Orphanage Director

Unexpectedly, the road wasn’t hard to walk.

Utoya’s home was not far from the highway; after climbing over an inconspicuous barbed-wire fence and walking a few thousand meters along the road — a distance trivial to a kid like Eileen who often scavenged — the familiar city came into view.

Stepping on the rough, cracked asphalt sent up tiny puffs of dust with every footfall.

At the end of the highway, like a huge tired gray beast crouching on the horizon, lay a city called Chernoberg… or something like that; Eileen didn’t particularly care about the name.

It wasn’t a city of gleaming glass and steel, but one of layer upon layer of prefabricated concrete blocks standing silently; these boxy apartment buildings looked like giant blocks a child had casually stacked and forgotten, their gray-yellow plaster peeling in vast patches to reveal dark, scar-like cement beneath.

At the seams of the huge prefabricated panels, rain had forever washed deep brown streaks like tears; many balcony railings of cast iron were twisted or missing entirely, leaving black gaping holes, and faded clothes hung limp in the breeze.

A mixed smell hung over the city’s edge: the sulfur tang of low-grade coal burning, a faint rot drifting from distant landfills, and the acrid exhaust of old vehicles; the air seemed heavy with particulate matter.

Closer to the city entrance, the scene grew even more dilapidated.

Low shops built from concrete panels had windows thick with dust; the goods inside were few and miserably outdated: faded plastic buckets, old-fashioned enamel pots, a few dust-covered bottles of cheap vodka.

The paint on the signs had long peeled away, the lettering blurred and hard to read; a few scattered pedestrians wrapped in ill-fitting dark coats hurried by.

Occasionally an old person sat on a rusting tin bench, staring into the distance with hollow eyes, or queued at the door of the only bakery still open, holding a sagging empty shopping bag.

In the distance, several enormous twisted industrial smokestacks rose up — most no longer spewing smoke, only their blackened steel skeletons silently pointing at the gray sky.

Ah, her favorite city.

Eileen felt inexplicably refreshed.

This was the outskirts of Detlan’s city. No neon, no bustle of traffic — only endless monotonous gray and an inescapable aura of decay; yet this was the hell she knew.

She took another bite of the black bread and sipped a little vodka from the flask, walking alone on the broken street… her destination was simple: her orphanage.

Saint Anna Charity Home — a crooked plaque hanging by the iron gate, paint flaked so much the words were barely legible, announcing the last show of decency here.

It was less an orphanage than a fortress repurposed from a small abandoned factory or barracks.

The walls were iron railings, tall and cold, topped with rust-streaked, barbed wire; it looked less like it was protecting the people inside than keeping the goods from escaping.

Several heavy, dark-green painted iron gates were tightly shut, leaving only a small side door with a peephole.

Outside the wall there was almost no greenery, only a few hardy tufts of weed pushing up through cracked concrete, their colors dull.

The main orphanage building was a five-story concrete-and-red-brick block with narrow windows; most panes were streaked with grime or cracked, and the walls bore rain-stained marks and age-old graffiti — mostly meaningless symbols or faded slogan fragments.

The whole building exuded the heavy, forgotten weight of years, but it was home.

Eileen crossed the empty yard without looking around; that damned Riebe wasn’t here — she usually only appeared in the mornings, and normally, no matter how violent the debt collectors she sent, the next day she would feign nonchalance and call Eileen to school.

But… this time it was clearly different.

Pushing open the heavy, creaking wooden door, the dim light of the foyer spilled out, carrying the familiar moldy smell and the tang of disinfectant. Habitually lowering her head, Eileen prepared to hurry across the empty lobby straight to her tiny refuge on the third floor —

But her feet stopped cold.

There she was.

Riebe.

The nominal director of the orphanage, the origin of nightmares for Eileen and countless other children.

She looked unnaturally young, her features too perfectly formed for someone in her position — barely in her twenties, with smooth, pale skin that even glowed with an unnatural, porcelain-like sheen in the yellow light.

Her short silver hair was meticulously styled, the tips slightly curled, framing a small, neat jawline that made her face look fragile and untouched by the world.

But Eileen knew better than to trust appearances.

Those eyes… deep and ink-black with no light at all, gave her away; there was no warmth, no emotion in them.

She wore a well-cut, high-quality deep-gray suit that outlined a slender yet powerful figure, underneath a crisp white silk blouse with a small, delicate silver maple leaf brooch at the collar.

She clicked across the faded terrazzo floor in polished black pointed heels; the outfit was completely out of place amid the orphanage’s ruin, as if she’d teleported in from some glossy other world into this grim corner.

Now those cold black eyes fixed on Eileen, unabashed and unblinking, as if scanning her from the inside out.

Her gaze flicked over Eileen’s dusty clothes, the bulging old backpack on her shoulder, and then — with cutting precision — lingered on a strand of white hair peeking from Eileen’s deliberately lowered hood.

Riebe’s lips curled downward in the slightest of sneers; her perfectly drawn brows creased almost imperceptibly.

The air seemed to congeal; the foyer’s old mildew and disinfectant smells were swallowed by the expensive, sharp perfume emanating from Riebe.

“Ileen.”

Her voice was not loud, but it was unnervingly clear.

“How was last night?”

She took a small step forward; the click of her heels amplified in the silent lobby.

There was no trace of concern in those ink-dark pupils for whatever Eileen might have endured.

“It seems the wolves outside treated you well — you even carry a bit of wildness about you now.”

Her glance again hinted at meaning as it swept over Eileen’s head; the cold mockery nearly had substance.

A chill crawled up Eileen’s spine, colder than the orphanage’s perpetual damp. She couldn’t be unaware of what was happening; Riebe’s presence at this moment was clearly because she had been waiting for her.

“What’s it to you… it’s only two missed payments. I said I’d pay you back. Or are you planning to go all the way with her?”

Eileen forced herself to meet her gaze and spat back; whatever Utoya was, she had promised to protect her…

“How adorable… like a little dog with an owner. Do you really think Utoya cares about you? That hunter is only lonely, wants a kitten and a companion. I must admit your face is enough to make anyone dizzy… but then what?”

Riebe had no intention of answering Eileen’s questions.

She calmly, icily inspected Eileen as if studying her clothing, her voice laced with cruel amusement.

“When you grow up and your face is no longer this pretty, what will you give that lonely hunter then? Will she still treat you the same? I never expected she’d take a liking to women…”

“Shut up…”

Eileen felt a sharp pang; all the thoughts she had tried to discard surged back.

“…Let me tell you, she’ll toss you away like trash when she’s done with you, and then you still won’t escape me. And… my little wildcat, your value is truly, truly high right now, and you’ve just found yourself a very good buyer.”

…

“So, obediently go to work and prove your worth. Maybe — just maybe — one day you can escape me, but definitely not now.”

“One month from now: four thousand. Not a penny less.”