The sky bled orange and pink as the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows over the narrow, crumbling streets of Cameron District.
The homes here weren't homes in the traditional sense—they were survival shelters, pressed together like sardines in a rusted tin. Each structure leaned slightly, as if tired from carrying the weight of too many lives. The walls were patched with mismatched wood and corrugated metal, some painted in faded blues and greens that had long since surrendered to the elements. Thin smoke curled from makeshift chimneys, carrying the smell of burning coal and boiled vegetables.
Between each home stood crude fences—warped planks of wood nailed haphazardly together, some held up by wire, others by sheer stubbornness. The gaps were wide enough to see through, and neighbors could hear every argument, every laugh, every sob that passed through those paper-thin walls.
The compounds were tiny—barely wide enough for a clothesline and a small patch of dirt where weeds grew stubbornly. Children played in the narrow alleys, their voices echoing off the metal roofs. Dogs barked in the distance. Life continued, oblivious to the quiet tragedies unfolding behind closed doors.
Little Owen walked slowly along the uneven path, his shoes scuffing against the dirt. His steps were small, hesitant, each one heavier than the last. His face was pale, his eyes distant, as though he were moving through a dream he couldn't wake from.
As he neared his home, something caught his eye.
A car.
It was parked just outside the crude fence that marked the boundary of his small compound. The vehicle gleamed faintly in the fading light—a sleek black sedan, far too clean and polished for a place like this. Its presence was wrong, out of place, like a hawk perched among sparrows.
Owen's breath caught.
He recognized it immediately.
The license plate read: **Clover Down 0001**.
The same car his mother had climbed into the night before. The same car that had taken her away.
His small hands trembled as he approached the gate. His heart thudded loudly in his chest, each beat echoing in his ears.
He stepped through the crooked gate and into the tiny compound.
And there, standing inside, were four figures.
Three men and one woman.
The men were dressed in a strange hybrid of attire—part detective, part bodyguard. They wore dark tailored coats that fell past their knees, the fabric expensive and sharp, but their builds were thick and intimidating. Holsters were visible beneath their jackets, the faint glint of metal catching the light. Their postures were rigid, disciplined, eyes scanning the area with practiced vigilance. They stood like sentinels, silent and unmoving.
And then there was the woman.
She stood at the center, her presence commanding despite her relatively small stature. She was young—mid-twenties at most—with sharp, angular features that could have been carved from marble. Her skin was pale and flawless, her lips painted a deep crimson. Her eyes were dark, framed by long lashes, and they gleamed with a dangerous kind of intelligence.
She wore a sleek black dress that hugged her figure—elegant yet provocative, the kind of attire favored by high-end escorts who moved in circles of wealth and power. The fabric shimmered faintly in the dim light, catching every subtle movement. A thin silver necklace rested against her collarbone, and her heels were high, sharp, clicking softly against the ground whenever she moved.
Her hair was pinned up loosely, a few strands falling artfully around her face. She looked like someone who belonged in a penthouse, not a slum.
But it was her face that made Owen freeze.
One of the men—the one standing closest to her—had the same sharp jawline, the same angular nose, the same cold, calculating eyes. Their resemblance was unmistakable. Siblings.
The woman noticed Owen first.
Her lips curved into a smile—one that didn't reach her eyes. She took a slow step forward, her heels clicking softly against the dirt.
"Hi there," she said, her voice dripping with exaggerated shock and sadness, as though she were performing grief rather than feeling it.
Owen froze. His small body tensed, his feet instinctively stepping backward. His eyes darted between the woman and the men, his breath quickening.
He didn't know her. And everything about her felt wrong.
The woman noticed his hesitation and forced her smile wider—too wide, too friendly. Her eyes remained cold, calculating, studying him like a puzzle she was deciding whether to solve or discard.
"Relax, kid," she said, her tone softening into something that tried to sound comforting but came across as rehearsed. "I'm just here to check on the children of one of my workmates. And… there's some unfortunate news I need to give you."
Her face shifted then—her smile fading into an exaggerated expression of pity and sorrow. Her brows drew together, her lips pulling into a pout, her head tilting slightly as if she were genuinely heartbroken. But her eyes… her eyes remained sharp, detached, almost bored.
She stepped closer and placed a hand on Owen's shoulder. Her grip was firm, possessive.
"Kid," she began, her voice lowering, "I don't know how to put this. Your precious mother, who I also held dear to my heart as a friend… she had an accident back at her workplace. She didn't make it."
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Owen blinked. His small face twisted in confusion. "No… no, I don't understand. What are you saying? Where is my mother?"
The woman's face changed instantly. The fake sympathy melted away, replaced by something harder, colder. Her jaw tightened, her eyes narrowing just slightly. Her lips pressed into a thin line, and for a brief moment, she looked almost annoyed—like a teacher running out of patience with a slow student.
"Kid," she said, her voice sharper now, "I understand this information is too big for your little brain to process, but I *just* told you. Your mom didn't make it. She's gone. She's… below."
She made a slow, deliberate gesture with her hand—pointing downward, her fingers spreading wide, as if indicating the underworld, the realm of the dead.
Owen's breath hitched. His small hands clenched into fists. "No. You're lying."
His voice was trembling, but there was defiance in it—small, fragile, but real.
"I went to the station," he continued, his words tumbling out quickly. "I talked to the police officers. They said my mother went to Mayor Gustavo's place. And that car—" He pointed toward the black sedan outside. "That car has *his* registration plate. Clover Down 0001. I remember it."
The moment those words left his mouth, the atmosphere shifted.
The woman's face hardened. Her smile vanished entirely. The three men straightened, their expressions darkening. The air grew heavier, colder.
The man who looked like the woman—her brother—stepped forward, his jaw tight. His eyes flicked toward her. "Viola," he said, his voice low and sharp, "this kid might've ratted to those idiot cops. He just connected her disappearance to the mayor."
Viola—the woman—didn't move. Her gaze remained fixed on Owen, unblinking, assessing.
Then, slowly, she smiled again. But this time, it wasn't fake. It was cold, calculating, dangerous.
"Don't worry," she said smoothly. "I doubt those loser cops have any power here in Clover Down. You know that as well as I do."
Her brother's eyes gleamed with understanding. He nodded slowly, then turned his gaze back to Owen. "So what do we do with the brat?"
Viola tilted her head, studying Owen like a scientist examining a specimen. Her beauty was undeniable—her sharp features, her flawless skin, the way the fading sunlight caught the angles of her face—but there was something deeply unsettling about the way she looked at him. Like he wasn't a child. Like he was a problem to be solved.
"I know someone," she said slowly, her voice almost thoughtful. "A rather unique friend of that old, wealthy bastard. He deals in… bizarre experiments. With kids. Trying to perfect their capabilities. To make them… better."
Her eyes glinted as she spoke, her gaze never leaving Owen. It was the look of a judge who had already decided the fate of the accused.
Her brother raised an eyebrow. "So… do we deal with him now?"
Viola shook her head. "No. There's no need. That person's team will arrive here sooner than later once I contact them."
Owen stood frozen, his small body trembling. His mind struggled to process her words. *Experiments? Team? What is she talking about?*
The confusion on his face was clear, his brows drawn together, his mouth slightly open.
Viola gave him one last glance—long, cold, indifferent—then turned sharply on her heel. Her heels clicked against the ground as she walked toward the gate, her brother and the other two men following close behind.
They boarded the black sedan without another word. The engine purred to life, and the car pulled away smoothly, disappearing into the fading light.
Owen remained standing there, rooted to the spot. His small figure looked even smaller now, framed by the crude fence and the leaning walls of his tiny home.
---
*(Owen's narration)*
They say that life is like a theatre. You can choose to watch the play unfold from the audience, or you can step onto the stage and experience it yourself.
I chose to experience it. I chose to see the slow collapse of my world rather than just let it happen without understanding why.
And look where it took me.
A chain reaction. One small decision—one visit to the police station, one question asked—and suddenly I was drowning. My mind was too young, too small to solve the problems I'd stumbled into. I couldn't see the consequences. I couldn't predict the monsters that would notice me.
And now… now I was pulled into the abyss.
Not by my own hand, but by theirs. By the monsters in human flesh who saw me as nothing more than a tool, a variable, a problem to be dealt with.
I was sinking.
And I didn't know how to stop it.
---
Little Owen stood at the entrance of his home, his small frame trembling in the fading light. His hands hung limply at his sides, his fingers twitching slightly. His face was pale, his eyes wide and glassy.
Tears began to fall—slowly at first, then faster, trailing down his cheeks in silent streams. His chest heaved with quiet sobs, his breath hitching.
He didn't understand. He didn't know what to do.
He was just a boy. A small, scared, confused boy standing alone in the gathering dusk.
And somewhere in the distance, the black sedan disappeared into the shadows, carrying with it the architect of his unraveling.