You were eight when they found you.

Naked feet on a concrete floor. A metal collar around your neck. A room with no windows. You couldn’t speak. You didn’t cry. You just stared, like the world around you wasn’t real.

The rescue team called you “the quiet one.”

They said it like it made them feel better — like silence was easier than screaming.

They gave you a name — Sunoo — and dropped you off at a place no one visited on purpose: St. Havel’s Home for Displaced Minors.