Aubrey Posen was, by all accounts, a flight risk. Barely fifteen years old, she looked younger than twelve and was at least a head shorter than all the other girls in the sanctuary, only taller than Beca, the Professor's daughter.
Professor Mitchell's eyes were kept close to the newest "Bella" (as they'd been christened by Stacie, the oldest at seventeen), who barely spoke and when she did, her mouth barely opened and her hollow eyes refused to make contact.
He dreaded to think what she'd just come from. He dreaded to think of the cells they called bedrooms, and of the Nurse Ratcheds who claimed to care for the children they tortured and abused beyond recognition. The other girls were lucky not to have such an experience, but he knew this would scar Aubrey physically and emotionally for the rest of her life.
Maybe that was what hurt most.
He could do so much for this girl; he could love her, feed her, clothe her, give her the childhood she was starved of, but he could never heal her wholly. Part of her would forever be in pain.
Nights were no exception.
Tonight, like most nights, it reached about eleven p.m., and he lay awake in bed for a while, just in case. Just as he was about to put down his reading glasses, four soft knocks sounded on the bedroom door.
'Come in,' he called softly, already knowing who it would be. She always knocked four times.
Aubrey, drowning in one of his old button-up pyjama shirts, padded into the room, the bottom of the shirt scrunched up in her balled fist. Tears welled up in her eyes the second he looked at her.
'Come here, little one,' he murmured, and without a second thought, she ran toward the bed. A little taken aback, he helped her climb up, and immediately she buried herself into him.
As afraid as she was, she craved comfort like every other child on this earth, and he was determined to show her the goodness of it.
She was small, easy to carry, still recovering, so he lifted her up and walked slowly towards the window. Opening it, he let her look down into the darkness of Chicksand Street. It was then that he noticed that the streetlight below did not flicker as it usually did, and the wind no longer whistled.
'I'm sorry, Professor,' whispered Aubrey meekly. 'I didn't want you to stay up all night 'cause of me.'
'Oh, Bree,' he murmured.
'I'll put it back when I go to sleep, I promise.'
He said nothing but hummed a lullaby in the girl's ear.
'They hurt me,' she said suddenly. 'I tried to fight them but they got me, made me shake. The fog got me,' she emphasised. 'They made me make everyone stop and start again, and they made me break stuff and fix it again. Then they shocked me and made me do it all over again.'
Professor Mitchell didn't say a word. He'd never pushed her to speak of the institution, and so had never heard much about it.
Until now.
'They stuck stuff in me. Needles. Said I had to do what they said. If I said no I got hurt.' Her eyes filled with tears. 'Please don't let them get me again.'
He held Aubrey closer, his own breath shaking with silent fury. 'I promise, little one. I won't let them hurt you.'
And when they tried to come for his own; when they tried to come for Aubrey and Stacie and Chloe, for Amy and Jessica and Ashley, for little Beca and for Flo and Lily, he refused to forget his promise. When the Elite Order followed him across the Underground, he tripped them up, ran further from Whitechapel than he thought his legs could take him. When the Elite Order cornered him in Wimbledon, he let them take him, confident that it would keep his Bellas safe.
It was the only way.