Waif left the sanctuary and soon arrived at the kitchen, a humble yet bustling place, guarded as well as an orphanage could manage. Outside of the divine, the kitchen was the most sacred space in the orphanage. It was this room that breathed life into the children of the orphanage. The kitchen wasn't simply a room; it was the beating heart of their fragile world.

  Too many mouths to feed meant that no one rested easily with a full stomach. The kitchen was a frequent battleground, visited by desperate thieves who couldn't bear another day of gnawing hunger. Waif didn't blame them. Survival ruled this orphanage, and food was its cruel currency. If you couldn't guarantee a place at the table, you had to take what you could—steal it, if need be.

  It wasn't just theft for the greedy, though. Food was the primary form of punishment under this roof. Even minor missteps could mean missing a meal. It wasn't necessarily a punishment of cruelty more so than simply being a practical solution. There just wasn't enough to go around so they let the miscreants suffer for it.

  Waif herself often had to resort to thievery back before she received her sudden noble treatment. Back then, stealing wasn't a choice but a necessity. She had been punished so often that she'd have likely died of starvation if not for her creative nutritional solutionism.

  Thievery was the only reason she had lived this long. Even with her newfound treatment, she still occasionally stole from the kitchen. It wasn't because she was gluttonous, she would never dare eat so wastefully in front of the devadoots. She stole for Ritzy.

  Ritzy was small, fragile, and too stubbornly innocent to fight for her share. She still hadn't learned the orphanage's harsh rules. This, of course, meant Waif had to lie about where she would get the extra food for Ritzy. Waif was told that the devadoots didn't like liars, but hopefully, they understood she was doing it with good intentions.

  This time, Waif didn't have to sneak into the kitchen. The four rabbits slung over her shoulders acted like a badge of honour, granting her unrestricted access. She walked through the door with purpose, the scent of boiling broth and baking bread enveloping her like a warm embrace.

  Inside, a few of the more trusted and well-behaved children were busy at work, peeling vegetables, stirring pots, and portioning out thin scraps of bread. Their eyes lit up when they spotted Waif's haul. Meat was a rare and much-celebrated event, and her arrival enticed a round of

  excited whispers to spread quickly. Soon, the kitchen was buzzing with the kind of energy rarely felt in the orphanage—a fleeting taste of hope.

  One of the caregivers approached, her broad smile illuminating the dim, smoke-filled kitchen. "Wow, Waif, you've really outdone yourself this time," she said, her voice carrying a faint trace of sorrow beneath the praise. "You're getting so good at this!"

  Waif still blushed, unsure how to handle the unfamiliar warmth of compliments. "It's the traps that do all the work," she murmured, shifting the weight of the rabbits on her shoulders. "I just found the best places to put them, is all."

  "You don't need to sell yourself short, Waif," the caregiver replied gently. "You did a wonderful job." Her smile lingered for a moment before her voice turned hopeful. "Now, have you been teaching Oust all of your secret spots? It'd be good to have others who can hunt as well as you."

  Waif perked up, always happy to have already satisfied a caregiver's desires. "Yes, ma'am. I've already taught him all of my tricks; I didn't even need to bring him with me today," she said, a note of pride slipping into her voice.

  "That's good to hear." The caregiver's words were encouraging, but her expression faltered. Despite the praise, there was something unspoken in her downcast gaze—a reluctance that embittered the otherwise commendatory mood.

  The two stood facing each other in a strange, passive silence that stretched longer than Waif was comfortable with. She wasn't used to acting without permission, but the house mother was expecting her, and the thought of that terror's wrath loomed far larger in her mind than upsetting any single caregiver.

  Waif finally broke the stillness, her voice timid but firm. "Well, I have to go see the house mother now, so I'm going to go."

  The caregiver's face shifted from cheerless to utterly crestfallen. Before Waif could react, she was pulled into a crushing embrace. The caregiver's arms wrapped tightly around her, and her voice trembled as she spoke. "I'm really proud of you, Waif. You're a strong and honourable person. Never forget that."

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  Waif stiffened, caught off guard by the sudden display of affection. The caregiver's behaviour was beyond strange to Waif, but she didn't let it show on her face. This whole week had been uncharacteristically kind for the orphanage. For the first time, she felt more like a cherished child in a family than just another mouth that needed feeding. It was unnerving.

  "Thank you, ma'am," she said, her words cautious. "But I should really go."

  The caregiver released her and stepped back, revealing tear-streaked cheeks that left Waif stunned. The sight of her crying pierced through Waif's unease, stirring a pang of worry in her chest.

  "Yes, of course," the caregiver said, her voice thick with restrained emotion as she wiped at her face. "We wouldn't want to keep the house mother waiting, now would we?"

  Waif nodded, her uneasiness deepening. She gave the caregiver a small, uncertain smile before turning to leave the kitchen. The image of the caregiver's tears clung stubbornly to her thoughts, a heavy weight pressing against her mind.

  The walk to the house mother's office was short, but each step felt heavier than the last. Even crossing the length of the building—a matter of minutes—felt like an eternity.

  At the end of the hall stood a large wooden door, its presence looming like a monument to dread, a barrier that segregated the house mother's office from the rest of the orphanage. It was all her domain, but that room was the vile woman's lair.

  A palpable force seemed to emanate from beyond the door, an oppressive pressure that whispered warnings into Waif's ears, calling her to turn back.

  Waif's chest tightened as her knuckles hovered over the wooden frame. A deep breath steadied her trembling hand. Whatever awaited her on the other side, she had no choice but to face it.

  Waif hesitantly knocked on the door. "House mother, this is Waif, I was told you wanted to see me."

  A painful silence followed, stretching unnervingly long. Eventually, an instantly recognizable voice cut through the quiet–a low, monotonous tone, calm yet commanding. The house mother's words seemed to slip through the cracks in the door as though it wasn't even there. "Yes, Waif. Please, come in."

  Waif's trembling hand reached for the doorknob, her fingers brushing against the icy metal. The cold seemed to seep into her skin, amplifying the chill that already ran through her veins. Her grip faltered as hesitation shackled her muscles, locking her in place.

  Taking a shaky breath, Waif forced her fears to the back of her mind, burying them beneath a thin veneer of resolve. With one final push, she turned the knob and stepped inside, crossing the threshold into whatever fate awaited her.

  The room was unadorned, stripped of all but the barest essentials. Naked walls stretched downward, their pale surfaces unbroken by decoration, meeting a scuffed and largely empty floor. In one corner, an old, withered desk crouched like a forgotten relic. It was a simple piece, devoid of drawers or compartments, its surfaces clean yet worn, as though it existed only for function, not comfort.

  Behind the desk sat the house mother, her posture rigid and unyielding, a mirror to the room's stark austerity. She was a figure of quiet dominance, her gaze heavy and inscrutable, cutting through Waif as if peeling back layers to expose the truth hidden within. Her dusty, unkempt hair draped down her head in loosely tangled strands, brushing her thin shoulders like a shroud.

  She looked every bit the part of the orphanage's head, a role she seemed almost born into—perhaps literally, as whispers among the children often claimed she had once been an orphan herself. To them, she was a terrifying figure, her presence heavy with authority, though perhaps not entirely deserving of the fear she inspired. Her job was to maintain order within the sanctuary's chaotic walls, while the children—consciously or not—seemed to see it as their duty to undo that order at every turn.

  Waif fidgeted nervously, her fingers twisting the hem of her ragged sleeve as she braced for the reprimand she assumed was coming. Both the little girl and elderly matron were smeared with coats of grimy filth, but while Waif wore it with piteous shame, the house mother somehow made it look dignified. The house mother's posture was held with import, and her voice never wavered. She always had that monotonous yet powerful drone.

  "Waif," the house mother began, her tone as even and heavy as a tolling bell, "you are being adopted by a very important and endowed family. When you meet them tonight, I require you to be on your best behaviour."

  The house mother paused, her gaze boring into Waif as if daring her to falter. "You will be given a bath and a change of clothes in preparation for the meeting."

  "I get to bathe!?" Waif blurted, her eyes wide in disbelief, the idea of cleanliness so foreign to her that it momentarily broke through her usual composure.

  The house mother raised a single brow, her surprise quickly morphing into quiet disappointment. "Your focus should be on the adoption, Waif," she replied, her voice steady but carrying an unmistakable edge. "I can't have you blundering this meeting. It is very important—for the orphanage."

  Waif composed herself, not wanting to give the house mother any reason to get angry. "yes, ma'am."

  The house mother let out a tired sigh, the exhalation of air taking some unseen burden with it. The house mother pushed her seat back and slowly stood, her decrepit bones groaning more than her age would desire. The house mother approached Waif, wrapping one arm around her and opening the door with the other. "Now, Waif, let us pretty you up for your new family."