The storm swept over Brighton Falls as if the sky itself had finally lost patience with the city below. Rain slammed into rooftops and streets with relentless force, flooding gutters and turning intersections into shallow rivers, while thunder rolled overhead like something ancient and angry being dragged across the heavens. Lightning flared again and again, briefly illuminating brick buildings and rusted fences before plunging everything back into darkness. Most people were indoors by then, safe behind locked doors and warm walls, unaware of how cruel the night could be to those with nowhere to hide.
On the far edge of the city, where broken warehouses gave way to scrap yards and forgotten land, the municipal dump sprawled like a scar that never healed. Garbage bags burst open under the weight of rain, spilling their contents into thick mud. Bent metal, shattered glass, and soaked cardboard reflected the lightning in sharp flashes. The air stank of decay and damp plastic, and the ground sucked at anything that dared step on it.
A small figure moved through the wreckage with practiced care.
Her name was Kayla Brooks, and she was eight years old.