The girl couldn’t have been older than six. Her hair was tangled, her face streaked with dirt and soot, her eyes far too old for such a small body. In her arms, she held a newborn wrapped in a torn, filthy cloth, pressed tight against her chest like the only real thing left in the world.
The baby whimpered—weak, exhausted.
The girl didn’t loosen her grip for even a second.
Michael knelt without realizing it. The wet earth soaked into his knees, but he didn’t notice.
“Are you… alone here?” he asked softly, afraid to break something fragile.
The girl didn’t answer. She only tightened her arms around the baby, fingers whitening with tension.
Michael recognized that look.
It wasn’t just fear.
It was calculation.
Survival.
The same look he’d worn during hostile takeovers—except for her, it wasn’t about money. It was about staying alive.
“My name is Michael,” he said gently, extending his hand the way one approaches an injured animal. “What’s yours?”
She backed up slightly, pressing against a broken plank, eyes never leaving his face.
“Emma,” she whispered at last.
The sound loosened something in his chest, like a thin thread of trust pulling tight between strangers.
“And the baby?”