Falsely Accused, I Started Plundering Monster Traits

The town had changed less than Lin Yan expected.

The houses along the outskirts were a little newer, the old gas station had changed its sign, and the grocery store on the main road had somehow survived another decade, but the bones of the place were still the same. Every intersection brought back the turn that came after it before they even reached it.

"Take a left up here."

Claire followed his direction, and the road narrowed between older houses before climbing toward a stretch Lin Yan hadn’t seen in years.

The familiarity was strange. He hadn’t thought about these roads in a long time, yet his body seemed to remember them before he did.

Then the black metal fence came into view.

The children’s home sat behind it.

Someone had replaced the old chain-link fence, repainted the main building, and added another wing to the eastern side, but the broad front lawn was still there, along with the two maple trees near the entrance.

As a kid, Lin Yan had thought that yard was enormous. Running from the gate to the front steps had felt like crossing half the neighborhood.

Now he looked at it and figured twenty long strides would do it.

That was probably the strangest part of coming back. The place hadn’t really gotten smaller; he’d just gotten bigger.

Claire eased the car through the gate. A few children were playing near the far side of the yard, and one by one they turned to watch the unfamiliar vehicle approach.

Lin Yan recognized a couple of them almost immediately.

They looked different, of course. Three years did a lot more to a kid than it did to an adult. One boy he’d remembered as barely reaching his waist was suddenly all elbows and knees, and a girl near the swings had gotten tall enough that he had to look twice before placing her.

Claire glanced over. "Anyone you know?"

"A few."

One of the older kids was staring back at him now, squinting through the windshield as if trying to match his face to someone much smaller.

Lin Yan almost laughed.

A lot of the faces he remembered were gone, but not all of them. A few of the younger kids were still here, only taller than he remembered.

Claire parked beside the main building.

Lin Yan had barely opened the door when the entrance swung outward.

An elderly woman stepped onto the front landing.

Her hair had gone completely white. That was the first thing Lin Yan noticed; the second was how little everything else seemed to have changed.

Mrs. Whitaker had to be somewhere in her late sixties by now, maybe older—Lin Yan had stopped trying to keep track years ago—but she still dressed exactly like he remembered. Jeans, a loose black T-shirt, worn leather sandals, both forearms left bare beneath faded tattoos that ran almost to her elbows: old flowers, a swallow, several lines of script, and the remains of something that might once have been a snake.

For a moment, she simply stared at him.

Lin Yan raised one hand. "Hey, Grandma."

Her mouth opened.

"You little bastard."

Then she was coming down the steps faster than someone her age had any business moving.

Lin Yan laughed just before she grabbed him.

Mrs. Whitaker wrapped both arms around him and held on tight enough that the laugh died somewhere in his throat.

"Years," she muttered against his chest. "You couldn’t come back once in all those years?"

"Been busy."

"Busy my ass. I thought you were dead, you little shit."

Lin Yan’s grin faded a little.

"Yeah. Sorry."

She held on for another second before finally pushing him back far enough to get a proper look at him.

Her eyes went up.

And kept going.

Mrs. Whitaker narrowed her eyes.

"...You been taking horse steroids or something?"

Lin Yan blinked. "What?"

"Don’t ’what’ me. Look at you."

She grabbed his upper arm and squeezed, then gave his chest and shoulders a long, suspicious once-over.

"What happened? You join some underground fight club?"

"No."

"The mob?"

"Grandma."

"I’m asking."

Lin Yan sighed. "I work as a trainer now. Gym stuff."

Mrs. Whitaker studied him for another moment. "A trainer?"

"Yeah."

"You getting paid?"

"Pretty well."

That, apparently, was the important part. Her shoulders finally relaxed.

"Good. Good."

Lin Yan stared at her. "That’s all it takes?"

"What, you want a background check?"

She gave his arm one last squeeze, shook her head at the amount of muscle under her hand, and muttered, "Jesus Christ."

Lin Yan grinned.

Only then did Mrs. Whitaker notice Claire getting out of the driver’s side.

Her hand immediately left Lin Yan’s arm. She straightened her shirt, smoothed back her white hair, and somehow became the respectable director of a children’s home in the space of about two seconds.

Claire walked around the car.

"Mrs. Whitaker?"

"Yes."

"I’m Claire Morgan. It’s very nice to meet you."

Mrs. Whitaker shook her hand with a pleasant smile. "Likewise. Come inside, both of you."

The building smelled almost exactly the same—floor cleaner, old wood, food from somewhere farther back, and that faint institutional smell shared by schools, clinics, and places like this.

Lin Yan stepped through the front hall and immediately saw three things that hadn’t been there before: a security camera above the office door, a row of newer lockers along one wall, and a framed photograph of Mrs. Whitaker receiving some kind of county award.

He slowed in front of the photograph.

Mrs. Whitaker caught him looking.

"Don’t."

"I didn’t say anything."

"You were about to."

Lin Yan studied the photograph for another second. "Very prestigious."

"Kitchen."

"Yes, Grandma."

Claire covered a smile as Mrs. Whitaker herded them farther inside.

Children began drifting into the hallway as they passed, drawn by the unfamiliar faces. Most watched Lin Yan from a distance, whispering about his size, until one little boy planted himself in the middle of the hall and stared openly at Lin Yan’s arms.

After a few seconds, the kid raised both fists and proudly flexed what little muscle he had.

Lin Yan looked at him, then flexed one arm in return.

The boy’s eyes went wide, and a huge grin spread across his face.

Mrs. Whitaker slapped Lin Yan between the shoulder blades.

"Are you seriously showing off to a seven-year-old?"

"He started it."

Lunch followed whether Lin Yan wanted it or not. Mrs. Whitaker fed him like he’d spent the last several years starving, while Claire spent most of the meal listening to increasingly damaging stories from his childhood.

Afterward, Claire’s phone rang.

"I need to take this."

She stepped outside.

Mrs. Whitaker waited exactly six seconds after the door closed before grabbing Lin Yan by the wrist.

"Come here."

"What now?"

"Move."

She dragged him down the side hallway and into the laundry room.

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