Prologue
**Prologue – *Psych Steel***
(17 March 2016...)
Rain streaked down the windows, tapping a soft rhythm against the glass. Inside the orphanage, everything was quiet, except for the faint hum of the old heater and the occasional creak of the floorboards.
A small girl sat in the corner, knees pulled to her chest. Her name didn’t matter to most people. They called her “strange.” “scary.” Sometimes they whispered, “She’s not like us.”
She didn’t care. She wasn’t interested in what others thought of her. From where she sat, she could see everything—the way the other kids moved, how the staff whispered behind their hands, the tiny shift in shadows as someone walked down the hall.
She had learned early that watching was safer than speaking. That noticing things no one else noticed could keep you alive. That paying attention was stronger than fighting.
Tonight, though, something felt different. She saw a shadow she didn’t recognize, lingering just outside the door. It wasn’t a child, and it didn’t move like the staff. It was still, heavy, almost… waiting.
Her pulse didn’t quicken. Her chest didn’t tighten. But her mind clicked into motion. Every detail mattered—the rhythm of the footsteps outside, the faint scent of rain carried in the hallway, the way the light bounced off the damp floor.
The other kids would have screamed. She didn’t. She only watched.
And somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice whispered that the world beyond these walls was larger than she had imagined. Bigger. Stranger. Harder.
And soon, she would have to face it.
For now, she stayed in her corner, silent and alert. Watching. Learning. Waiting.
Because she had always known: the world didn’t care about ordinary children. And she was far from ordinary.
The shadow shifted.
Not much—just enough to confirm it wasn’t her imagination.
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
It was closer now.
The faint line of darkness beneath the door stretched, then stilled again, as if whoever stood there had adjusted their stance.
Listening.
To her.
Ayzel slowly lowered her feet to the ground. The cold floor didn’t bother her. Nothing did, really. Not anymore.
She stood up without a sound.
Step by step, she moved toward the door, her movements careful, controlled—too precise for a child. The air felt heavier with each step, like something unseen was pressing down on the room.
She stopped just before reaching it.
For a moment, neither side moved.
Then—
A soft knock.
Once.
Not loud. Not urgent. Just… certain.
Ayzel tilted her head slightly, studying the door like it might answer her.
Most children would have called for help.
Most would have stepped back.
She didn’t.
“Who are you?” she asked quietly.
Her voice didn’t shake.
There was no reply.
But the presence didn’t leave.
Instead, something changed—something subtle, almost impossible to name. The silence grew thicker, sharper. Like the moment before something breaks.
And for the first time in a long while…
Ayzel felt it.
Not fear.
Not exactly.
But something unfamiliar.
Something her mind couldn’t immediately understand.
Her fingers hovered near the door handle—but she didn’t touch it.
Not yet.
Because somewhere deep inside, beyond logic and observation, a thought settled quietly into place:
This moment would matter.
More than this night.
More than this place.
More than anything she remembered before it.
And whatever waited on the other side of that door…
It wasn’t there by accident.
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