Rain fell in sheets, painting the street in shades of gray and shadow. A faded MISSING poster fluttered weakly against a lamppost, its corners peeling from the rusting metal. The image was almost unrecognizable now—water-streaked ink, the smiling face of a little boy nearly washed away.

Michael.

It had been three years since he vanished.

There had been search parties. Whole towns combed the forests with flashlights and megaphones, voices cracking as they shouted his name into the suffocating dark. Police dogs sniffed out trails that went nowhere. Detectives mapped every whisper of a lead, walls covered in red pins and scribbled notes. For weeks, the boy's face was everywhere—on the news, in newspapers, posted in shop windows.

But in time, the urgency dulled. Hope withered into quiet acceptance. And the world... simply moved on.

The case grew cold. The maps were rolled up and forgotten. The posters stopped being replaced. Eventually, even the whispers of his name faded from the lips of neighbors.

Michael was gone. Just... gone.

But not to everyone.

Three years had changed Won.

He’d grown taller, leaner. His jaw had sharpened, his presence heavier. But something in his gaze remained the same: that ever-present tension, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

The apartment was cramped, but better than before. The wallpaper peeled slightly at the edges, and the heater rattled when it worked, but it was safe. That was all that mattered.

Michael stood by the window, his fingers curled around the frayed curtain. He was older now—taller, his face a little thinner. But his eyes carried the same weight. Too much for an eleven-year-old.

He watched the rain with a quiet detachment, as if it belonged to another world. Behind him, half-finished homework littered the table beside a worn drawing—a childish sketch of two figures. One tall. One small. A makeshift family.

He didn’t speak much. Rarely laughed. But he was alive.

And he was with Won.

And for now... that was enough.

-------

The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed in from all sides. Outside, rain tapped faintly against the cracked window, drawing pale lines across the glass. Won glanced toward the thin mattress tucked in the corner where Michael lay curled up, his back turned to the world.

“You’re not eating again?” Won asked, his voice soft but edged with concern.

Michael didn’t move at first. Then, slowly, he shook his head. “...Not hungry.”

Won exhaled through his nose and turned to grab his bag, slinging it over his shoulder. He tried to keep his tone casual, light—something that might pierce the fog between them. “I’ll be back before dark,” he said. Then, almost as an afterthought, “Just... don’t disappear again, okay?”

Michael finally looked up. His eyes were quiet, unreadable.

“I didn’t disappear,” he said flatly. “You hid me.”

The words hit harder than Won expected. He flinched, just slightly, as if Michael had struck him across the chest. His gaze dropped to the floor for a heartbeat before he turned to the door without replying.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Michael stared at the empty space where Won had stood, his fingers gripping the edge of the mattress until his knuckles went white. His body was still, but his mind wasn’t. It never was. Not anymore.

He still remembered their faces. Every line, every scar, every blink. He remembered the last time his mother screamed, the sound tearing through him like a jagged wire. He remembered his father collapsing beside her, remembered the blood, the fear, the overwhelming certainty that something irreversible had just happened.

He didn’t cry anymore. He couldn’t. The tears had dried up somewhere between the first sleepless night and the hundredth.

------

Later that night.

Meanwhile, somewhere down a narrow alleyway on the other side of town, Won slouched on an old bench. The wood creaked beneath his weight, but he didn’t move. He tilted his head back and stared up at the thick clouds gathering overhead. The gray sky didn’t threaten a storm—it promised one.

He was so tired. Not just physically, but bone-deep weary. He had made a choice three years ago that he could never undo. And every morning since then, he had carried it like a weight on his shoulders. Michael was safe, but safety wasn’t the same as healing. And hiding wasn’t the same as living.

But what else could he do?

Maybe tomorrow would be different.

Maybe not.

But either way, time kept passing.

Won’s fist tightened on his knee as he sat in the dim alley, the cold seeping through the worn threads of his jeans. Three years… It took them three damn years to stop looking for Michael. He didn’t know whether to laugh or feel sick about it. A part of him still expected to wake up to sirens, to boots pounding up rickety stairs. But that day had never come.

He smirked faintly to himself, casting a glance toward the mouth of the alley. The narrow, twisting paths that led to this hidden corner of the city were practically a maze. No curious cop or well-meaning stranger would find their way here. It had been a good call, hiding in plain sight.

Good thing I was never caught.

Won leaned back against the bench, exhaling as he raked a hand through his unkempt hair. His bones ached more than they should at his age. Maybe it was the hunger. Maybe the guilt. Probably both. He sighed and sat forward again, brushing dust off his knees.

Enough of that, he told himself. Thinking about the past won’t feed the kid.

Michael hadn’t eaten in two days, not properly. And even when Won managed to bring something back, the boy just picked at it with hollow eyes. It was like he was still stuck in that moment—the one that had broken him.

Won pushed himself up from the bench with a grunt.

A wave of dizziness hit him like a freight train.

“Ugh… What—” he muttered, gripping the side of the bench as his knees buckled slightly.

His vision split in two. The alley stretched and warped, its edges swimming like ink in water.

A loud hum filled his ears. His stomach roiled. He blinked rapidly, struggling to make sense of the spinning world around him.

Not now, he thought. Not here.

He staggered forward, catching himself against the bench with a heavy slap. His palm hit the metal hard, jarring pain up his arm. The alley tilted. His breath came in shallow, uneven pulls.

He hadn’t eaten either. Not yesterday. Not the day before. Michael always got the food first. Always.

Won swallowed hard, forcing air into his lungs. He shut his eyes and focused on standing still.

Just a moment. Just breathe. Then move.

But his body didn’t listen.

Instead, the weight of exhaustion pulled at his spine, and his legs trembled like they could give out at any second.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought echoed—sharp and cutting.

If I collapse now… who’s going to take care of him?