Chapter 3 - THE FOURTH-FLOOR WALK-UP
The Chelsea district was cold, bleak, and industrial as the sun began to break through the dirty gray clouds on the horizon. The streets were lined with weathered brick tenement buildings, rusty fire escapes, and narrow alleyways littered with damp trash.
Adeline turned down a narrow side street, stopping in front of a crumbling four-story apartment building. The front stoop was cracked, the main entrance door hanging slightly askew on rusted hinges.
She pushed through the door and began the agonizing climb up the narrow, unlit stairwell.
Without an audience, without the fear of losing her job at the Baron estate, Adeline stopped hiding her physical pain. She leaned heavily against the wooden handrail, her right hand gripping the banister so hard her knuckles turned white, dragging her left leg up each wooden step one by one. Step. Drag. Step. Drag. The stairs creaked loudly under her weight in the quiet building.
By the time she reached the fourth floor landing, her forehead was slick with cold sweat, her breath coming in ragged, painful gasps.
At the far end of the dim corridor, Door 4B stood as a testament to poverty and urban decay. The cheap wooden door panel was visibly damaged—split down the center frame near the deadbolt from a past break-in attempt, patched crudely with a strip of unpainted plywood and long steel screws.
Adeline pulled a set of brass keys from her coat, unlocked the triple-deadbolt system she had personally installed, and pushed the heavy door open.
Inside, the apartment was small, cramped, and freezing cold. The plaster on the walls was peeling, revealing old lath underneath. A single window overlooked an alley, covered by a thin, faded curtain.
In the corner of the room, lying on the apartment’s only proper twin bed beneath a worn, threadbare woolen blanket, was sixteen-year-old Evan Hayes.
Evan was thin, remarkably pale, with dark circles under his hollow eyes. He looked fragile, his young frame swallowed by an oversized, faded gray T-shirt. Resting on top of the blanket was his right arm—his wrist tightly wrapped in a thick, yellowing layer of old, stained medical bandages that desperately needed replacement.
As the door clicked shut, Evan slowly opened his eyes, shifting his weight against two thin, flat pillows.
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"Addie?" Evan’s voice was weak, raspy, and dry from the cold room air.
"It's me, Evan," Adeline said softly, her tired face instantly softening into a warm, gentle smile as she set her backpack down on a wooden folding chair. "I'm home."
