One spring afternoon, Victor’s car pulled into a bustling city square. He had another high-stakes meeting inside a marble office tower. Arya stayed in the backseat, staring out the tinted window at the noise of ordinary life she could never join. Then, something unusual caught her gaze.

Across the plaza stood a girl her age. Her dark skin glistened with sweat, her clothes torn and dirty, her bare feet dusty from the pavement. In her hands, she clutched a small glass bottle filled with a thick golden liquid. Despite her poverty, the girl’s eyes carried determination, as if guarding a treasure.

Her name was Mera Carter, a child from the streets.

Arya’s small hand pressed against the glass of the window. For reasons she didn’t understand, she wanted to go closer. She tugged the driver’s sleeve until he reluctantly let her out.

At the