One Month Later:
Ethan didn't understand why the disappointed look from Miss Andler hurt him more than his fight with the special grade—especially when she found out he had lost the color pencils Max had lent him.
Maybe the woman had some kind of broken cursed technique: Guilt Multiplication. He didn't know.
Speaking of the boy, he saw Max—the African American kid—giving him a look that screamed betrayal.
His face was marked with dried tear streaks after hours of crying. Ethan had severely underestimated how fond Max was of his color pencils. Maybe if he told Max that he had used them to save thousands of people, Max would understand?
Nah… that would probably sound like a child with a severe case of chūnibyō, and he wasn't even in the eighth grade yet.
"I dropped them near the drains, Miss Andler," he chose his words wisely. "They flowed away."
Miss Andler looked like she wanted to scold him a little more, but she controlled herself. She still remembered how Ethan had shut himself off from everyone after his adoption
fiasco two years ago. Maybe this was his way of acting out?
She gave him one more disappointed look and then turned toward Max.
"Max, I'll talk to Mr. Aris. I'm sure he can get you another color pencil set."
Mr. Aris was the director of the Children Village Orphanage. He was a strict man, but only toward new couples looking to adopt—or misbehaving children.
Even if Mr. Aris rejected the request, she would buy the color pencil set herself and give it to Max. She knew it was against the rules to give gifts to one child—it could lead to bullying. Children could be vicious little beasts; she had learned that the hard way. But Max was a sweet boy, and it wasn't like she couldn't afford it. She lived alone, so she didn't have many expenses.
Her heart leapt when she saw the bright smile on Max's face. Yep… totally worth it.
She sent the children to their rooms and started preparing dinner.
Her thoughts drifted to the news. It had been a month since the 9/11 attack that had killed 44 people, excluding the four terrorists onboard. No group had publicly come forward to claim responsibility for the crash yet, but she could sense growing religious tension against Muslim minorities across the city after the identities of the terrorists were confirmed.
There were also rumors in various tabloids that there had been three more planes the terrorists had planned to crash, but no major news channel was addressing them. She assumed it wasn't true—she wasn't like those nutjobs back in high school who believed every conspiracy theory.
She was lost in these thoughts when the old bell of the orphanage rang.
She had no scheduled meetings today with any prospective parents. Mr. Aris wasn't available on weekends.
The bell rang again.
"Coming!!" she called, rushing forward with hurried steps.
What greeted her at the doorstep was a familiar bald Asian woman who appeared to be around her age. Andler couldn't place where she had met her before. The woman was wearing a very expensive black coat. Andler, being something of a fashion enthusiast, could tell authentic from knockoff at a glance—even without any formal training.
The gears in Andler's mind turned. She realized she was staring, coughed lightly, and put on her professional face. She had learned firsthand that being rich didn't necessarily make someone a good parent. Sure, a child would lack for nothing materially, but a guardian's constant presence was crucial for healthy development.
"Hello, I'm Adler Petit. How can I help you today?"
"Ah… Miss Petit. Good to meet you again. I'm Lucy—Lucy Park."
Seeing through her professional façade, Lucy added,
"You might not remember me, but we met earlier this month when you brought the children from your orphanage to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for a field trip."
"Ah—yes! I remember. You were discussing The Death of Socrates with Ethan! I was quite surprised to see him engage with someone. He's usually such a quiet kid."
What had truly baffled her was Ethan's apparent knowledge of the painting. He had explained it like a curator from the 1700s.
"Yeah… I know. Quite a morbid topic to discuss with a child," Lucy said.
And indeed it was.
The Death of Socrates is an oil-on-canvas painting by French artist Jacques-Louis David, completed in 1787. It depicts Socrates' trial and execution in 399 BC for impiety and corrupting the youth—choosing hemlock over exile, becoming a philosophical martyr for the examined life.
At least, that was how Ethan had explained it.
If it weren't for his enthusiasm, Andler might have labeled the bald woman a creep—but the way she listened and answered Ethan's questions made it clear that Lucy was simply a history buff.
Their conversation was interrupted by a Toyota Camry pulling into the driveway.
That was strange. Mr. Aris didn't usually come in on weekends.
The man stepped out of the car wearing casual home pajamas—definitely not dressed for work. He carried a stack of files and handed them to Andler. Lucy greeted him calmly, as if she had been expecting him.
Mr. Aris ushered Andler into his office while Lucy waited in the common room.
"What!?" Andler couldn't believe what she was hearing.
In New York, child-placing agencies followed strict legal procedures for adoption—procedures she was very familiar with. They involved extensive background checks, mandatory home studies, over 30 hours of training for adoptive parents, months of supervision, and final court approval.
"How can the NYC Administration for Children's Services just rubber-stamp a woman and expect us to hand over a child!? Is that even legal!?"
"I know—it's an unusual situation," Mr. Aris said calmly.
"Unusual!? More like illegal!"
These procedures existed for a reason—to keep the wrong people from adopting. Having a child was a huge responsibility; it wasn't all rainbows and sunshine.
"I just got the call from ACS this afternoon," Mr. Aris continued. "They faxed me extensive background checks on Miss Park, along with her training certification. Everything checks out. You'll be the supervisor for the next three months. Your report will be what the court reviews afterward."
Miss Park must have friends in high places—but they still had a duty to Ethan to at least give her a chance.
"Does Ethan even know?" Andler asked.
"I do."
Ethan stood at the doorway with an old, packed suitcase.
Was she the only one who didn't know?
Ethan had met the Ancient One fifteen days ago during a field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In his previous life, he had worked part-time as a history guide at a local museum while pursuing his master's degree in Connecticut. He had expected her to appear sooner—especially after the whole Hill Forest incident. Surprisingly, they hadn't talked about jujutsu sorcery at all. Instead, they bonded over their shared appreciation of Jacques-Louis David's famous work, The Death of Socrates. Ethan found it amusing to think that she must have been alive long before the painter of that masterpiece was even born.
When his group was about to leave, she discreetly asked him whether he would mind joining Kamar-Taj in the near future.
He had answered "yes" with a face full of smiles. After all, who wouldn't want to attend the Hogwarts of the Marvel universe if given the chance?
The Ancient One had smiled calmly at the time, but for some reason it felt predatory. She didn't say anything else—at least not until yesterday, when Ethan had been in Hell's Kitchen exorcising a couple of Grade 2 curses using no cursed energy, relying only on passive reinforcement.
He had noticeably increased in strength after his encounter with the special grade.
It was there that the Ancient One informed him she would be adopting him—today.
But…
Something didn't feel right.
At the back of his mind, he had the uneasy feeling of being in one of those situations where a new boss is kind and accommodating during the first few days, only to slowly increase the workload later—with no overtime pay. He had experienced that more than once in his previous life while juggling multiple part-time jobs to support himself during college in Connecticut.
A chill ran down Ethan's spine.
Maybe he was just imagining things!?
There was no way the virtuous and serene Ancient One would adopt a seven-year-old kid just to saddle him with the grunt work of hunting lower-grade curses… right?
Right!?
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