The blood had dried by the time they tried to take it off her.

Musa didn’t fight when they pulled her into the facility, when they sat her down, when they pressed a damp cloth into her hands and told her to wash. She didn’t speak when they pried at the small silver pendant around her neck—the last thing left of her parents.

But when they reached again, when they tried to take it from her—she moved.

She ran.

Through the corridors, past rows of dull-eyed children, past the adults who no longer cared enough to stop her. No one called after her. No one reached out.

No one ever did.

The halls blurred together, the walls pressing in too tight, the air too thick. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. The door came out of nowhere, or maybe she had been searching for it the whole time. Either way, it slammed open beneath her hands, and suddenly, she was outside.

The world stretched too wide, too open, the sky swallowing her whole. Cold air burned her lungs as she ran, her bare feet hitting uneven ground.

And then—

She slammed into something.

Someone.

As always. For sure not the first, neither the last time.

The impact knocked the breath from her, sent her stumbling back. Hands grabbed at the fabric in front of her before she even realized what had happened. A coat. Thick. Rough beneath her fingers.

She froze.

Slowly, her eyes dragged upward.

A man.

He looked down at her, his expression unreadable. His coat was dark, worn at the edges, but clean. His boots, too. Everything about him was sharp—his features, his stance, the weight of his gaze.

And for the first time in hours, maybe even days—Musa felt something close to fear.

But he didn’t shove her away. Didn’t ask what she was doing. Didn’t even look surprised.

He just… looked.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

The voice was deep. Steady. Not cruel, but not kind either. Just there, pressing into the air like it belonged.

Musa’s hands were still shaking. But she forced her chin up, her glare steady.

“Away,” she said.

Something flickered in his eyes. A smirk, almost too quick to catch, ghosted across his lips.

Behind her, footsteps. The worker had caught up, standing in the doorway, breathless.

“Sir, I’m sorry, she—”

He raised a hand. The woman fell silent.

Musa glanced at her, then back at him. The way the worker stiffened, the way her voice died so quickly—this wasn’t just some wasteland drifter.

This was someone else entirely.

The man studied Musa for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. And then he turned his head slightly, addressing the woman without looking at her.

“She’s coming with me.”

The words were calm. Casual. Final.

The worker hesitated, then swallowed hard. “But—”

He turned his head. Just a fraction.

And that was all it took.

She shrank back, nodding without another word, retreating into the shadows of the building.

Musa’s heart was still hammering in her chest. Her hands had gone numb from gripping his coat too tightly.

Slowly, carefully, she let go.

He was still watching her. Waiting.

She squared her shoulders, even though her legs still trembled. “I’m not scared of you.”

This time, he didn’t just smirk. He let out a quiet breath, something close to amusement.

“Good,” he said. “Then you’re ready.”

“For what?”

His lips curled into something that wasn’t quite a smile. Something sharper.

“To survive.”

Then, without another word, he turned.

Musa hesitated for only a second.

Then she followed.

—

Years later, she would think about that night. The cold, the blood, the emptiness pressing in from all sides.

She would wonder, for a moment, what would have happened if she had never run.

The facility she had left behind wasn’t unique. Just another place that collected lost children and turned them into something useful. Some became runners for gangs. Some became rebellions, fighting for a better future. Just like her parents did, but it took their lives.

Some just disappeared.

She never got the chance to find out which category she would have belonged to.

Because Orid had taken her.

And Orid wasn’t just another dealer, another warlord scraping by in the dirt.

He was the supplier.

The reason half the addicts in the wasteland could still get their fix. He had workers. Labs. Networks that ran deeper than anyone understood. His name was only spoken in whispers.

He didn’t waste time on strays.

And yet, somehow, she was the only child he had ever kept.

Musa didn’t know why.

But after all these years, he was still there. Still watching over her. Still making sure she was fed, had a place to sleep, was safe, alive.

Orid never cared for children.

But somehow, he had made her his.