“What do you think you’re doing?” she snapped.
“She looked sad,” Sky tried.
“You are not here to make friends,” Miss Calva said sharply. “Do not come back to this room. Ever.”
Sky stepped back, but as she left, she glanced at Eloin one more time.
Eloin’s lips moved.
Help.
That night, Sky couldn’t sleep. She lay in the dark listening to the hum of the fridge and the distant sound of traffic, but all she could see was Eloin’s face—the fear in her eyes, the way she flinched at every sound.
“Mom,” Sky whispered into the dark. “That girl at the mansion… something’s wrong.”
Her mother sighed.
“Baby, rich people have problems too,” she said. “But it’s not our business.”
“She asked for help,” Sky insisted.
“Sky, we need this job.” Her mother’s voice was tired. “Please don’t cause trouble.”
Sky went quiet. She understood more than kids her age were supposed to. Rent. Late notices. The way her mom’s shoulders dropped when bills came in the mail.
But she didn’t stop thinking about Eloin.
The next day, Sky went back with her mother. While her mom scrubbed the kitchen, Sky waited by the doorway until no one was looking. Then she slipped down the hallway and found the same room.
Eloin sat by the window, knees tucked under her, looking out at the garden like she was watching a world she wasn’t allowed to enter.
“You came back?” Eloin whispered when she saw Sky.
“Of course,” Sky said. “We’re friends now.”
Eloin blinked.
“Friends?” she repeated as if the word was fragile.
“If you want,” Sky added quickly.
A tiny smile tugged at the corner of Eloin’s mouth.
“I do,” she said. “I really do.”
“Can I braid your hair?” Sky asked. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”
Eloin looked scared, but she nodded.
Sky sat behind her and began to part the remaining hair carefully, fingers practiced and sure. At first, it felt normal—just another Sunday morning braiding her little cousin’s hair back home.
Then her fingertips brushed something cold and hard under the strands.
Sky froze.
“Elo,” she said softly. “There’s something in your hair.”
Eloin flinched.
“Please don’t tell,” she whispered. “I’m not supposed to know.”
“Know what?”
“That it’s my fault,” Eloin said, voice cracking. “That if I were better, she wouldn’t have to do this.”
Sky’s chest hurt.
“Elo, this isn’t your fault,” she said.
Before she could say more, Miss Calva’s voice cut through the air like a blade.
“What are you touching?”
Miss Calva crossed the room in three long strides and grabbed Eloin’s arm—not hard enough to leave bruises, but firm enough to make the girl wince.
“Come with me,” she said.
“Wait,” Sky protested. “She didn’t do anything.”
“You need to leave,” Miss Calva said coldly. “Now.”
Sky watched them walk down the hall toward the bathroom. Her heart pounded. She knew what she was supposed to do—go back to the kitchen, stay out of the way, protect her mother’s job.
She followed.
She pressed herself against the wall outside the bathroom door and listened.
“You let someone touch your hair,” Miss Calva said inside. “You know the rules.”
“I’m sorry,” Eloin whimpered.
“Sorry doesn’t fix anything.”
Sky heard a soft metallic click. The sound of metal against metal. She leaned forward and peered through the tiny crack where the door didn’t quite meet the frame.
Miss Calva stood over Eloin, who now sat trembling in a chair. In the woman’s hand was a small silver tool that looked like something from a doctor’s office, long and slender with a needle-thin end.
She pushed Eloin’s hair aside, exposing a small patch of scalp.
“Hold still,” Miss Calva said.
Sky watched, horrified, as the woman inserted the tool into Eloin’s scalp, twisted, and pulled. A thin metallic strand came out, glistening with something dark.
Eloin gasped. Tears spilled down her cheeks.
“Always so dramatic,” Miss Calva muttered.
She dropped the metal strand into the sink and turned to rinse the tool.
In that second, Sky moved.
She darted into the bathroom on silent feet, grabbed the metallic strand from the sink, and shoved it into her pocket. By the time Miss Calva turned around, Sky was back in the hallway, pressed against the wall, breathing hard.
She ran to a quiet corner, fingers shaking as she opened her hand.
The strand wasn’t hair. It was a wire, thin as thread, with tiny sharp points along it and words carved so small she had to squint.
VLab Prototype 3.
Sky’s stomach dropped.
Vale Laboratories.
Eloin’s last name was Vale. Her father’s company did this.
The next morning, Sky waited near the front entrance. Her mother thought she was in the staff kitchen. Instead, she watched the door that everyone seemed to move out of the way for.
A man walked through the foyer—tall, white, in an expensive suit, moving with the brisk confidence of someone who owned the building and most of what he could see. People trailed behind him with tablets and folders, talking quickly.
Ariston Vale.
Sky stepped directly into his path.
He almost tripped.
“What are you—” he started.
Sky held out her hand. The metal strand lay in her palm.
“This was in Eloin’s hair,” she said. Her voice shook, but she didn’t look away.
Ariston frowned, irritation flaring.
“What is this?” he asked.
He glanced down—then his expression changed. His face drained of color. He picked up the strand with shaking fingers.
“Where did you get this?” he asked.
“Miss Calva used a tool,” Sky said. “She pulled it out. It hurt Eloin. Bad.”
Ariston stared at the etched words.
His jaw clenched.
He turned to his assistant without taking his eyes off the wire.
“Clear my schedule,” he said.
“Sir, you have—”
“Now.”
Everyone scattered.
Ariston knelt so he was eye level with Sky.
“Take me to her,” he said.
They ran through the mansion together—upstairs, down hallways Eloin had walked a thousand times alone. Sky led him straight to the room where she’d found the crying girl.
The door was closed.
Ariston pushed it open.
For a moment, he stopped breathing.
Eloin sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around her knees, face buried, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Miss Calva stood over her, the silver tool still in her hand.
“What is that?” Ariston’s voice cracked like thunder.
Miss Calva turned, surprised but not frightened.
“Sir,” she began. “I was just—”
“What is in your hand?” he demanded.
“A maintenance tool,” she said. “Your daughter requires regular adjustments.”
“Adjustments?” His voice shook. “You’ve been hurting my daughter.”
“Discipline isn’t hurt,” Miss Calva replied calmly. “The program requires it.”
“What program?”
“Project Seraphim,” she said. “You signed the authorization yourself two years ago.”
The words hit him like a punch.
“I signed what?” he whispered.
Eloin crawled toward him on her knees like she wasn’t sure she was allowed.
“Daddy,” she said. “I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
Ariston dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms, careful of her scalp.
“No,” he said. “You didn’t cause anything. I failed you. But I’m here now.”
Miss Calva crossed her arms.
“Emotional attachment will compromise the research,” she said.
Ariston stood slowly, still holding Eloin’s hand.
“Research?” he repeated. “She’s my daughter, not an experiment.”
“She’s both,” Miss Calva said. “Check your contracts.”
His hands balled into fists—not to hit, but from a rage he’d never felt before.
“Get out,” he said. “You’re fired.”
“I don’t work for you,” she said. “I work for the program. Check who authorized it.”
She walked out calmly, heels clicking on the marble. Ariston watched the door close behind her and then looked at Sky.
“You saved her,” he said. His voice was hoarse. “A seven-year-old child saw what I didn’t.”
Sky just nodded. She didn’t know what to say.
Ariston pulled out his phone.
“I’m calling my lawyer,” he said. “And a doctor. This ends today.”
Before he could dial, his phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number flashed on the screen.
We know you know.
Don’t involve authorities. We’ll discuss terms.
Below the text was a photo. Eloin sleeping in her bed, taken from above. The timestamp was from the night before.
Someone was watching them.
An hour later, Ariston sat in his office with his head of security, his lawyer—a sharp-eyed woman in her fifties—and both girls. Eloin sat curled into the corner of the leather couch. Sky sat so close their shoulders touched.
“Check every camera,” Ariston told security. “Every feed. Every device. Start with my daughter’s room.”
Within hours, they found them—tiny cameras hidden in air vents, light fixtures, even inside Eloin’s favorite teddy bear. Twelve cameras in total, all installed over the past few months.
Someone had been watching her suffer. Recording it. Studying it.
Ariston sat heavily in his chair.
“How did I not see this?” he
