In the suburbs of Washington, a tranquil Victorian manor stood hidden among maple trees. A plain wooden sign hung on its wrought-iron gate:
[The Sacred Heart Orphanage and Relief Home].
In the yard, more than a dozen children played beneath the autumn afternoon sun.
Some chased a ball across the lawn, some sat quietly on benches reading picture books, and several older children helped prepare dinner in the kitchen.
Everything looked perfectly normal—far more welcoming than an ordinary orphanage, in fact. Sunshine, grass, children's laughter, and the scent of baking cookies drifting through the air.
Except every child wore a differently colored plastic wristband, the walls surrounding the grounds were far taller than those of an ordinary orphanage, and cameras had been installed along them, operating around the clock. That part was somewhat strange.
At the very top floor of the orphanage's main building, in the room bearing the plaque "Director's Office," the heavy curtains had been drawn shut tight, with layers upon layers of Silencing Charms and Anti-detection Spells in place.
The air carried a faint smell of blood, the sour stench of vomit, and the distinctive herbal scent of Potion.
John Stonefield slumped in a high-backed chair.
This gentleman, renowned in Washington as a "philanthropist" and "pioneer of child protection," now stared blankly ahead. His clothes were disheveled, the hem stained with his own vomit, and his unfocused gaze fixed on a wall lamp before him.
Viktor stood beside him, his expression a mixture of disgust and boredom. One hand rested in the pocket of his work pants, while the other held a Crystal Vial of Veritaserum.
"Keep talking, Mr. Stonefield."
Viktor's voice was rough, his demeanor cold.
"You were just talking about 'special children.' What exactly made them 'special'?"
A gurgling sound came from the battered John's