A small crowd gathered around the unconscious boy, murmuring in concern. People debated calling the authorities, but before anyone could act, a tall man pushed through.

Seungho’s breath hitched the moment he saw the child lying motionless on the ground.

"Jihyuk…" His voice was barely above a whisper.

He didn't waste another second. Kneeling down, he carefully scooped up the frail boy, his body unnervingly light in his arms.

Jihyuk stirred slightly, his lashes fluttering as his feverish green eyes barely opened. "M-Mister… Seungho…" His small fingers weakly grasped at Seungho’s sleeve. "Take me… with you…"

Seungho's heart clenched.

For centuries, he had sworn to never interfere with Jiwon’s reincarnations. He had watched them live and die, never daring to intervene.

But this child—this fragile, broken child—needed him.

And for once… he couldn’t turn away.

The scent of clean linen and warmth surrounded Jihyuk as he stirred awake.

His small fingers clutched at the soft fabric of the blanket draped over him. This… wasn't his home.

Panic flickered in his chest for a brief second until his gaze landed on the familiar figure seated at a nearby desk.

Seungho.

The man was hunched over papers, his long fingers gripping a pen as he worked under the dim glow of a desk lamp. His expression was unreadable, but there was an air of quiet focus around him.

Jihyuk blinked, adjusting to the unfamiliar sight.

It was the first time in his life someone had brought him somewhere… safe.

Seungho’s sharp eyes flickered away from his papers when he noticed movement from the bed. His gaze softened as he saw Jihyuk blinking drowsily, his small frame barely making a dent in the large mattress.

“You’re awake,” Seungho said, setting his pen down. He pushed his chair back and walked toward the bed, crouching slightly to meet the boy’s weary gaze. “Are you feeling okay?”

Jihyuk nodded weakly, but his stomach betrayed him with a low, embarrassed grumble.

Seungho let out a quiet chuckle. “I’ll get you something to eat.”

But the moment he made a move to stand, a small hand reached out and grabbed his sleeve. Seungho froze, staring down at the child whose fingers trembled against the fabric.

“Don’t leave me…” Jihyuk mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper.

Seungho’s heart clenched at the sheer vulnerability in those words.

He slowly kneeled back down, gently placing a warm hand over the boy’s. “I’m just going to the kitchen,” he said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Jihyuk hesitated but eventually loosened his grip, his eyes still holding a quiet plea.

Seungho gave him one last reassuring glance before walking out.

When Seungho returned, he carried a bowl of warm rice porridge, the scent of it filling the room. Jihyuk sat up weakly, his lips parting slightly as Seungho settled beside him.

“Here,” Seungho murmured, scooping up a small spoonful. “Eat slowly.”

Jihyuk’s lips closed around the spoon, his small hands clutching the blanket. His eyes widened slightly at the comforting warmth of the food, as if he wasn’t used to eating something homemade.

Seungho watched him in silence, carefully feeding him bite by bite.

But with every spoonful, his mind began to drift.

A memory, buried deep in time, surfaced—of a bright-eyed prince sitting in front of him, grinning as he playfully waved a spoon.

"Seonsaengnim, say ‘ahh’~"

Seungho had grumbled back then, muttering something about how a scholar shouldn’t be fed like a child, but Jiwon had only laughed, teasing him mercilessly before shoving the spoon into his mouth anyway.

The memory stung. The warmth of those days… the way Jiwon’s teasing voice had once filled the air—it all felt so painfully distant.

Seungho blinked, pulling himself back to the present. He glanced down at Jihyuk, who was chewing quietly, his green eyes reflecting an exhaustion far beyond his years.

Hesitating for a moment, Seungho finally asked, “Jihyuk… what happened after I left you at your house?”

Jihyuk stiffened slightly but didn’t look away.

Instead, he surprised Seungho by reaching out—his tiny fingers grasping Seungho’s hand, as if seeking comfort.

“I wasn’t supposed to be born,” Jihyuk whispered, his voice hollow. “My parents never wanted a kid… But my grandparents made them keep me.”

Seungho felt his grip tighten ever so slightly.

“I live with them… but they don’t love me. They never have.” Jihyuk swallowed, his small fingers trembling around Seungho’s hand. “They… they hurt me.”

Seungho felt something deep inside him crack.

Seungho remained silent, staring at the small hand clutching his own. The weight of Jihyuk’s words settled heavily in the quiet room, each syllable laced with pain far too heavy for a child so young. His grip around Seungho’s fingers was tight—desperate, as if afraid that letting go would mean returning to the nightmare he had just escaped from.

“They hurt you…” Seungho echoed, his voice low, dangerously calm.

Jihyuk gave a small nod, his lips pressing together as if hesitating to say more. But then, as if the dam had finally broken, his words spilled out in a trembling whisper.

“They never let me eat properly. I only get leftovers… or sometimes nothing at all.” His voice was small, fragile, but his next words held something even deeper—something broken. “And if they’re angry, they throw things at me… or hit me.”

Seungho’s eyes darkened. His free hand curled into a tight fist on his lap, nails digging into his palm. He could feel it—the monster inside him, the one that had lain dormant for so long, stirring at the edges of his restraint.

How dare they.

How dare they hurt him.

How dare fate be so cruel—again.

Jihyuk let out a shaky breath, looking down at the bowl of porridge as if seeing it for the first time. “No one’s ever given me warm food before…” he murmured. “Not like this.”

Seungho inhaled sharply, forcing himself to push down the rising fury inside him. It wasn’t the time. Right now, Jihyuk needed comfort, not a display of the darkness that lurked within him.

Slowly, carefully, he lifted his other hand and placed it gently on Jihyuk’s head, running his fingers lightly through the boy’s soft, dark hair.

“You won’t have to go back there,” Seungho said, his voice softer now, but firm—unwavering. “You’re safe here.”

Jihyuk’s head snapped up, his wide green eyes searching Seungho’s face as if trying to find a lie in his words.

“Safe…” he repeated in a breath, like the word itself was foreign.

Seungho nodded.

“I won’t let anyone hurt you again.”

Jihyuk’s lower lip trembled. His fingers curled tighter around Seungho’s hand, his small body still stiff, as if he didn’t dare believe those words. But then, for the first time since he had arrived, something in his expression shifted.

Hope.

It was faint, fragile, but it was there.

Seungho gave his hand a gentle squeeze before picking up the spoon again, scooping another bite of porridge.

“Eat,” he said. “You need your strength.”

Jihyuk hesitated, but then he leaned forward, letting Seungho feed him once more. The warm food filled the silence between them, and for the first time in what felt like centuries, Seungho felt something he thought he had lost long ago.

Purpose.

Jihyuk might not remember who he once was.

But this time—this life—Seungho would protect him. No matter what.