had yet to rise fully, and the air still held a lingering chill.
A black sedan turned the corner into a narrow street and rolled to a stop in front of the police station. The door opened, and a woman stepped out—dressed in a black dress and fur coat, wearing a wide-brimmed black hat. Her makeup was thick and glamorous; her walk, sultry and poised. A deep indigo feather pinned to her hat swayed with each step.
"This the child?"
She didn't bother to lower her head, only cast a glance downward at the girl standing beside the police chief.
"Yes. Thank you for your assistance."
The chief gave Arcia a gentle push. She stepped forward a few paces, sluggish and blank-eyed, as if staring at something far away.
"What's wrong with her?"
The woman's tone was cold, as if inspecting merchandise rather than a human being.
"Nothing serious. She's healthy. Probably just a little... shaken."
"..."
She looked Arcia up and down. The dress was well made. Her golden hair was messy, but her face was clean. She then bent over and roughly pried open Arcia's mouth—still a good set of teeth.
"Heh…"
A cold smirk. She wiped her hands with a handkerchief after touching Arcia.
"Kitovo!"
At her call, a man stepped out of the black car, carrying a briefcase. He handed it to the woman, who then passed it to the police chief.
"A pleasure doing business."
She returned to the car without another word, leaving only the strong scent of her perfume hanging in the air. The man named Kitovo turned to the chief, who gave a curt nod. Without a word, Kitovo grabbed Arcia by the arm and dragged her into the car. She did not resist.
...
Inside the vehicle, Arcia sat quietly, completely detached from the world around her.
Once, she would've gagged at the overpowering stench of the perfume. Now, she didn't even flinch. Kitovo's grip had left a deep bruise on her wrist, but she barely noticed. She had no thoughts at all about the car driving her to some unknown destination.
The woman seated beside her cast her a sideways glance, eyes sharp and cold, before closing her eyes and adjusting into a more comfortable position.
...
"I'll be going ahead. She's yours now."
The car came to a stop. The woman got out alone and disappeared through a set of large gates. Beyond them stood a red-brick building with a white rooftop—a four-story structure that stood out from the neighboring blocks.
From the outside, the orphanage, nestled by a quiet riverbank, looked peaceful and tidy. The gardens were carefully maintained. It was hard to believe this was one of the places Duryukovo had spoken of. Arcia was still being pulled along by Kitovo as they passed through the gates, across the garden, and into the building, like a puppet on strings.
"Good morning."
"Morning."
The man in the gatehouse greeted Kitovo, who nodded back. He glanced at Arcia but didn't seem particularly interested, quickly returning to his newspaper.
Arcia kept walking. Sunlight streamed through the windows, gleaming off the polished marble floor of the corridor. The light stung her weary eyes, and she instinctively squinted—her first voluntary movement that morning.
They stopped in front of a large door. Kitovo pushed it open. The room inside was spacious, with long tables running down the middle. Seated on either side were children dressed in the same drab gray uniforms. Each of them clutched a spoon, gulping down food from their bowls with desperate urgency. If any moved too hastily, the disciplinarians would lash their backs with long, thin rods.
When the door opened, every head turned to look.
"Mr. Rokosov… (Kitovo Rokosov)"
An elderly woman in a black dress and white headscarf approached. Despite her silver hair and wrinkled face, she moved with sharp precision, her back straight, eyes clear. Her brisk, commanding demeanor stood in stark contrast to the sleepy, indifferent staff around her. Then again, with her salary, it made sense she put in more effort.
"This one's from the lady this morning. Name's Arcia, I think. She's yours now."
Kitovo handed her over with barely a glance and left. The woman gave Arcia a quick once-over, then spoke in a cold, clipped tone:
"Go to the fourth row, table on the right."
"..."
No response. The woman turned to leave, but when she reached her seat and looked back, she saw Arcia still standing there.
"Did you not understand me?"
Her voice rose sharply, brows knitting in frustration. The other children instantly froze, spoons held midair. Everyone knew that tone—an outburst was coming. But Arcia remained motionless.
"Very well. If you dare defy my authority, then let everyone here witness what that earns you."
She strode to a nearby table and picked up a thick black whip.
"Negka, bring her to the front."
She stood waiting, whip in hand, as Arcia was dragged forward. There was no resistance—she wasn't even really present. But that didn't matter.
Crack—
The sharp sound rang out in the silent hall. Several children who had felt that sting before winced in sympathy.
Crack—crack—crack—
The whip lashed across Arcia's backside. She finally reacted—tears trickling down her cheeks.
"Let this be a lesson to all of you: disobedience will not be tolerated!"
The woman knew how hard the whip struck. Any more and they'd need to pay for a doctor. That wouldn't be cost-effective.
"Take her away. No food for her today."
She set the whip aside and instructed the staff to bring Arcia to her assigned room.
The children resumed their tasteless, thin soup. The headmistress stood watch, eyes sweeping over the room like a hawk. Not a single clink of spoon against bowl dared echo under her gaze. She was quite satisfied with the result.
Author's Note: Work has been driving me crazy lately, and of course it just had to coincide with a major plot development. The last chapter was written on Sunday, and this one took me four days, bit by bit. There's a holiday tomorrow, so I'll try to squeeze in a few more updates! ε=(´ο｀*)))