The supply closet smelled of ammonia and despair. Lilith clutched the rusted pipe, her pulse hammering in time with the distant creak of basement stairs. Through the slats, she watched the tattooed man pace the hallway, his wolf-head ink glowing under the flickering fluorescent lights.
Lockpicking proficiency activated. The system's voice was calm, a counterpoint to her racing heart. Basement door has a standard pin tumbler lock. Vulnerable to tension wrench technique.
A small metal tool materialized in her palm—thin as a hairpin, with a hooked end. Lilith tucked it into her sleeve, then waited for the man to disappear around the corner. When his footsteps faded, she slipped out of the closet, moving like smoke.
The basement door loomed ahead, its paint peeling to reveal water-stained wood. She pressed an ear to the surface, hearing the murmur of voices and the scrape of metal—probably handcuffs, or crates being loaded. Her thermal vision flickered: three heat signatures, one larger than the others.
Lilith knelt, inserting the lockpick with shaking fingers. The system guided her movements, highlighting the pins in her field of vision. Left pin first. Apply pressure. She turned the tool, feeling a satisfying click. One down, four to go.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. She froze, holding her breath. The voices inside went silent.
"Check the door, Mike." Sister Margaret's voice, shrill with nerves.
Lilith worked faster, the lockpicks dancing. Three clicks. Two. One—
The door handle jiggled. She dived sideways as it swung open, rolling under a rickety workbench just as Mike's boots thudded into the basement.
"Clear, boss." He grunted, closing the door. "Just the rats."
Lilith peeked through the bench slats. The basement was a maze of metal shelves, stacked with crates labeled "Medical Supplies" in faded letters. Sister Margaret stood near a rusted furnace, her habit hiked up to her knees as she hauled a burlap sack. Beside her, a man in a leather jacket—Mike—counted stacks of cash.
In the corner, five children huddled together, their wrists bound with zip ties. One girl, no older than seven, met Lilith's gaze through the slats. Her eyes widened, but she didn't make a sound.
System update: Children are sedated but conscious. Shipment departs in 90 minutes via rear loading dock.
Lilith's jaw tightened. 90 minutes. She needed a plan.
Mike stuffed the cash into a duffel bag. "The van'll be here at midnight. Make sure they're quiet. Last time the brats screamed, we had to—"
"I know." Sister Margaret's voice was cold. "Just get it done. The king's visit is in three days. I don't need this blowing back on me."
Mike laughed. "Relax, sister. By then, they'll be on a boat to Bahrain. Or dead. Depends if the buyer's feeling charitable." He nodded at the children. "That one's got blue eyes. Ella's mom specifically asked—"
Lilith's blood roared in her ears. He was talking about the little girl. The one who'd locked eyes with her.
She inched forward, her thermal vision highlighting a crowbar hanging on the wall. Distract them. Retrieve keys.
A pipe clanged somewhere in the rafters. Mike spun, hand going to his gun. "What was that?"
"Just the building settling." Sister Margaret waved a hand. "These old places—"
Lilith moved. She darted from under the bench, grabbing the crowbar as she went. Mike's head snapped around, but she was already behind the furnace, using it as cover.
"Who's there?!" He raised the gun, sweeping the room.
Sister Margaret scrambled behind a crate. "Mike! Do something!"
Lilith held her breath, counting to three. Then she hurled the crowbar at a stack of crates. They crashed down, sending bottles shattering across the concrete. Mike cursed, firing a shot into the ceiling as he ran toward the noise.
Now.
Lilith sprinted to the children, yanking a pocketknife from her boot—lockpicking reward bonus—and sawing at the zip ties. The little girl with blue eyes whispered, "Are you an angel?"
"Something like that." Lilith freed her, then moved to the next child. "When I say run, head for the stairs. Find a phone. Call 911. Tell them St. Agnes' has kids being sold."
The girl nodded, rubbing her wrists. "What about you?"
"Someone's gotta make sure they don't follow." Lilith smiled grimly, glancing at the duffel bag of cash. "And I need to collect some evidence."
Mike's shout echoed from the far corner. "Trick! They're loose!"
Lilith cursed, slicing the last tie. "Go!"
The children scattered, their tiny feet thudding toward the stairs. Sister Margaret shrieked, lunging for the youngest boy, but Lilith tackled her, sending both crashing into a crate of syringes. They rolled across the floor, the nun clawing at her face.
"Demon! You'll burn in hell!"
Lilith headbutted her, hard. Sister Margaret went limp, blood trickling from her nose. She grabbed the duffel bag, dumping the cash onto the floor—then froze. Under the money, a folder labeled "Client List" peeked out.
Jackpot.
Mike's boots thundered closer. Lilith snatched the folder, tucking it into her sweater, then grabbed a syringe from the floor. When Mike rounded the furnace, she hurled it at his face.
He yelped, swatting at the needle, and Lilith used the opening to run. She hit the stairs two at a time, hearing him roar behind her. The children were nowhere in sight—good. Upstairs, the hallway was empty, but the front door was locked.
Fire escape. Third window. The system highlighted a rusted ladder outside the bathroom.
Lilith skidded into the bathroom, slamming the door and jamming it with a plunger. Through the window, she could see the fire escape swaying in the wind. Mike's shoulder hit the door, wood splintering.
"Come out, little b*tch! I'll make it quick!"
She unlatched the window, wincing at the screech of metal. Below, a police siren wailed in the distance—getting closer. The children must have found a phone.
Mike burst through the door as Lilith climbed onto the fire escape. He grabbed her ankle, his fingers digging into her skin. "Got you!"
Lilith kicked backward, hitting him in the jaw. He cursed, releasing her, and she scrambled down the ladder, the folder digging into her ribs. When she hit the ground, she didn't stop running, cutting through an alley toward the main street.
Behind her, the orphanage erupted in chaos—shouting, more sirens, the screech of a van peeling out. She didn't look back until she reached the police station, where the five children huddled around a uniformed officer, their faces streaked with tears.
The blue-eyed girl spotted her, pointing. "There! That's her!"
Lilith hesitated, then stepped forward, pulling the folder from her sweater. The officer raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"
"Lilith Voss." She met his gaze, steady. "And I've got something you need to see."
Inside the folder: photos of Ella's mother shaking hands with Mike, bank records linking the orphanage to offshore accounts, and a list of names—every child sold in the last five years.
The officer's jaw tightened as he flipped through the pages. "Jesus Christ."
Lilith stepped outside, leaning against the brick wall. The sigil on her wrist glowed brighter than ever.
Mission completed. Fetal soul resonance at 30%. Reward: Past memory recall (triggered by touch).
A memory flashed unbidden: a nursery, sunlight streaming through curtains. A woman with her eyes sang a lullaby, pressing a silver rattle into tiny hands. "For my moonbeam," she whispered.
Lilith touched her stomach, tears warm on her cheeks. That's you, baby. Our first home.
Somewhere in the distance, a wolf howled. She looked up, catching a glimpse of a black shadow vanishing into the trees. Kane's territory.
She smiled, wiping her tears. The game had just begun.
And this time, she was winning.