Damian pushed open one of the metallic doors and stepped inside.
The scent of wet metal and cold air greeted him instantly, biting through the dim space. The concrete walls were dull and weary, webbed with cracks that whispered of decades of neglect and white florescent lamps flickered casting a dull glow in the room.
A semi-circular desk slouched in one corner, papers scattered like tired remnants of order. Two narrow wooden doors faced each other across the room, and another set of heavy metallic double doors loomed directly ahead.
It looked like a lobby—quiet, hollow, almost forgotten. His footsteps echoed sharply on the stone floor as he crossed the room toward the desk, the sound bouncing off the walls like the only sign of life here. He stopped when he reached the counter.
The receptionist's chair was empty.
"Huh, where the hell is Mr. Arin?" Damian muttered, glancing around the empty lobby. His gaze caught on a dusty notice board pinned beside one of the side doors.
He walked over and squinted at the papers. "Let's see... Boris and Vanna were adopted—good for them." A small chuckle escaped him. "I'm gonna miss those two chaos gremlins."
He sighed, the sound echoing faintly in the cold room as his eyes flickered across the rest of the notes. That was when he heard it—a faint, rhythmic sound. So soft, it might've gone unnoticed if the place wasn't dead silent.
Damian stilled. The noise was coming from the room next door. A flickering neon sign displaying 'Common Room' was placed above.
Driven more by curiosity than caution, he crept toward it, pressing his ear gently against the wooden door.
Then came the sounds—low, breathy moans and the clatter of something hitting the floor.
His eyes widened. "What the actual hell—" He froze, disbelief spreading across his face.
He listened again. This time, a distinctly male voice joined the moans, followed by an unmistakable rhythm of skin meeting skin.
Damian's jaw slackened. "No way... Mr. Arin?" he whispered. But before the thought could settle, another voice rang out—one he definitely recognised.
"Wait—" Damian blinked, leaning closer. "Is that…?"
His brain froze halfway through recognition.
"No. No, it can't be." His voice dropped into a whisper of disbelief. "Ms. Grace?"
He staggered a step back, jaw unhinged.
"How in the literal fuck is that happening?" he muttered, eyes darting between the door and nowhere in particular. "Isn't she the celibate nun who volunteered to work here?"
He stared blankly at the door as another loud thud followed by a suspiciously happy moan echoed from inside.
"…Oh, holy mother of irony," he sighed, dragging a hand down his face.
Damian stood rooted, hand half-covering his mouth as the rhythmic sounds reached their… merciful end.
Then—silence.
The sudden quiet was louder than the noise before.
He barely had time to step back when the door creaked open.
Out walked Mr. Arin, shirt half-buttoned, hair disheveled, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple. He froze mid-step the moment his eyes met Damian's.
Behind him, Ms. Grace appeared, adjusting her robe and pretending like the universe wasn't collapsing around her reputation.
The three of them just stared at each other.
Seconds stretched.
Damian's expression was blank, but his soul was screaming.
"…Evening," Mr. Arin croaked.
Damian blinked once. "Yeah. Sure. Evening."
Ms. Grace tried to smile, her face red enough to power a reactor. "This isn't what it looks like."
"Oh really?" Damian tilted his head, utterly deadpan. "Because it looks exactly like what it sounds like."
Mr. Arin cleared his throat, tugging at his collar. "We were just—uh—conducting spiritual exercises."
"Right," Damian said, folding his arms. "Sounded real enlightening."
They all stood there in mutual, world-ending silence.
Finally, Damian sighed, walking past them toward the metal doors. "Next time," he muttered, "lock the damn door. Some of us still believe in peace of mind."
He reached the end of the hall and stopped, glancing back once. The flickering ceiling lights bathed the old orphanage lobby in pale white — cracked walls, tired doors, and a sense that time here had long given up trying to move forward.
A small smile tugged at his lips. "This place never changes," he whispered to himself.
Then he pushed the metal doors open, and they groaned on their hinges before swinging wide.
Warm light spilled out, revealing a wide hall lined with long tables and benches. The chatter hit him first — laughter, clinking trays, the rustle of movement — then the smell.
The cafeteria was alive.
Dozens of kids filled the room, from toddlers barely tall enough to hold their trays to teens roughhousing at the far end. Metallic trays gleamed under the lights, each piled with steaming heaps of food that Damian didn't quite recognize — a mix of synthetic stew, grain slabs, and something that might've once been meat.
Everyone looked… happy. Too happy.
The workers behind the counters moved fast, serving portions with surprising generosity. The air was thick with the scent of spiced broth and toasted rootcakes — cheap, but fragrant enough to make his stomach twist.
Damian exhaled and joined the queue, slipping into line behind a pair of boys arguing over whose tray was heavier. He shoved his hands into his pockets, watching the food disappear down the line as his mind wandered.
It took a while — long enough for the steam from the serving pots to fog the air, long enough for the smell to crawl under his skin and make him realize just how hungry he really was.
Finally, the line inched forward, and the server — a tired-looking woman with gray streaks in her hair — gave him a quick smile.
"Next!"
Damian stepped up, tray in hand.
The woman ladled a swirl of blue soup into his tray — thick, almost gelatinous, with faint steam curling upward like mist. Slices of dark-purple flesh floated in it, the meat gleaming faintly under the cafeteria lights.
She added two pale brown, crusty bread-like cakes beside it and smeared a streak of green paste over the top — the smell tangy, earthy, and faintly sweet.
Damian gave a low whistle. "Damn, what's the occasion?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "We almost never get stuff like this — Grayfin Broth with Glowgrain bread and Sweetroot paste."
The woman smirked, wiping her ladle against the rim of the pot. "You've got a sharp nose. Didn't think any of you kids even knew what you were eating."
"Hard not to notice when your dinner's glowing," Damian said, eyeing the faintly luminescent fish slices.
The woman chuckled, shaking her head. "Mayor's orders," she said. "Some charity nonsense — 'Nutrient Enrichment Program,' they called it. So enjoy it while it lasts, sweetheart. Tomorrow, it's back to synth-mash and reprocessed grain."
Damian grinned faintly. "Yeah, sounds about right."
He took the tray, the heat warming his hands, and stepped away from the counter as the next kid rushed up behind him. The scent of the broth followed him, sharp and oceanic.
He spotted a free bench near the far corner and made his way through the noise, nodding at a few familiar faces along the way. Some waved, others just gave the quick chin-lift of recognition that passed for greeting here.
He sat and dug in immediately. The broth was hot, the flavor rich with sea-salt and spice — a sharp contrast to the usual bland nutrient sludge. The Glowgrain bread crackled softly as he bit into it, its faint green luminescence pulsing under the cafeteria lights. For the first time that day, his shoulders eased a little.
"Damian!"
He froze mid-bite, letting out a quiet sigh before turning toward the voice.
A boy, maybe thirteen, came jogging toward him — dark hair, square jaw, a face still too serious for his age. "You didn't even come say hi when you got back!" he said, half grinning, half scolding.
"Hey, Leo," Damian muttered, forcing a small smile. "Didn't think you'd miss me that much."
Leo plopped down across from him without asking, immediately launching into a ramble about the evens that may or may not have happened after Damian left for school in the morning — two kids adopted, the power flickering again, Ms. Grace's temper tantrum when someone flooded the showers. Damian nodded here and there, letting the words wash over him as he finished the last of his broth.
By the time Leo got to describing some "epic food fight" that may or may not have involved the twins, Damian was already stacking his tray.
"You're not even listening," Leo accused.
"I was," Damian said flatly, rising to his feet. "Just… processing slowly."
"Uh-huh." Leo rolled his eyes. "Old man mode again."
Damian chuckled under his breath as he made for the stairway at the center of the cafeteria. The metal steps clanged softly beneath his boots, the chatter fading behind him. He turned right at the landing, the dim corridor lined with numbered doors and flickering wall lamps.
His room was the third on the left.
He stopped in front of it, the old brass plate above the door barely readable under the peeling paint. He rested his hand on the doorknob, and the door slid open with a creak.
Warm air drifted out — the faint scent of metal polish and paper — familiar, worn, and oddly comforting.
Without thinking, Damian muttered to himself, "Home sweet cage."
And stepped inside.