The tiny home sat crooked at the edge of the narrow alley, its walls thin and patched with rusted metal sheets. The compound was barely large enough to hold two people standing side by side—a crude rectangle of dirt surrounded by a fence made of warped planks and wire. The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the ground like fingers reaching for something they'd never touch.
Inside the compound, chaos unfolded in slow, terrible motion.
Little Owen and Kate stood in the center, their small hands clasped tightly together. Their fingers interlocked, gripping so hard their knuckles turned white. Owen's face was pale, his eyes wide with fear. Kate's cheeks were streaked with tears, her mouth open in a silent cry.
On either side of them stood men and women dressed in strange, unsettling attire. They wore long white coats—clean, sterile, like doctors—but beneath them were dark vests and utility belts, the kind worn by security personnel or enforcers. Their faces were blank, emotionless, their eyes cold and methodical. They looked like psychiatrists crossed with tactical operatives, a hybrid of care and control that felt deeply wrong.
One of them—a tall woman with her hair pulled back tightly—reached for Kate's arm. Another man, broad-shouldered and stone-faced, grabbed Owen's shoulder.
"Let go," the woman said flatly.
"No!" Owen shouted, his voice cracking. His small fingers tightened around Kate's hand. "Don't take her!"
Kate sobbed, her tiny body trembling. "Owen! Owen, don't let them!"
But the adults were stronger. Much stronger.
They pulled.
Owen's feet dragged across the dirt. Kate's small shoes scraped against the ground. Their hands stayed locked together, knuckles white, arms stretched between them like a bridge about to break.
"Please!" Owen cried, his voice breaking into a scream. "Please, don't!"
The woman yanked Kate harder. The man tightened his grip on Owen's shoulder, his other hand prying at Owen's fingers.
And then—snap.
Their hands came apart.
Kate stumbled backward, caught by the woman who immediately lifted her off the ground. Kate kicked wildly, her small fists pounding against the woman's chest. "Owen! Owen!"
Owen lunged forward, but the man held him back, dragging him in the opposite direction. "Kate!" he screamed, his voice raw. "Kate!"
Two vans sat parked just outside the fence—identical, white, windowless. The kind used for transportation, not comfort.
Kate was carried toward one. Owen was dragged toward the other.
Kate's screams echoed through the narrow alley as she was shoved into the back of her van. The door slammed shut, muffling her cries.
Owen was thrown into his van moments later. The door closed with a heavy, metallic thud. Darkness swallowed him.
He pressed his small hands against the cold metal, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Tears poured down his face.
---
*(Owen's narration)*
The day after my mother disappeared, men came to our home. They called themselves "orphanage overseers." They said that since Sofia—my mother—was deceased, Kate and I couldn't stay. We were orphans now. Too young to survive on our own.
They said we'd be taken to separate orphanages.
Kate and I protested. We screamed. We cried. We begged.
But they used force.
That was the last time I ever saw my sister.
The most upsetting part wasn't the separation. It was the fact that I never got to see my mother's body. I never got to say goodbye. Neither did Kate.
We were ripped apart before we could even grieve.
---
Inside the van, little Owen sat hunched in the corner, his small body trembling. His fists were clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. Tears fell silently down his cheeks, dripping onto his lap.
The van smelled of metal and disinfectant. The engine hummed beneath him, vibrating through the floor. He stared at his hands—small, empty, useless.
He couldn't protect her.
He couldn't protect anyone.
---
A grassland stretched wide and endless, the tall blades swaying gently in the breeze. In the distance, a large structure loomed—a building made of faded red brick, its windows small and barred. A rusted sign hung crookedly near the entrance: Melville Orphanage – Est. 1987.
Beneath a crooked tree at the edge of the field, little Owen sat alone. His knees were pulled to his chest, his arms wrapped around them. His face was blank, his eyes distant, staring at nothing.
*(Owen's narration)*
My earliest memory of Melville Orphanage is blurry. I can't remember much of what I did there, how I lived. It's all fog. But I doubt it was anything special.
I remember the tree. I remember sitting under it for hours, staring at the sky.
I remember feeling… empty.
---
**Scene Shift**
The streets of Clover Down were crumbling.
The pavement was cracked and littered with debris—broken glass, burnt tires, shattered signs. Buildings leaned at odd angles, their windows shattered, their walls scarred with graffiti. Smoke curled upward from a dozen small fires scattered throughout the town, the air thick with the acrid stench of burning rubber and gasoline.
At the center of it all stood the mayor's building—a towering structure of glass and steel that gleamed mockingly amidst the ruin.
In front of it, chaos reigned.
Hundreds of protestors surged forward, their voices rising in a unified roar. They held signs high above their heads:
**DOWN WITH GUSTAVO!**
**LIVES MATTER!**
**ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!**
Facing them was a line of SWAT officers, clad in black tactical gear, riot shields raised, batons drawn. Their helmets gleamed under the fading light, visors reflecting the angry faces of the crowd.
The protestors pushed. The officers pushed back.
It was a tug-of-war of flesh and fury, the two sides locked in a brutal stalemate. The officers held their barricade formation, shields interlocked, boots planted firmly on the ground. The protestors pressed against them, hands gripping the edges of the shields, voices screaming with desperate rage.
Then—something shifted.
The electric gate to the mayor's building suddenly groaned to life. It began to slide open—slowly, deliberately, as if inviting them in.
The SWAT officers froze. Confusion rippled through their ranks.
"What the hell—?" one of them muttered, his grip on his baton loosening.
That moment of hesitation was all it took.
The protestors surged forward with renewed fury, slamming into the line of shields. The officers stumbled, their formation breaking.
And then—something stranger happened.
One SWAT officer tore off his helmet and threw it to the ground. Another turned and shoved his comrade, shouting something incoherent. A third dropped his shield and swung his baton at a fellow officer.
The line collapsed.
The protestors roared in triumph, flooding past the crumbling barricade. They poured into the mayor's compound like a wave breaking through a dam.
Glass shattered. Metal crunched. Doors were torn from their hinges.
"DOWN WITH GUSTAVO!" they chanted, their voices shaking the air.
Nearby, news crews scrambled to keep up. Cameras rolled, reporters shouted into microphones, trying to capture every second of the chaos.
(Owen's narration)
Months after I was taken to Melville Orphanage, an upheaval tore through Clover Down. For nearly two decades, Mayor Gustavo had ruled the town with an iron fist. He funded secret gangs, silenced dissenters, and bled the town dry.
But somewhere along the way, he made enemies.
Powerful people he'd worked with turned on him. They fed Intel to his own gangs, who betrayed him. And when the people learned he was alone, vulnerable… they struck.
---
A man hung limply from a wooden post in the center of the town square. His face was swollen beyond recognition, his jaw hanging at an unnatural angle. Blood caked his cheeks, his lips split and bleeding. His body was covered in wounds—cuts, bruises, burns. His clothes were torn to shreds, barely clinging to his battered frame.
Mayor Gustavo.
The crowd surrounded him, their faces twisted with fury and satisfaction. Some spat at him. Others threw stones. A few held torches, the flames casting flickering shadows across the square.
Nearby, camera crews filmed everything. Reporters narrated in hushed, horrified tones.
Inside Melville Orphanage, little Owen sat among other children in a small common room. They were all dressed in identical orange jumpsuits, their faces pale and hollow. The adults supervising them wore those same strange white coats over dark vests, their expressions unreadable.
On the television mounted on the wall, the broadcast played.
BREAKING NEWS: MAYOR GUSTAVO PUBLICLY EXECUTED
The camera zoomed in on Gustavo's face—broken, bloody, barely conscious.
Then, the torches were lowered.
The flames caught.
Gustavo's screams filled the air—high, shrill, inhuman.
And then—the screen went dark.
Blue. Red. Orange. Static.
The broadcast cut.
The children gasped. One of them whimpered. Another covered their eyes.
The adults in white coats exchanged panicked glances, murmuring urgently to each other.
(Owen's narration)
I remember that day. It's the only day at Melville I remember clearly. Everything else is a blur. But that… that I'll never forget.
That was my last day there.
---
Little Owen walked aimlessly down a broken road, his small figure dwarfed by the chaos around him. Cars were flipped onto their sides, windows shattered. Burnt tires smoldered on the pavement. Other children in orange jumpsuits wandered nearby, their faces blank, lost.
Owen's legs felt weak. His vision blurred.
He stumbled, then collapsed to his knees.
---
Clover Down burned.
Entire blocks were engulfed in flames, smoke rising in thick black columns. Storefronts were smashed open, looters running in and out with armfuls of goods. Glass crunched underfoot. Sirens wailed in the distance.
People ran through the streets, screaming, laughing, crying.
The town had descended into madness.
*(Owen's narration)*
Clover Down never recovered. It became a battlefield. Rogue gangs fought Ashgrove PD for control. For nine months, it was hell.
---
Behind an overturned truck, hooded figures crouched, rifles raised. They fired at the advancing police officers, bullets tearing through the air.
One of the bandits pulled a grenade from his belt, yanked the pin, and hurled it.
The explosion was deafening. Fire and shrapnel erupted, tearing through the officers. Bodies flew backward, limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
(Owen's narration)
Eventually, the federal government stepped in. They arrested the gang leaders, prosecuted them under national law.
---
A courthouse. Rows of reporters filled the steps outside, cameras flashing. Inside, men in tattered clothes and handcuffs stood before a judge, their faces hollow, defeated.
Justice, delayed but delivered.
And somewhere far away, little Owen sat beneath a tree, staring at the sky.
Empty.