Right from when I was little—back at the foster home—I was always told I was special. Maybe because I was smarter than most kids or could outrun them during games.

There was a rumor that my parents were special agents. I can’t really say if that’s true. I never met them, so how could I be sure? People love to talk. And honestly, you don’t really miss people you never knew from day one, right?

Still, everyone there seemed to have this strange belief that I was destined for something great. Even when I messed up, they called it perfect.

But everything changed the day Mr. Thomas showed up.

It was a late evening, and I was on my bunk reading. Yeah, I read a lot—books were the only way to escape that dump. It’s also how I learned to speak multiple languages fluently.

Anyway, I was reading when I heard a knock on my door. That was weird. Our supervisor—“Miss”—never knocked. She always barged in like she owned the place.

I got up and opened the door, and speaking of the devil, there she was—standing there with that fake smile plastered on her face.

I don’t know why, but she’s always creeped me out. Not even kidding.

“Evening, Miss. What can I help you with?” I asked, matching her fake smile with one of my own.

“Oh, my dear, do come with me,” she said sweetly.

Ugh. That tone. I knew that meant trouble. I shut my book, closed the door, and followed her down the stairs. But instead of heading to the kitchen or the garden—my usual punishment spots—she led me toward her office. That didn’t look good.

When we got there, she opened the door and motioned for me to step in. Sitting inside was a man dressed head to toe in black—black coat, black gloves, black hat. The kind of man that screamed danger without saying a word.

I took the seat farthest from him, close to the door—just in case things went south.

“Sir, there she is,” Miss said with that creepy politeness of hers. “She’s smart and well-behaved. I’m surprised nobody came for her when she was younger, but I’m delighted you took an interest.”

That’s when it hit me. I was being adopted.

The man looked me over slowly, his eyes unreadable. “Hope she’s healthy. Kids from foster homes don’t usually eat enough.”

Yeah, right. Try telling him these people feed us once a week. They called it fasting—said it built discipline. They should’ve just admitted we were broke and starving.

Miss chuckled nervously. “Oh, sir, we’re not like the others. Oh dear, come closer so he can have a proper look. I already showed him your picture.”

Pathetic. I stood and walked closer. Up close, he looked expensive—his clothes, his shoes, his watch. But even then, I couldn’t see his face clearly under that hat.

“Miss,” he said suddenly, his voice calm but commanding, “would you give us a moment? I’d like to speak with her privately.”

“Of course,” she said quickly. “I’ll be right outside. And dear—behave.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

He took off his hat then, finally revealing his face. He looked older, maybe in his forties, but there was something sharp about his eyes—like he’d seen things people shouldn’t.

“Hi,” he said with a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “I’m Mr. Thomas. I’ll be your new guardian soon. What’s your name, little one?”

I held his gaze, unflinching.

“I’m Rose,” I said.