Lucas stiffened. He hated scenes like this, public desperation, raw pleading, and the way it made people stare as though wealth itself carried moral obligation carved into stone. He had spent his entire life learning how to detach, how to walk past suffering without letting it slow him down.
“Get her off me,” he said quietly, though the tension in his voice betrayed him.
The guard tugged gently, but the child only tightened her grip, her small body shaking violently. Her dress was faded and wrinkled, its hem torn slightly as though it had caught on something earlier in the day. Her hair was gathered into uneven braids that had begun to unravel.
“She is pregnant,” the girl cried suddenly, lifting her head to look at him with eyes far too old for her small face. “My mom is pregnant and bleeding. They said she will die.”
The word hung in the air like a curse. Lucas exhaled sharply and looked toward the reception desk. “Is that true,” he asked, his tone clipped.