Chapter 2: Sharp Eyes

Chloe stared at the hollowed-out book, watching it disappear into the sofa cushions along with its contents.

This was totally normal...

In a run-down Brooklyn apartment with terrible security, keeping a gun for self-defense made perfect sense. Back at the orphanage, she could hear gunshots from the next block over every single week.

"Chloe." Arthur's voice came from above without warning.

She looked up.

The man was looking down at her, his face unreadable.

"In this house, don't touch things that aren't yours." His tone was casual, like he was talking about the weather. "Understood?"

Chloe nodded frantically.

Arthur said nothing more. He turned and headed upstairs, his footsteps fading down the hallway.

Chloe hugged her knees, curling herself into a tiny ball on the carpet.

She told herself it was fine. Just a gun for self-defense. This was Brooklyn, not some fancy Manhattan neighborhood. Poor people had their own way of getting by.

This was still safer than staying with the Sterlings.

The next morning, Chloe was woken by clanging sounds from the kitchen.

She climbed out of her small bed with its worn sheets, bare feet hitting the cold hardwood floor, and shuffled her way downstairs to the kitchen doorway.

Diana stood by the stove, her golden hair loosely pinned up with a hair stick, humming something off-key.

"Mom, let me help." Chloe ran over, standing on her tiptoes trying to reach the stove.

Diana turned around, her eyes crinkling with a smile.

"Baby, you're up?" She bent down and kissed Chloe's forehead. "No need to help. Mom's almost done."

"I can wash dishes," Chloe insisted. "Or wipe the table. I did this every day at the orphanage."

Diana tilted her head and looked at her for a moment. The smile on her face grew warmer.

"Then go wipe the dining table? The rag is under the sink."

Chloe made a sound of agreement, crouched down, and pulled open the cabinet door under the sink.

Her hand froze in mid-air.

Three daggers of different sizes hung neatly on the inside of the cabinet door.

Chloe didn't make a sound. She quietly shut the cabinet door.

She tried the drawer next to it instead, looking for the rag. The drawer had barely slid open when a faint click came from the bottom, like something had been triggered.

"Find it?" Diana's voice came from behind.

"Got it." Chloe grabbed a checkered cloth and snapped the drawer shut.

She started wiping the table, hands moving steadily, but her mind was racing.

Diana came over with fried eggs, setting the plate down on the table. Chloe's eyes drifted to her hands—slender fingers, well-kept, but with a thin layer of calluses at the base of her thumb and along the knuckle of her index finger.

That definitely didn't come from cooking.

Those same calluses, in those exact same spots, were on the hands of the veteran soldiers back at the orphanage. Marks left from years of gripping a gun.

"What is it?" Diana caught her staring.

"Mom has such pretty hands." Chloe looked up with a wide, innocent smile.

Diana laughed. She reached out and pinched Chloe's little cheek.

"Such a sweet talker."

Chloe smiled back, but inside she kept telling herself—it was fine. Even if this family was a little strange, they wouldn't treat her like trash the way the Sterlings did.

Diana smiled at her. Made her breakfast. Left a kiss on her forehead.

That was enough.

After breakfast, Leo finally came downstairs at his own unhurried pace.

He had changed into a black hoodie, his hair still a mess. He dropped into the seat across the table without a word.

"Leo, take your sister out to play in the backyard after you eat." Diana slid a glass of milk toward him. "And no picking on her."

"I don't pick on people who can't fight back," Leo said flatly. "It's boring."

Chloe stabbed a piece of fried egg with her fork and shot him a sideways look.

"You saying I'm weak?"

"You couldn't even open the cabinet under the sink." Leo took a sip of milk. "Yeah, you're weak."

So he'd seen the whole thing.

Chloe chewed hard on the egg in her mouth and let it go.

The backyard wasn't big. An old oak tree took up most of the space, its trunk thick and its branches sprawling in every direction. The lowest branch hung about a meter and a half off the ground.

Leo leaned against the trunk, hands shoved in his hoodie pockets, sizing Chloe up with those blank eyes of his.

"Boring," he concluded.

"Then let's race." Chloe looked up into the canopy. "First one to the highest branch wins."

Leo's face finally showed a flicker of change. He raised an eyebrow.

"You sure?"

"You scared?"

The boy couldn't be bothered to respond. He turned and jumped onto the lowest branch. His movements were sharp and easy, nothing like a six-year-old's. He climbed hand over foot, reaching the second level in seconds.

Chloe followed, pulling herself up. Her body was only five years old, and her arm strength was nowhere near Leo's. But she gritted her teeth and kept going, inch by inch.

Leo was already two body lengths ahead.

He glanced back, the corner of his mouth curling up slightly. It was the first smile he'd managed all day.

"Give up. You're too—"

Before he could finish, Chloe shot her hand out and grabbed his ankle, yanking down with everything she had.

Leo instantly lost his balance.

His fingers slipped from the branch. He fell backward. His reflexes were fast enough that he twisted mid-air and caught a nearby branch with one hand, but he still dropped from the third level all the way to the first, his back slamming hard against the rough bark.

Chloe used the split second he fell to scramble up along his path as fast as she could.

"You cheated!" Leo's voice came from below, barely holding back his anger.

"The rules never said you couldn't touch your opponent." Chloe hauled herself up to the highest branch, panting, and sat there steadily, looking down at him. "I won."

Leo stood under the tree, the back of his shirt already torn from scraping against the bark. He stared up at Chloe, those usually empty eyes finally showing a spark of something real.

"I'm telling Mom and Dad." He threw the words out and turned to walk away.

Chloe sat on the branch, swinging her short legs, completely unbothered.

In the living room.

"She pulled me off the tree." Leo stood in front of Arthur, his voice even as he laid it out. "That's against the rules."

Arthur was leaning back on the sofa, legs crossed, a cup of black coffee in hand. He glanced past Leo at Chloe standing behind him, looking perfectly innocent.

"Did you two agree beforehand that you couldn't touch each other?"

Leo went quiet.

"No," he admitted.

"Then it's not a foul." Arthur took a sip of coffee, his voice flat. "There's no such thing as fairness on a battlefield. Winning is a skill."

Diana poked her head out from the kitchen, flour dusted across her apron.

"Chloe won?" Her eyes lit up. "Baby, that's amazing!"

Leo's face dropped.

"You're taking her side."

"This isn't about sides." Arthur set his coffee cup down and looked at his son. "You got careless. Because your opponent was weaker, you let your guard down. That kind of thinking will cost you badly one day."

Leo pressed his lips together, said nothing, and went upstairs.

Chloe stood where she was, something clicking in her mind. Her heart gave a small lurch.

They weren't taking sides.

In the Sterling family, no matter what happened, she was always the one at fault. Mia broke a vase—her fault. Mia failed a test—her bad influence. Every punishment landed on her. Every reward went to Mia.

But Arthur and Diana only looked at what was right and wrong. Not who shared whose blood.

Chloe dropped her head, blinking hard, pushing back the tears that were threatening to spill.

"Dad." She looked up, her voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you."

Arthur glanced at her, his face as unreadable as ever.

"Go wash your hands. Lunch is ready."

That night.

Chloe was already asleep.

The bedroom door was shut. The hallway was completely dark.

Arthur and Diana stood together in the kitchen, voices low.

"You noticed?" Diana was playing with a fruit knife, the blade spinning nimbly between her fingers. "Fast reflexes, sharp judgment, and something ruthless underneath it all."

Arthur leaned against the refrigerator, arms crossed.

"A five-year-old who can instantly spot the only opening in a losing situation." He paused, his voice giving nothing away. "She's got real potential."

Diana stilled the knife, ran her tongue over her lips, the look in her eyes sharpening.

"So should we—"

"Not yet." Arthur cut her off. "Watch her first. If she's really what we think..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

But Diana understood. She smiled, and under the dim kitchen light, that smile looked a little unsettling.

Upstairs, Chloe turned over and pulled her blanket tighter.

She was having a good dream.

In the dream, there were no Sterlings. No Mia. Just warm breakfast and fair judgment.

She had no idea that behind the locked basement door at the end of the hallway, there was enough firepower to arm a small squad.