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PROLOGUE
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A SLEEK BLACK CAR CRUISES down the streets of an unfamiliar city. Saffron clouds litter the skyline, casting a brilliant range of colors across its endless expanse. The radio emits an old, vintage tune—a song far too obscure to name, but recognizable enough as something that would play in a quaint cigar lounge.
Inside the lavish vehicle sits a girl. She peers out of the window through curious honey-colored eyes. She is a meager thing with a mop of thick, wavy brown hair—each strand as deep as dark chocolate.
There is ash dusted all over her arms, legs, and face. The soot appears to have come from nowhere in particular . . . strangely enough. Just as strangely, her entire body reeks of smoke, as if she just ran through the flames of a burning building seconds away from collapsing into cinders.
Funny, because that just might have been the case.
The girl isn't usually one to brood. She always tries to keep her head up in any situation, no matter how unfortunate. But, presently, there is quite the justifiable excuse for feeling frustrated.
The man who adopted her—whose name is Sir Reginald Hargreeves, apparently—quickly revealed himself to be an unpleasant individual. He is snappy, harsh, and unbearably self-righteous. That much became clear not even thirty minutes after meeting him.
This earned Sir Reginald the more fitting title of "the old man" soon after.
He was brief in explaining what her new life would entail. Something about an elite school to train "people like her" in using their abilities for crime-stopping around the world. It sounded decently interesting at first, but upon meeting the self-proclaimed head of this so-called "Umbrella Academy," Flare's hopes were quickly tarnished.
After she had been pulled off of the streets of an unknown city in the middle of nowhere, she quickly found herself in the foster-care system. What happened in her life during this period is a story for another time. However, it wasn't long before Reginald Hargreeves somehow learned of her abilities, and quickly came to retrieve her, assigning her the endearing name of "Number Eight."
"I already have a name," she had protested, to which the man's jaw only tightened at her lack of respect.
"I don't care whether or not you do. The world has no time for unnecessary formalities, thus I will be referring to you as whatever title I see fit. Remember that, Number Eight."
