Lia had learned long ago that silence was safer than defense.
That evening, the apartment smelled of fried oil and loud laughter. Her foster aunt's family sat sprawled across the living room, the television blaring, plates balanced on their knees. The space felt full—overfull—yet there was still no room for her.
She slipped inside quietly, setting her bag down near the door.
"You're home early," her aunt said without looking up. It wasn't a question.
"I finished my shift on time," Lia replied.
Her cousin glanced at her and smirked. "So? You think that makes you special?"
Lia kept her eyes lowered.
The aunt finally turned, gaze sharp and assessing. "Did you bring food?"
"No," Lia said softly. "I thought I'd cook—"
"Cook with what?" the woman snapped. "The food here is for family."
The word family landed like a slap.
"I'll eat later," Lia said. She had said it so many times it no longer felt like a lie.
Her aunt waved her off. "Go to your room. And don't touch anything."
Lia obeyed.
The back room was barely large enough for a bed and a narrow shelf. The single bulb overhead flickered when she turned it on. She sat down slowly, her body aching in a way that went deeper than exhaustion.
This wasn't the worst place she had lived.
That knowledge didn't make it easier.
She remembered other houses. Other women who smiled too brightly in front of social workers, only to grow cold once the door closed. Men who barely acknowledged her existence. Children who learned quickly that she was temporary and treated her as such.
No one ever hit her.
That was what people liked to hear.
They didn't need to know how often she was reminded that she was a burden. That she was lucky. That she should be grateful anyone bothered to keep her at all.
Her phone buzzed on the bed beside her.
Unknown Number.
Her stomach tightened.
Unknown Number:
They're watching you now.
Lia's fingers hovered over the screen.
"Who is they?" she typed.
The reply came almost instantly.
Unknown Number:
People who benefit from you staying invisible.
Her breath grew shallow.
"I don't want trouble," she wrote. "I just want to live."
There was a pause this time. Longer than before.
Unknown Number:
You already survived. That's why you scare them.
The bulb above her flickered again.
A sudden knock rattled the door.
"Why is your light on?" her aunt barked from outside. "Electricity costs money!"
"I'll turn it off," Lia said quickly.
She locked her phone and stood, switching off the bulb. The room plunged into darkness, broken only by the faint glow of her phone screen.
She sat back down, heart racing, listening to footsteps retreat.
For the first time in years, fear crept into her chest—not the dull, familiar fear of hunger or homelessness, but something sharper.
Attention.
Lia had spent her life trying to avoid it.
Now, someone had dragged her into it without her consent.
She curled her hands into fists.
If people were truly watching her… then hiding would no longer be enough.
Somewhere across the city, in a glass-walled office overlooking the skyline, Sebastian Blackwood stood before a floor-to-ceiling window, phone pressed to his ear.
"Yes," he said coolly. "Run the background check again. I want everything. Foster records. Hospitals. Gaps."
He paused, listening.
"No," he added. "I don't care how insignificant she looks. People like that don't survive by accident."
He ended the call and stared down at the city lights.
The girl from the café had looked at him like someone who expected nothing and trusted no one.
That kind of person was dangerous.
Lia lay awake in the darkness, unaware that two very different forces had begun circling her life.
One wanted to protect the lie.
The other wanted the truth.
And she was still just a stray—trapped in a house that had never been her home.