‘I’ll give you a million if you cure me,’ laughed the millionaire… until the impossible happened.

It rolled across the polished stone tiles of the Franklin Bay Neurological Institute, sharp and performative, as though the men gathered there were not sharing amusement but staging it, testing how loudly cruelty could be expressed without consequence.

“Two million dollars,” said the man in the motorized chair, clapping his hands together with theatrical delight. “That is what I will donate to this place if anyone here can make my legs move again.”

The men around him responded with approving chuckles, their tailored jackets catching the morning sun as though the wealth stitched into their seams made them immune to discomfort or shame.

In front of them stood a child. She could not have been more than ten years old, barefoot on stone that still carried the chill of night, her knees smudged with grime that no amount of scrubbing ever seemed to fully remove. Her shirt had once been white, and her hair was pulled back clumsily with a fraying ribbon that suggested it had been reused too many times to count.

Her name was Nina Alvarez.