Every door I pass is locked. Every corridor has cameras. And after yesterday, I'm too terrified to try snooping again. What if he catches me? What if this time he doesn't just hold the gun—what if he pulls the trigger?
I'm dusting the library shelves, hands shaking badly enough that I nearly drop the cloth, when I hear it.
Footsteps. Small and careful.
I turn, and there she is.
Mila Volkov.
She's tiny for seven—dark curls, pale skin, and huge gray eyes that watch me with such intensity that I catch my breath. She is wearing a white, lace-trimmed dress, spotless and expensive, and stands in the doorway studying me.
Not hostile. Just... observing. Deciding something.
"Hi," I manage, and my voice comes out softer than I intended. Gentler. Because she's just a little girl, and whatever else is happening in this nightmare, she doesn't deserve to be scared. "I'm Valerie. I'm new here."
She doesn't answer. Just keeps staring with those too-old eyes that have seen things children shouldn't see.
I set down my dust cloth and crouch so we're closer to eye level, trying to seem less threatening. "What's your name?"
"Mila." Her voice is quiet. Careful. Like she's testing whether I'm safe.
"That's a beautiful name." I smile, trying to make it reach my eyes. "I like your dress. Is white your favorite color?"
She glances down at her dress, then back up at me. "Elena picks my clothes. She says white is proper."
Elena. The older woman who watches Mila. Who probably controls every aspect of this child's life.
"Well, I think it's very pretty. But what'syourfavorite color?"
She blinks, surprised. Like no one's asked her that before. "I... don't know."
"You don't know?" I keep my voice light, gentle. "That's okay. We can figure it out together. Do you like blue? Or maybe green? Yellow?"
"Pink." It comes out quietly, almost like she's confessing something forbidden. "I like pink. But Papa says it's too bright."
My chest tightens.Of course he does. Of course he'd control even something as simple as her favorite color.
"Pink is wonderful," I say firmly. "And you know what? I bet you'd look beautiful in pink. Like a princess."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Really?"
"Really. You have dark hair like me, and pink would make your eyes stand out." I pause, then add carefully, "Do you like braids? I could braid your hair sometime, if you want. My friend used to let me practice on hers all the time."
Something shifts in her small face. Interest mixed with caution. "Mama used to braid my hair. Every morning."
Mama. Her mother, who had died.
My throat tightens, but I keep my voice steady. "I bet it was beautiful. I'd be honored to try, if you'd let me. But only if you want to."
She studies me for a long moment, and I can see her weighing risks, cataloging whether I'm a threat or something else. Something safe.
"Okay," she says finally. "But you have to be gentle."
"I will be. I promise."
She takes a step closer, and then another, until she's standing right beside me. Close enough that I can see the shadows underher eyes, the way her small hands grip the fabric of her dress like it's armor.
"Do you like waffles?" The question comes out of nowhere, tentative and testing.
