Chapter 4 - The Third-Floor Rear
The building where Mia lived stood four streets away from the bank, in a neighborhood where the streetlights had been broken so long the city had forgotten to fix them.
The brick façade was peeling, and the hallway smelled of boiled cabbage, damp carpet, and rust. There was no elevator. Ethan followed Mia up three flights of creaking wooden stairs, his handmade leather shoes treading carefully over splintered steps. Marcus followed behind, his massive frame barely fitting in the narrow stairwell, while Miller waited nervously in the car outside.
Mia stopped at apartment 3B. The door was scratched, its brass deadbolt loose.
"Lily?" Mia called out, pushing the door open softly.
The apartment was tiny—two rooms with sun-faded wallpaper and mismatched furniture. But like the rag dolls, it was clean. A small fan whirred uselessly in the corner, pushing the heavy, humid air around the room.
On a narrow twin bed in the corner lay a little girl, no older than four. Her hair was damp with sweat, her face flushed dark red, and her chest labored with every ragged breath she took.
"Mia?" a faint, raspy voice came from the bed. "Did you find Dad?"
"No, sweetie," Mia said, rushing to the side of the bed and setting the paper bag on the nightstand. "I found help. Look! I got the blue bottle!"
Ethan stepped into the room, his eyes sweeping over the stark poverty. On the kitchen counter sat three envelopes marked PAST DUE: ELECTRIC and NOTICE OF INTENT TO EVICT. Beside them sat an empty jar that had once held small change.
Ethan walked over to the bed, setting his cool hand gently on the four-year-old's forehead. She was burning up—at least 103 degrees.
"Where is your father, Mia?" Ethan asked quietly.
"He works at the industrial docks on Pier 4," Mia said, wiping her sister's forehead with a damp rag. "He started at five this morning. He doesn't have a phone because the bill wasn't paid last week."
Before Ethan could answer, heavy boots thundered up the stairwell outside.
The front door burst open. A man in grease-stained canvas pants and a faded work shirt stood in the doorway, gasping for air. His hands were calloused, his eyes wild with terror.
"Mia!" the man shouted, dropping his lunch tin. "I got a message from the neighbor saying you ran off—"
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He froze, his eyes locking onto the tall man in a six-thousand-dollar suit standing beside his sick daughter's bed, backed by a massive security guard in the doorway.
"Who are you?" the father demanded, his posture turning defensive, his fists clenching at his sides. "What are you doing in my home?"
