[1] ALEXA, and her hell ✓ [Editing]

Question ✓

Sub Urban, feat. REI AMI— Freak
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"to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in the suffering." —Friedrich Nietzsche
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The 13th of April, Year 2020.

     "Sir, nothing at all is working. None of the therapists or specialists you've rang up are capable of getting the girl to talk." Micheal Frayer, a typically overworked secretary, watches his boss worriedly, clutching his work tablet to his small chest.

     Petro Moskal has had enough. With a groan, he presses his elbows into his desk, wiping his hands down his face and muttering profanities. Micheal is also tired of it all and just wishes that the little girl would talk so that they can communicate properly. They brought her to the establishment for a reason, but her bland state and her unresponsiveness is holding everyone back.

     "How far is the class right now, Frayer?" Petro questions, pushing out of his office chair heavily. His mind, always in work mode, begins filing over ways he can approach this child to get her to talk.

     Micheal skips through the year's agenda and the current date, before stating, "They are now one week ahead, Sir. Today they're doing target training with your brother."

     Hearing this, Mr. Moskal shakes his head, grunting, "This girl better be a fast learner, or else she's going back to the streets. I don't have time to waste."

     Alessia is resting on her back in a white room, on a white bed, many storeys off the ground, staring at the clear blue sky through the closed glass window. If it isn't for the sweet smell of the air conditioner, she would've thought that she's at a hospital, but too many weird people, dressed casually, comes in and out, causing her to diminish that thought. Its been a week and she still doesn't know where she is.

     'Where has the slim man taken me?'

     "Alessia Sterling."

     She whips around at the sound of her name and in, steps a short, middle aged man with slight wrinkles decorating his face. Despite his obvious age, his posture is stoic and he carries himself fluidly into the room, holding a snake-headed cane like it's a beating stick. Micheal steps in behind him, clutching his tablet to his chest.

     The man that reeks of power, pulls a chair from the nurses station by the door and sits like a nobleman, crossing his legs with one hand resting on his upper knee and the other, on his cane. He says, "I am Petro Moskal. I'm from Russia. I brought you here and I'm here to answer your questions, ребенок."

     She stares at him. Her eyes flickering from his face to the jacket suit he's wearing, then down to his pointy shoes and back up. Her eyes are dull, observing the foreign man through her thick, dark bangs.

     "Do you have anything you want to ask? I'll be humble only now." He's patient, waiting as she lifts her gaze to the man standing behind him. Micheal adjusts his glasses on the bridge of his nose before she finally manages to breathe words questioning her whereabouts, after struggling to find her voice.

     "W–Where... Where... Am I?"

     Though it comes out hoarse, Petro beams, "You're at my establishment for kids like yourself."

     She frowns as if to ask, 'Like myself?'

     He nods, "Lost kids with a story."

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A/N: ребенок (rebenok) — child/infant/brat/kid/(etc)
according to google translate which cannot be trusted so correct me if I'm wrong.