"How do you raise a house full of psychopaths, Dr. Choi?" she asked, looking back through the glass at the small boy.
"Very carefully, Dr. Min. Very carefully."
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Minho shook off his umbrella, looking back at the storm raging outside the children's home. It was almost apocalyptic out there—lightning chasing across the sky, thunder shaking the ground with each boom. The streetlights gave the sheets of rain an eerie glow, or maybe that was just Minho's imagination. His head was a mess tonight.
This was it. The beginning of his plan. A culmination of everything he'd planned for the last year...if the boy worked out. Allen seemed sure that this boy—this orphaned eight-year-old child—was the perfect subject for Minho's project.
He wiped the rain from his brow as he walked towards an elderly security guard hunched over the front desk. Just as he was about to announce himself, Allen came sweeping out from a doorway on the left. "Minho, just in time. Come with me."
Allen clapped him on the back and turned him around just as the security guard noticed him. Allen gave the man a wave. He dipped his head, returning to whatever had his attention on the desk.
Allen gave him a reassuring smile, running a hand through his dark hair. He was in his late forties, handsome in a distinguished way, graying only at the temples. He was almost the same age as his father would have been had he lived. It made sense given he was one of Minho's father's closest friends. All these years later, their friendship still baffled Minho. His father was a nightmare of a human, rotten to his core.
Allen on the other hand was...solid. Not overly friendly or ingratiating. Not too cold or distant. He was the definition of steadfast. When people said somebody had a good head on their shoulders, they were often talking about somebody like Allen. He was respected, connected, and beyond reproach. How had Allen tolerated his father all those years?
It didn't matter. Minho was grateful to have Allen as an ally, somebody to easily navigate the system, cut through red tape, facilitate transfers, and run interference.
The building was deceptively small outside, but inside was a sea of closed doors and tunneling hallways. They'd painted the walls a nauseating mint green that had faded to an even dingier yellowish green over time. The linoleum tiles were starting to peel up from the concrete floor beneath, and the lights flickered like something out of an old horror movie. When they reached a crossroads, they took a hallway on the left.
Minho gave a nervous laugh. "There's no end to this place."
Allen chuckled. "It seems that way."
Minho darted a glance in the older man's direction. "Where are we going?"
"Trust me, just...just trust me," Allen said, increasing his pace.
They made a right turn and came to a dead end where there were four closed doors. Allen nodded to a woman wearing jeans, a baggy sweatshirt, and a ponytail. "Is he in there already?"
