A crumpled twenty fell into Mihael's hand and his faceless patron disappeared around the corner. He stuffed the bill into his pocket quickly, wiping the remnants of his customer from his lips. Twenty could buy quite a bit, maybe enough to last him three or four days, but now was not the time. It was getting late. He glanced at the darkening sky before returning to his box behind the dumpster. Looked like rain.
Curling up against the cardboard, Mihael felt a pang of regret. He'd been so naïve to think his previous situation a nightmare. At least he had food and shelter, then. Now, nothing was certain. He gripped the rosary around his neck tightly. It was old and tattered after years of wear but he found himself unable to throw it away. The beads were comforting in their familiarity, and he desperately needed comfort.
The soft pattering of raindrops hitting the top of his box startled him. He glanced out towards the alley as the wind picked up and rustled various pieces of garbage. Tonight's conditions would be unforgiving. Water would soak through the cardboard soon and make it impossible to sleep. He would probably freeze. Mihael swore under his breath. Just his luck.
He poked his head out of the box, considering. The chances of finding a safer location were slim, but it was best to keep moving, so no one came back for seconds. Men who felt entitled to his services were the most dangerous.
No sooner had he made his decision than the sound of approaching footsteps drew near. He pressed himself as far into shadow as he could.
"You sure it was here?" a deep voice came from his right. Mihael quieted his breathing and attempted to melt into the darkness of the alley.
"Yeah. Pretty little blonde thing, had a really well-trained mouth..." another voice replied. His stomach turned in disgust as he remembered the bitter taste that man had provided. The footsteps continued, seemingly from all directions, echoing against the crumbling bricks. He clenched his eyes shut.
The rain muffled most of their conversation, for which Mihael was grateful. He didn't want to hear a blow-by-blow replay of the day's work. Every now and then they would pause to listen for signs of life, but he didn't move, didn't breathe. As if he was that stupid.
"He's not here, you prick. You should've just stayed and called me."
"Wait..." There was a short silence, and Mihael's heart skipped a beat. There was plenty of debris in the alley and his box didn't stand out as unusual, he had made sure of that. Undented and buried under just enough rubble to be hidden from plain sight, its large size was perhaps the only suspicious thing about it. Unless it was too neat? Too perfectly placed? He tightened his grip on the rosary, daring to hope they had gone. It was too shitty a week for this.
"Hello, there."
A face appeared in front of him, leering victoriously. The gears of time slowed, and he felt like he could memorize every wrinkle on the man's face, his sick grin split in halves by two missing front teeth, scraggly hair matted down to his ruddy red cheeks. This could be the man that ended his life.
Mihael acted on instinct and spit into the man's eye, bursting from the box like a wild animal and sprinting away. He couldn't see through the rain, focusing on the road instead, leaping over loose bricks and broken beer bottles. He hadn't gone thirty feet when a hand grabbed his long hair. He fell back, hissing in pain as the hand continued pulling viciously.
"Where you going, honey? You know, I'm not usually a fan of spitters, but you're pretty, so maybe I'll make an exception. Let's have a look at those lips. They're going to be getting a lot of use."
The man forced Mihael to his knees, still gripping his hair. The rainwater made Mihael's hands slippery as he tried to grab onto something, anything, for a weapon. He scraped his fingers along the gutters, dirt and tiny glass shards digging under his nail beds and tearing the skin, but found nothing to defend himself with. A ripping noise from behind him sent his adrenaline into overdrive, and he started spouting curses.
"Jebi se, umrl boš, ti si taka muca –"
"What the fuck 's that, some kinda witchcraft? Hey, shut that kid up."
A sharp blow to his head made the street flicker out of focus. Rain-spattered and dizzy, Mihael fell silent. His back was cold, for his shirt had been forcefully removed. Soon, he felt rough fingers working at his pants. His body shook as the chilly air whipped against his bare skin. With no other alternative, he let out a blood curdling scream. Damn it all if he died anonymously, with no one but these fuckers to remember him. He flailed his arms around, hitting whatever he could with what little strength he had. Then, all was black.
/
"...abrasions on his scalp, but nothing serious. You got there just in time."
"So, he's well enough to be released?"
"Yes, but preferably when he wakes up..."
Mihael groaned softly, and cracked one eye open. The blinding florescent lights of a hospital room made him regret it. There was a flurry of movement above him, and the white sleeves of a doctor's coat brushed against his cheek. He blinked slowly to let his eyes adjust.
A stout blonde woman smiled warmly at him as she jotted something down on a clipboard. He stared for a moment, the scratch of her pen filling his ears with gentile normality – something he hadn't been privileged to for many weeks. When he sat up, she stopped dropped her pen, overplucked eyebrows comically high on her face. Mihael ignored her, tentatively stretching his limb and feeling for any possible injuries. Aside from a slight headache, everything seemed fine, so he could flee if needed.
Having retrieved her pen and recovered somewhat, the woman put a hand on his shoulder, speaking softly. "You're in the hospital. Don't worry, you're not hurt, your grandfather pulled you out just in time." She gestured to an elderly man standing in the corner of the room, holding a small, black bag.
He certainly wasn't anyone in the Keehl family, and Mihael didn't recognize him as an acquaintance either. The hair on the back of his neck stood up but he said nothing, waiting for the situation to unfold and eyeing the bag.
"Your scalp will feel a bit tender for the next few days as it heals. You didn't need stitches, but try to avoid putting pressure on the back of your head or using hot water in the shower," she continued, turning away from him and flipping through pages of paperwork. "I just need a signature to discharge him, so check in with reception down the hall when you're ready to leave, Mr. Wammy. Feel better, Mihael."
She smiled at them once more before excusing herself.
They endured a moment of painful silence, sizing each other up, before the man approached Mihael's bed, extending his hand good-naturedly.
"I'm Quillish Wammy. You may call me Mr. Wammy, or just Wammy. Nice to meet you, Mihael."
Mihael glared up at him, making no move to complete the handshake. There was no telling where this man's hands had been or where they wanted to be.
"You know my name," he said coldly. "How?"
"It's my job." The man, Wammy, dropped his hand to his side and took a step back. "I understand that you may be feeling panicked, trapped, or otherwise fearful of myself and this place, but I would implore you to allow me an explanation, for your comfort and benefit."
Mihael's stomach churned. Something about this was strange. He was utterly defenseless, but nothing in the man's actions felt threatening, though he towered over Mihael in stature, power, and knowledge.
A mystery for another time.
Teeth grit, he forced a smile. "Thank you, for all this, but I have no intention of repaying you with any services, so if you don't mind, I'm going to go."
The bedsheets shifted softly as he turned, setting his feet on the floor and letting his muscles wake.
"...please do not insult me. Not everyone over the age of twenty is a monster, though I am sure you have been given good reason to think so." Sympathy oozed off the man's voice, and Mihael felt a tick of annoyance. He wasn't a charity case.
At least, he didn't want to be treated like one.
"…I have to go." Mihael repeated, standing. He looked around the room for his clothes, but saw none. Perhaps they'd been too damaged to salvage. No matter; he could steal some as soon as he got outside.
He was nonplussed when the man held out the bag, offering it to him.
"Clean clothes. They may not be exactly your size, but replacements can easily be arranged." Wammy smiled. He had all of his teeth, and a knot in Mihael's chest unraveled itself.
He accepted the bag.
"Now, Mihael, I know about your current state of affairs, and I'd like to give you the opportunity to make some changes, if you would be willing to listen."
Mihael swallowed.
No one had ever spoken to him like this – like a sentient adult, with words you wouldn't find in children's picture books. No one had asked him for permission before, not for anything. No one had held a conversation with him while maintaining such a neutral tone. No one had spoken to him like he deserved to be spoken to.
"…I already told you, I'm not interested," he said slowly. He was less and less sure that was the truth, but the thought of acquiescing to anything while he was in such a vulnerable position felt silly, like asking for trouble. Though he doubted it was intentional, Wammy was physically blocking the door, and aside from the IV in his arm, Mihael had no access to anything that could be considered a weapon.
He also didn't know where he was inside the hospital, let alone which hospital it was, so getting away would be difficult. Judging from the noises outside the room, there were plenty of people milling around, and a child running from his grandfather would definitely draw attention. He glanced to the window, but the shades were closed. No idea which floor he was on or if he could even break the glass to –
"We're on the fifth floor. Not an advisable jumping distance, but there's first time survivors for everything," a raspy voice drawled from the hall. Mihael turned, clutching the bedsheets as the room's hazy comfortableness dissipated.
Another man was standing in the doorway. He was thin, pale, with a mop of black hair strewn about his panda-like face. Mihael's stomach dropped; two against one made his chances of escaping even worse.
"What?" he snapped.
"Your legs would probably be crushed and you wouldn't be able to run, but you still might survive," the man mused, more to himself than Mihael. "Unless you knew how to execute a drop-roll."
"…I think it better to assume young Mihael does not engage in free running or anything of the sort, and any encouragements to learn would be, perhaps, poorly mistimed." Wammy said quietly. There was an air of hesitation in his voice. He must not be ranked as highly as the newcomer.
"Quite right. How rude of me to take us off topic. Mihael, I understand your panic, but if you could subdue it for a few moments, I would greatly appreciate it. Wammy, a moment alone…" The dismissive politeness with which he spoke agitated Mihael, for it seemed falsely sincere, but he found he had no voice, and watched on mutely.
"Of course."
Wammy left, closing the door behind him.
The man slouched into the room and settled onto a chair. He sat in a way Mihael had never seen before, legs tucked up under him in a crouch. It became apparent that there would be no need for Mihael to brawl for his freedom as the man began chewing absently on a thumbnail. Mihael noted the pronounced bags under his dark eyes, though he couldn't have been older than thirty. There were no smile lines present on his face nor did his skin hold the tone of someone who bothered to venture outside. His hair looked clean, but unkempt, and the calloused skin of his hands suggested they had seen their fair share of anxiety.
"Mihael, yes? I'm Ryuzaki. I work with the man outside, Quillish."
"…oh." There wasn't anything else to say to that.
"We found you in an alley not too far from here, about to be raped by two rather awful men. Does that sound familiar?" Ryuzaki's large eyes were zeroed in on his. Mihael nodded shortly and stared at the floor. There was something unsettling about those dark irises.
"You are twelve years old. A Slovenian immigrant. Your father died just recently, and your mother... you never knew her. At least, not for a significant length of time. Is that correct?"
"My mother was a whore. I'm glad I didn't know her." Mihael bit back the bile in his throat. Thinking about it made him sick.
"That was not the question, I'm afraid. But, as you've volunteered the information, is that why breaking the law by offering your body for money seemed like a good idea?" A completely nonchalant question, like asking about the weather.
Mihael clenched his jaw with indignation. It had been an unintentional coincidence, to copy his mother. Their circumstances had both necessitated desperate measures for survival. Still, it wasn't anything he was proud of, and his face burned at the thought of a stranger judging him. "What the hell do you know? Go fuck yourself."
Ryuzaki clicked his tongue impatiently and turned his gaze to the window. "Your English is very good, albeit a little vulgar. Mihael, I'm trying to treat you like an adult, because I believe you are intelligent enough to handle it, but your attitude suggests you're actually twelve at heart, despite what your very adult background might suggest. Is that how I should approach you? Like a child?"
For the first time in the conversation, an emotion crossed the man's face. His features distorted with annoyance, only slightly – a tightening of the lips, a dulling of the eyes. Most people wouldn't have noticed it.
"You, a man I have never met, barged in on a conversation with another man I've never met, a man whose presence I have to say I prefer, and your first questions to me are not about my state of health, but the death of my father and my mother's embarrassing line of work. I cannot be chastised for reacting appropriately to your… provocation, when it was so blatant and careless." Mihael snarled, adrenaline stirring up the blood in his body. These were the types of conversations he was used to; being blamed for things outside his control, when the forces of the world had cornered him and left no means for a soft or humble escape.
Ryuzaki stopped chewing his thumb. He fixed Mihael with a blinkless stare, but Mihael returned it this time, defiant.
They sat like that for some time, saying nothing.
Mihael's heart skipped when Ryuzaki finally moved to knock on the hospital room door. It slid open and Wammy peered in, glasses glinting in the florescent light.
"…Quillish, it seems as though you may be more helpful here than in the hallway."
"Of course."
Wammy took a seat next to Ryuzaki, folding his hands in his lap. Though Mihael had no reason to trust either of them, he could feel the tension in the room lessening, its former air of safety making a welcome return.
Exasperated, Mihael opted to hear them out, if only to make them leave, so he could go back to his simple life of independence. "What is it... exactly... that you want?"
Ryuzaki was chewing on his thumb again. "Aside from being decent people, willing to help a child in a dangerous situation, we were made aware of your intellectual standings quite some time ago. You attended a private school, thanks to your father's connections, and managed to remain top of your class for the entirety of four years. This has not gone unnoticed. Quillish runs an orphanage for gifted children, and we feel it would be in your best interest to consider a more stable life."
An orphanage? He had never thought of himself as an orphan, although the dictionary definition was a perfect fit. Mihael opened and closed his mouth a few times as he collected his thoughts. "…you want to put me in an adoption home for gifted children."
"Well, yes, and no. It is a unique institution, and adoption is not our main goal. Of course, we do allow adoptions, and encourage them in some cases, but the orphanage functions more as a boarding school, to educate and look after children that we believe could contribute to society's greater good." Ryuzaki explained. "Safety for these children is a secure guarantee when we have them under our wing. All the background checks in the world can't protect a child from an abusive adoptive parent. Not one-hundred percent of the time, at least."
"At least background checks can be done on those people. I have no way of verifying what you've told me." Mihael replied dryly.
Ryuzaki gave a curt nod. "You're right. And I'm afraid we can offer you no information ourselves, either. It might put us in danger, you see."
At a loss for where to go from there, Mihael pressed for more details. "What's the orphanage like?"
"It's quite nice, if I say so myself. Only a hundred or so children, though that may seem like a lot, to you. There are classes each day, not unlike your former school. Plenty of free time, space, and resources to allow you to grow as an individual. It is my hope you will want for nothing, but I cannot guarantee certain things. There are placement tests every month, to make sure you remain in the correct classes for your intelligence and involvement level. Trips to town made each weekend, for any shopping or sightseeing you feel the need to execute. And, above all, a place to stay. You would have a roommate, and excuse my bias, but I feel that is an acceptable price for a warm bed, regular meals, and a chance to become anything your heart could want." Ryuzaki seemed disinterested in the speech, as if he had given it countless before. It was likely that he had. Mihael, however, was stunned.
His father had spared no expense for him – private school, the finest clothing, the best protection. Though he had not cared in the slightest for his son, money came in buckets (or more accurately, duffel bags) for their family, and buying anything less than the best would have been an unforgivable faux-pas. The idea of returning to a lavish lifestyle was more than appealing. Still, there must be a catch. No one offered such quality service for free. Mihael had paid his father in bruises and blood.
"The choice is entirely yours. You can come with us, to be accepted as a student at Quillish's boarding school, or we will leave, and you will never hear from us again. You will also never be able to find us again, should your mind change. This is the only offer you will receive."
There was no doubting the finality in that sentence. He had to choose wisely.
Mihael looked from Ryuzaki to Wammy. Such a strong juxtaposition in their faces, in the way they spoke, even in the way they sat – it was hard to believe they knew each other at all, let alone worked together in any capacity. But if Wammy was the one running the orphanage, as the explanation had suggested, then what did Ryuzaki do?
"I have a limited amount of time, so I'd appreciate it if you could make your decision. Stay on the streets, or come with us." Ryuzaki stood, glancing out the window once more before turning towards the exit. "If it helps, I could tell you that you have nothing to lose, and if the amenities are not satisfactory, you are free to leave whenever you like."
He began to leave, and Wammy stood to follow, smiling kindly at Mihael as they departed.
A few more seconds passed before Mihael darted out the door and followed the retreating backs of his saviors.
