Clara stood over what was left of Adam.
His small body was curled against the stone, arms limp, headless. Smoke still drifted from the jagged stump of his neck, the smell of scorched flesh still very much potent in the air.
But even as she looked at him, she didn't cry after all, their meeting was still very much fresh.
However, regardless of this, something inside her was still very much clenched, like a fist closing slowly.
He was five years old after all.
A monster, a pervert, he could be called many things, but still, a child was a child.
And this child was her master. Her only link to something that resembled purpose in this new life.
The silence stretched, as she watched his body, there was not a single ounce of hate, anger, or rage in her eyes. Yet something small like a fire lit inside of her, slowly growing like a slow-burning ember.
Then, from behind her, the sound of footsteps came closer.
