You all knew this was going to involve my favorite boys.

It was only a matter of time.

I am nothing if not predictab ... er. Consistent.

I've probably made that joke before.

Don't look at me.

.

The Domino Children's Home was a pitiful place, barely scraping by on whatever federal grants its staff could beg for each year. Anything, and everything, beyond the bare minimum was donated; this was why they relied on an annual toy drive for any holiday gifts whatsoever for their charges. Domino City's forgotten urchins would never receive anything even remotely special otherwise.

It was clear from a glance that Gozaburo saw no worth in this place at all; he was focused on the thin walls, the badly patched holes, the cheap wood, the frayed carpet swatches. Every little imperfection showed just how inept this place was for its intended purpose. But for Amaya, all of this was just a sign of more and more potential. She was like an archaeologist at a dig site. Where her husband saw only dirt and bone fragments, Amaya saw boundless treasures and endless possibilities. It was the beginning of a grand design. There was no use in grousing and complaining about how badly it was being done; imagine, she often said, how it could be done.

"All right, boys," she said, as they stepped out into the parking lot with men in suits surrounding her and her husband like an honor guard. "Report to the staff and see to whatever tasks they need done. We are here for the good of our city's lost children. No task is too demeaning."

They all bowed at the waist, said "Yes, Mistress," and vanished.

"Your dedication to this cause wouldn't have anything to do with Noa, would it?" Gozaburo wondered idly.

"And if it does?" Amaya replied. "We nearly lost everything. These children have lost everything. We are in a blessed position, and it serves us well to give to the less fortunate." She eyed Gozaburo suspiciously. "Not just for the public image, mind you. That is the mistake that men like our illustrious colleagues make."

"Do tell, dearest," Gozaburo said flatly.

Amaya smirked; it was like brandishing a weapon. "Putting on a face of decency to hide the rot underneath will only work for as long as you can distract everyone who's looking at it. Excise the rot. Remove the need for a mask at all."

"This isn't about Noa," Gozaburo realized. "It's about Buchanan."

"I trust you will note that he isn't here," Amaya said. "He didn't even send a token donation this year. He's written he whole thing off as a lost cause." She held up a finger. "This is not an investment opportunity. It's work. That is how we will make the difference. That is how we will last, long after dear old Carbrey finally admits to himself that his ventures have failed him."

"I think you mean that he will fail his ventures."

Amaya beamed. "You see? You do pay attention. I knew there was hope for you yet."

Gozaburo rolled his eyes and adjusted his collar. "I am most pleased to meet with your approval, my lady." He reached into the back of their town car and retrieved box after box of treasures. He carried four, while Amaya handled three.

For people unused to the Kaibas, it would have been unnerving—if not frightening—to watch their faces transform as they turned toward the public. Amaya's smile was radiant; her eyes sparkled, and she looked for all the world like a saint given flesh. Her lord husband wasn't quite as effervescent as she, but Gozaburo was able to paint a pleasant façade onto his stone-hewn face. Enough, at least, that he didn't scare anyone off.

Compared to his natural countenance, this was a vast improvement.

So it was that, when the pair stepped into the orphanage's main courtyard, where the children were all gathered in their cliques and bands to play, and plot, and wile away the hours, the Kaibas were cheered and welcomed like royals.

"Hello, little darlings," sang Amaya, gracing them all with a doting smile. "Now, now, you must keep this little mission of ours a secret. Do you hear, now? These boxes here? They're empty, aren't they, dearest?" She offered Gozaburo a wink.

Gozaburo shook his boxes, causing toys and trinkets to clang and jostle; a music box started playing, and everyone heard a little doll call out a greeting. Staring at his wife, deadpan, he said: "Yes."

The children pealed with laughter. Some stayed silent, but still smiled knowingly. Only a handful ignored them entirely. Mostly, this delineated along a timeline: the younger a given child was, the more they were engaged with the joke. The eldest of them all, the teenagers, had neither time nor tolerance for such displays. They knew it was an act, and they weren't interested.

Oh, they were interested in the gifts.

Just not the performance.

Gozaburo took over when the time came to talk to Director Kelvin, and Amaya let him. She had little interest in political maneuvering, while her husband had a savant-like gift. Gozaburo Kaiba could convince the surliest and most guarded of men to do whatever he wanted within the space of an afternoon; given a weekend, they'd be convinced it was their idea.

Amaya was honest enough to admit that she wasn't a very good liar.

The lady Kaiba occupied herself the same way she always did while Gozaburo was working on a new mark; she surveyed. Observed. She watched as staff members came in and out of the office space where Kelvin worked. She noted which ones greeted her and which ones paid her no heed; which ones were pleasant and which ones were miserable. There was, after all, no better barometer for the health of a working location than the moods of those working it. No matter what promises were offered by the faces of a brand, if the muscles behind it weren't up to snuff, they mattered little.

Gregory Kelvin, Amaya was quite sure, had no idea what all went into keeping the orphanage afloat. She would have to track down the real leader of this place one of these days.

What caused Amaya to glance just the right way, at just the right angle, to notice the two boys huddled in a back corner—hunched over something that wasn't meant to be seen—she didn't know. But whatever it was, whether it was dumb luck or providence or the forces of chaos, it was bound and determined to alter the trajectory of her life.

"Hm," she said to herself. "And who have we here . . . ?"