Mafia Enslaved

I was in the corner, observing the girl in the yellow floral dress who seemed lost in her own world. She appeared to be around my age. "Psst! Come here!" the Boss called out to me. I quickly approached him, but he jerked my shirt aggressively, causing me to stumble in front of them. "You look after her," he hissed, gripping my jaw tightly. I nodded slowly and looked at the girl, who was staring back at me. "Kids, let's go! You! Take her with you for training!" He yelled at me. They all scampered away, probably planning another k********g of wealthy children for a hefty ransom. "Have you eaten?" I asked the girl in the yellow floral dress. She suddenly burst into tears. Do I care? I've grown accustomed to it. Every child brought here reacts the same way. Some children can't bear the ransom demands and are auctioned off. Others are taken by pedophiles, while some are snatched by the mafia and other syndicates. But most of the time, they sell the organs. I am only six, yet I already know the ins and outs of VENOM, our syndicate's name. They are known in the black market for their drug trade. They haven't been caught yet because we, kids aged 12 and below, handle the sales. Do you think they'd suspect us? "Sit here and eat. You can change your clothes afterward." Even at six, I took care of her. I know how to cook and do anything else needed. "I wanna go home," she sniffled. "You can't. Besides, do you remember anything?" I asked. She bowed her head and sniffed again. "Only my name," she said. "What's your name?" "M-Marshan... I can't remember my last name. You?" She wiped her tears. "Uno," I said. "Is that a nickname? What's your real name?" She inquired, seeming less scared of me now. "I don't have one," I replied. "Then—" "Please, just eat," I interrupted. She fell silent and started eating the noodles I had prepared. I left her alone for a moment to get her some clothes. We entered my room for her to change. I noticed a mark on the collarbone, shaped like a crown. "I knew it," she said, looking at herself in the mirror. "We're twins!" she exclaimed. I looked away and arranged her clothes and shoes. "We may look alike, but we're not twins. I am made, not born," I explained. She furrowed her brow. What could a 6-year-old possibly comprehend? "It's complicated," I said. She seemed puzzled. "Then our names should be nice too. I'm Marshan, and you're... hmmm... MAUREEN!"