Cara finished scribbling in the file, her pen scratching against the paper with quick, decisive strokes.
Then, without looking up, she asked—
"How old are you?"
Hope stiffened.
Great. Another question he hated.
People always asked about names and ages, like they were the most important things in the world.
Hope never had a real answer for either.
He wasn't exactly keeping track.
No one in the outskirts celebrated birthdays.
No one even cared.
He had guessed his age before—probably around fifteen or sixteen—but there was no way to be sure.
His earliest memories were a blur of hunger, cold, and running. There was no clear starting point, just a long stretch of survival.
Still, he had to say something.
If he hesitated too long, it might make her suspicious.
So, after a short pause, he muttered—
"I'm sixteen."
Cara finally looked up, her sharp eyes flicking over him like she was measuring the truth in his words.
Then she wrote it down.
No further questions.
Good.
That was one more hurdle cleared.
But even as she continued writing, Hope couldn't help but shift uncomfortably in his seat.
It was cold in here.
The light hospital gown he was wearing was paper-thin, barely offering any protection against the basement's chilled air.
Goosebumps had already started crawling up his arms, and his fingers were stiff from the cold.
After a few moments of silent suffering, he finally decided to speak up.
"Hey… Can I tell you something?"
Cara's brows furrowed.
She looked up from the file, eyes narrowing slightly in suspicion.
"What is it?"
Hope hesitated—then leaned in slightly, lowering his voice as if he were about to share some deep, dark secret.
Cara instinctively leaned forward as well, just a little—
And then—
"Can I get some proper clothes?" Hope whispered.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then—
Cara's entire expression twisted.
Her nose wrinkled.
Her eyes widened.
And before Hope could even register what was happening, she jerked back violently, nearly pushing him away.
"Oh—!"
Her hand shot up to cover her nose and mouth, her other hand gripping the table as if she had just been physically attacked.
Hope blinked in confusion.
Then—
It hit him.
Oh.
Oh.
A slow, horrible realization settled in his chest.
Back in the outskirts, things like hygiene weren't exactly a priority.
He had survived by keeping a low profile, not wasting water, and generally not caring about how he smelled.
Brushing his teeth?
A luxury.
Washing regularly?
Who had time for that?
He had gone days—weeks, even—without bathing, only cleaning himself when it was absolutely necessary.
And now…
Now, after whispering directly into Cara's face—
Hope realized his breath must have been absolutely rancid.
How stupid was he?
Cara was still covering her nose, her shoulders stiff with barely restrained horror.
She looked like she had just been subjected to a war crime.
Hope cleared his throat, sitting back awkwardly.
"…So, uh. About those clothes?"
Cara's eyes narrowed.
Then, without a word, she snapped the file shut, stood up—
And walked out.
Hope sighed.
Well.
At least he'd probably be getting soap along with the clothes.