[Kael – Two Days After the Incident]
The room was too quiet.
Kael sat on the edge of the bed—legs swinging just slightly, back straight, like someone posing for a photo they didn't want to be in. The sheets were freshly washed, tucked tight. The corners of the room were soft with warm light and pale colors: gentle wallpaper, carefully chosen furniture, a desk with pens he hadn't touched.
On his lap rested a manila folder, creased at the corners.
His new name was stamped across the top.
Michael Kyle RedfieldAge: 12Status: Orphaned – No known relatives
He read it again, letting the name settle in the air between heartbeats.
'Michael. Kyle. Redfield.'
Each word was a lie. Each syllable, someone else's skin stitched over his own.
But that was fine.
He traced the edge of the folder with his thumb, silent.
He understood what names were—how identities were built from scraps of paperwork and careful smiles. How the past could be rewritten with enough ink and official stamps. But the speed of it… the neatness of it unsettled him.
They had given him a past.
He hadn't asked for one.
The house was quiet now. Downstairs, he could hear the hum of the dishwasher. The rhythmic clink of plates being rinsed. Someone laughed faintly—the woman, Lauren.
His "foster mother."
She and Jonas—her partner—were kind in the way people practiced kindness when they weren't sure what else to do. They'd welcomed him with soft tones and open arms, and a second bedroom already painted and cleaned, like they'd been waiting for someone just his size.
Down the hallway, he heard the muted knock of fingers on wood.
"Michael?" Lauren's voice, muffled through the door. "Uncle Baines is here."
Uncle.
Another title. Another mask.
He stood.
No hesitation. No resistance. Just… forward.
[POV: Officer Baines]
Baines leaned against the hood of his car, hands in his pockets, watching the sky shift in shades of late morning blue. He'd parked just past the driveway, giving the house a respectful distance, but keeping his eyes on the front door.
Something about this whole situation still crawled under his skin.
He'd been in the house. He'd seen what was left of the parents. He'd seen the boy—Michael—sitting in the closet like a ghost waiting for his cue to move.
Too quiet. Too composed.
But the paperwork had all come back green. No red flags. A fast-track name registration, a judge's signature, a clean medical report from the paramedics.
Too clean.
Still, the system had done its job. The kid was placed. Safe. Healing.
So why couldn't he let it go?
The door opened. The boy stepped out, small backpack slung over one shoulder.
He walked like he didn't weigh anything. Like he wasn't entirely here.
[POV: Kael – In the Car]
The seatbelt clicked into place. Kael's eyes drifted toward the window as Baines started the engine.
The world rolled by—sidewalks dotted with kids on bikes, parents pushing strollers, distant sounds of birdsong and lawnmowers. Bright, open. Artificial.
He didn't hate it.
But it felt like watching someone else's dream.
The car radio was off. Just the hum of tires and engine.
"Ever been to a therapist before?" Baines asked, casual, like he was making conversation.
Kael turned slightly. "I don't remember."
That was always a safe answer. It fit the persona. Amnesia. Trauma. Confusion. It let people fill in the gaps with whatever they wanted.
"Her name's Dr. Halloway," Baines continued. "She's good. You can talk to her about anything."
Kael gave a small nod but said nothing.
'I don't need a therapist', he thought. 'I need time. Space. A foothold.'
But this was part of the role. A necessary box to tick. He could sit through an hour of questions. He could mimic sadness, fear, hesitation. He'd done harder things.
He folded his hands in his lap and glanced again out the window.
Children ran across a lawn chasing a dog.
The dog barked. The kids laughed.
He watched them until the car turned the corner and they vanished from view.
[POV: Baines]
He glanced at the boy through the corner of his eye.
Something about the silence set him on edge—not just quiet, but measured. Controlled.
There were no fidgety fingers. No darting eyes. No rapid breathing or vacant stares.
This wasn't the look of a child processing trauma.
This was the look of someone watching back.
[POV: Kael]
He didn't need to look at Baines to know he was being studied.
He could feel it.
And that was fine.
He let his eyes soften. His shoulders slouch. A deep breath, just enough to look like he was trying to stay calm. Just enough for Baines to believe it.
It didn't matter if the man was suspicious.
Kael had time.