The memories tumble in on and over each other. His mother delicate and beautiful and as touchable as the sky. The fading of her upon his father's arrest and those first chaotic weeks where he had had more nightmares than restful sleep. The shadow she had become even before he understood that the world had turned on them and the idyllic luxury of their lives became the desperate, clawing attempts to survive. The suggestions on and on by those around that perhaps it would have been better he did not.

His breathing is already shallow and quick when the other boy reaches for him and Illya flinches back in fear.

No safety lies in the adults who walk the streets of the city, he knows. It is expected he will take his blows and should he weep, be punished more severely for it. Fear is a block in his throat, but the threat of worse should he fail to answer has him struggling for words despite his raising agitation. There is nothing of the control (however fragile) of adulthood. Not now. "No. I do not know where I am."