Foreboding
A dank, miserable orphanage housing violent, destitute children. All the better…
He had paused in a sort of rec room: a tall, imposing figure of dark clothing and anemic skin, smirking serenely to himself, hawk-like eyes keenly tracing the small, delicate facial features of the baby held dispassionately in his powerful arms.
"Are you sure, sir? Really?" a pathetic slip of a woman director asked for the thousandth time, hand fluttering uncertainly near her throat. He was convinced she didn't care about the baby – or it might have sounded like she was arguing, begging. She was only surprised, because: "That, sir? Are you sh—"
His uplifted hand cut her off. He didn't look away from the deathly pale face of the child, deeply asleep, malnourished. Called a thing – a that. Not "that one"… just "that." A creature, disgusting…
He disagreed with her. "I need to sign something for him." A demand.
She stared a moment before turning away.
"What's the name?" Another demand.
"Yuriy," she replied, leaving the room.
He smirked the confident smirk. "You deserve better than this, Yuriy," he said, and was at that tiny moment, for the first and last time in his life… a father.