Sullivan sat at his desk, swamped with papers concerning the girl. Contracts to install further security measures in the factory. Impending lawsuits against the company. More press conferences. More interviews. Yadda yadda yadda.

But it didn't matter. It didn't matter to him.

It was Boo. It was Boo.

Wasn't it?

No, no. It could not be true.

Mike was right.

It wasn't Boo.

Sullivan fell back in his chair, pressing his palms to his eyes.

It was not Boo.

Boo is not back.

Boo will never come back.

Because of me, Boo is gone.

Sullivan propped his elbows on his desk, holding up his forehead by his left hand. "Why wasn't I there for her?" He contemplated aloud. "Why didn't I save her?"

In response, his television turned on. Static danced across the screen.

"What?"

The static stopped, switching to a new feed.

On the screen, chained to the wall in cuffs, was the girl.

The human girl.

Someone had found her.

Someone had gotten to her first.

Sullivan gawked at her chains. His greatest fear was coming true.

Someone was hurting her.

Sullivan marched up the screen. In the corner, was the icon "LIVE."

Sullivan remained silent, imploding, despite the child herself making light of the situation.

When she was done speaking, she let her head fall, before looking back up.

"What?" she horsely whispered, almost inaudible. But she then lightened up, making banter to someone off camera.

Sullivan watched in unimaginable horror as the girl's chains began to pull apart.

Began to pull her apart.

But even after a few moments of the torture, her expression changed back to humorous. She almost began to laugh, looking at her chains. "Ow, ow, no really, ow. I know orphans that can yank harder than you. What are you gonna do next, tickle me?"

Sullivan scrunched his eyebrows as the camera was put down.

Though out of view, Sullivan could still hear everything. The cameraman must have forgotten to turn the audio off.

"Scream."

"I'm sorry, what Skipper?"

"Scream. You used to be reeeaaaal good at that."

"Uh, yeah, uh, sorry boss. Ain't feeling it today."

"Scream for help by your own free will or this will become a lot less pleasant for you, you little dane."

"Ok, first of all, it's dame. If you're gonna threaten me, do it properly. Second of all, you're nuts if you think tugging at my apron like mummy in the kitchen is going to make me succumb to yelling for help like some airheaded damsel in distress."

Slap.

Sullivan curled his fist.

He did not just—

"Fight me."

"You like pain, eh? Didn't think I would need more than first power."

The next sentence the captor muttered was too quiet for Sullivan to make out.

"Who?"

Something kept nagging at Sullivan.

Where had he heard that voice before?

After a few more moments of silence, there was a click and screech.

The camera was picked back up again.

Sullivan's nails dug into his face, mortified, helpless to do anything but watch as the teenage girl wrestled the urge to scream, even after another attempt to make light of the situation.

Eventually, her limbs gave out, and she surrendered her wails of torture.

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

The screen zipped black.

Sullivan buried his face in his hands.

But to the sound of a piercing beeping, Sullivan peered through his split fingers.

On the screen, in bold, yellow lettering, flashed the words "Basement."

Sullivan was slack-jaw.

Sullivan dropped to his knees and frantically searched for his desk phone through all the spilled papers.

His fingers shook and almost slipped as he dialed the numbers, looking back and forth between the flashing screen and the phone's keys.

He brought the receiver to his ear, keeping his eyes on the screen. "Come on come on come on come on."

* * *

Mike sat at his station, opening the file of his next child, while his intern brought the door down.

He eyed the photo paperclipped to the manilla folder.

A little red head, with wide blue eyes, and a look of woe on her face.

Sweet kid. What a sweet, sweet kid. Shy, but underneath that sugar coated exterior, almost a cynicalness. This perfect blend of water and oil. A fire in her, always—

He stopped.

A fire.

He braced his chest, willing to tolerate it no longer.

No.

No, Michael.

No.

The phone beside him rang. Like a reflex he struck his hand to the phone, but in a second moment, he hesitated, and let go.

I'm really not in the mood for the office right now.

Letting it ring out, Michael turned in his spinning seat, surprised to be facing Gizzy, his intern. The squid-like creature with dreads as black as night shook in fear of his angry superior.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Mike shouted. "This kid likes slapstick! I need a pie! On the double! On the double!"

"Yes sir, yes sir!" Gizzy nodded, and ran away. "Right away, sir!"

"And no lemon pie! I'm going to get this in my eye!" Mike called back.

Mike closed his eye and massaged his temples, fuming. When he looked up, he saw every monster on the floor staring at him.

"What are you looking at?"

They all went back to their work, leaving Mike alone at the center of the floor.

When the prying eyes fell from him, Michael's anger dissolved into an agonizing sigh.

The young child's woeful eyes still haunted his sight.

No, you cannot. You will not. Never again will you love a child.

He rubbed his eye, before turning back into his cubicle.

Never again.

* * *

Sullivan pulled the phone from his ear. It rang dead.

He was alone in this.

He dropped the phone and charged out of his office, skidding past Prezzy as he slung to the hall.

She fell against the door, his wind blowing her hair as he zoomed past her.

She adjusted her glasses. "Sir, where are you—"

He was already out of sight.