Chapter 3: The Cold Basement**
The tenement on 4th Street reeked of damp rot, mildew, and neglect. Rusted iron fire escapes hung loose against crumbling brick walls. Victor navigated the dim basement corridor with a heavy flashlight, carrying Annie wrapped tightly in his dry overcoat.
"Down here, Daddy," Annie whispered pointedly toward a rusted metal door numbered *B-4*.
Victor pushed the door open. The room was freezing, devoid of heat or furniture except for an iron cot and a single electric kettle sitting on a milk crate. On the cot lay Clara Miller, shivering under two thin, worn fleece blankets. Her hollow cheeks and pale skin barely resembled the vibrant young artist who had captured Victor’s heart years ago.
"Clara," Victor choked out, dropping to his knees beside the cot.
Clara’s eyelids fluttered open. When she recognized his face, fear instantly overtook her glazed gaze. She scrambled backward against the concrete wall, clutching her chest. "Victor... please. I didn't come to your event. Annie got out through the window while I was asleep... please don't let your mother take her."
"Clara, look at me," Victor pleaded, taking her freezing, calloused hands in his own. "I didn't know. I swear on my life, I never knew what they did. I thought you left me. They forged the documents."
Clara stared at him, tears cutting clean paths through the dust on her cheeks. "They told me you signed the restraining order. Julian came here with men in black suits every month. He said if I ever contacted the press or tried to find you, he would make Annie disappear into state custody."
A cold, methodical resolve settled over Victor’s chest. He wrapped his arms around Clara, lifting her frail frame effortlessly. "It’s over. No more running. No more dark rooms."
"Where are we going?" she asked faintly.
May you like
"To reclaim what they stole from us," Victor said, carrying her out into the crisp dawn air.
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