Click… click… click…

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing as a familiar photo popped up. A Missing Persons Report—old, but not forgotten.

James stiffened in his chair.

His hand moved before he could think. He grabbed his phone and hit speed dial.

On the other end, Rocky answered with practiced calm. “Yeah?”

James took a breath. “I think I found out what the kid is hiding.”

Silence. Then Rocky’s voice, sharper this time. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

Rocky’s fingers paused mid-tap on his armrest. He leaned back in his seat, letting the moment stretch, watching the distant crowd shift and churn below the tinted window.

“Gather every piece of information on that kid,” he said at last, voice low and precise. “And bring it to my office.”

“Understood, sir.”

The line clicked off.

Outside, the city moved unaware, but the noose was slowly tightening around the boy they thought was forgotten.

And Rocky?

He had no intention of letting go.

Knock, knock.

Rocky didn’t look up from the file open in front of him, but his voice rang clear.

“Yes. Come in.”

The door opened quietly, and James stepped in, a crisp folder tucked under one arm. His posture was rigid, professional, but his eyes flickered with tension.

“It’s me, sir.”

Rocky glanced up now, giving a subtle nod toward the chair across from his desk. 

“Have a seat.”

James obeyed, lowering himself into the chair and placing the folder neatly on the polished wood between them.

“I’m here with the background check you requested,” he said, voice steady.

Rocky leaned forward slightly, one hand resting on the folder, fingers brushing the edge of the paper. His expression remained unreadable—cool, focused.

“Good,” he said simply. “Let’s hear it.”

James gave a slow breath before beginning, fully aware that every word he spoke would matter.

James flipped open the folder and gave the top page a quick glance before reading aloud.

“Won Kwan,” he began. “Orphan. His mother died giving birth to him. No known relatives. He grew up in an orphanage.”

He slid the folder across Rocky’s desk, revealing a worn photo of a young boy with sharp eyes and a thin frame.

“But he never fit in,” James continued. “Always getting into fights. Rebellious. Tried running away several times. Then, at thirteen, he finally pulled it off. Planned the escape for months—got out through a broken window during night check. Never came back.”

Rocky raised an eyebrow, visibly intrigued.

“Smart kid,” he murmured. “Then what?”

“No plan, no contacts,” James said, turning another page. “Started out begging. That didn’t last long. Moved on to theft—bread, clothes. Eventually pickpocketing. Even broke into a couple of convenience stores. Sloppy at first, but he learned quick.”

Rocky leaned back slightly in his chair, a faint flicker of amusement in his expression.

“So, a street rat turned survivor,” he mused. “And he’s been out there this whole time?”

James nodded. “Yes. No school records. No real job. No ID. Just a ghost in the city.”

Rocky tapped his index finger thoughtfully against the desk. A kid built to disappear.

“But he told me he had a little brother…”

James flipped to another sheet, eyes scanning the lines.

“About that—Michael Lee isn’t his blood relative.”

Rocky’s gaze sharpened.

“Then who is he?”

James looked up, meeting his eyes.

“Michael’s father… used to work for Linol.”

The silence that followed was instant and heavy. Rocky’s expression changed the moment the name was spoken. His jaw tightened, and his fingers curled ever so slightly against the edge of the desk.

“Wait…” he said, his voice low and sharp. “Linol?”

James gave a single, grim nod, flipping another page in the folder. “Yes, sir. That Linol. East District. Underground operations. The whole mess. Michael’s father worked for him.”

He paused, letting the weight of that sink in before continuing.

“But three years ago, something went wrong. There was… an incident. A massacre, to be exact. Michael was the only one who made it out alive.”

Rocky leaned forward, his brows drawn tight.

“Explain,” he demanded. “More.”

The air between them felt suddenly heavier. James’s face grew darker as he resumed.

“Michael’s dad wanted out. Thought he could just walk away. So, he stole from Linol—money. Records, maybe. No one’s sure. Disappeared with his family for almost eight years. Then… Linol found him.”

James’s voice dropped further.

“And killed him. And his wife.”

Rocky’s jaw clenched, a silent fury flaring in his eyes.

“That bastard…” he muttered. “Then why didn’t he kill Michael?”

“When Linol got there, he only saw Shin—the father. He had time to deal with him first,” James explained. “Micah, Michael’s mom, heard the noise and went to check… She didn’t make it either.”

Rocky said nothing, but his jaw flexed again.

James’s voice softened.

“Michael was asleep. He didn’t hear it. By the time he woke up and found the bodies, it was already over.”

For a long beat, neither of them spoke. Rocky sat in silence, eyes narrowed, lips pressed in a hard, unreadable line.

“…That kid must’ve been terrified,” he said at last.

James nodded and slowly closed the folder.

“Yeah. He wandered the streets after that. Alone. That’s when Won found him… Took him in. Out of pity, I guess.”

Rocky arched a brow, a faint, skeptical smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Pity, huh?” he murmured. “Doesn’t seem like the type.”

James gave a small shrug, not disagreeing.

Outside, the city roared on, unaware of the tangled past now beginning to unravel under Rocky’s careful gaze.

James gave a casual shrug, though his words carried weight.

“Maybe. But for whatever reason, he kept the kid hidden for three years. He risked a lot by doing that.”

Rocky leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling like he was trying to puzzle out a complex riddle.

“What a wild story,” he muttered.

The office fell into a quiet lull. James looked down at the file, flipping through the neatly clipped papers, then back at Rocky.

“You really think that makes sense?” Rocky asked, brow furrowed. “A street-smart kid suddenly decides to take in some traumatized child? That doesn’t fit the pattern.”

James nodded, pulling out another page. “I know. And yet, he did it. The police searched for Michael for over a year. Media coverage, search parties, missing persons reports—the works. But nothing. The trail went cold. Somehow, Won managed to keep him off the radar this entire time.”

Rocky’s mouth twisted into something between curiosity and admiration. “So, a street rat raised an orphan from a crime scene… Tch. Interesting.”

James’s tone stayed even, his delivery calm and precise.

“There’s more. Won’s never held a real job. He lives off stolen cash, the occasional odd job here and there. Doesn’t stick around long enough to build anything. It’s like his whole life’s been one long escape route.”

Rocky drummed his fingers thoughtfully against the desk, his expression unreadable.

“Running, huh?” he murmured. “Then what’s he running from?”

For the first time during the conversation, James hesitated. His confident posture faltered slightly, and he gave a slow, uncertain shake of his head.

“…Considering his past,” he said quietly, “he might not even know the answer himself.”

Rocky said nothing for a long time.

Then he closed the folder with a soft thump, the sound echoing in the stillness of the office.

Rocky let out a quiet chuckle, more amused than surprised. “Fascinating,” he murmured, his voice low and intrigued. “Leave the rest to me.”

James gave a sharp nod and stood. “Understood, sir.”

As the door clicked shut behind him, Rocky leaned forward, elbows on the desk, fingers tapping out a slow rhythm across the wood. His eyes gleamed with something cold and calculating.

Won… Just what kind of person are you?

THE NEXT DAY

The morning sun filtered weakly through the stained curtains of a narrow room tucked away in the back alleys of the city. The air inside was still and heavy, but peaceful for once.

Michael lay curled beneath a thin blanket, his breathing slow and steady. There were no tears on his cheeks this morning. No trembling. No nightmares.

Across the room, Won sat hunched over a small table, silently counting a small handful of coins. His brow furrowed with each clink of metal against his palm.

“Not even enough for two proper meals…” he thought grimly. “Might have to skip lunch again.”

He glanced up from the coins, eyes drifting to the boy sleeping soundly on the mattress. His tense expression softened just a bit.

“At least he’s sleeping,” he thought. “Kid’s been having fewer nightmares lately…”

There was a rustle of fabric. Michael stirred, blinking sleepily as he sat up, his hair sticking out in messy tufts.

“Won…?” he mumbled, voice still heavy with sleep.

Won quickly pocketed the coins and forced a small smile.

“Hey. You’re up.”

Michael rubbed at his eyes. “Did you eat already?”

“Yeah. Don’t worry about me.”

“You always say that,” the boy muttered, frowning slightly.

Won stood and ruffled his hair in response. “Because it’s true. Come on, I’ll grab you something small from the bakery, alright?”

Michael hesitated, watching him closely.

“Okay… but you have to eat too.”

Won’s faint grin twitched wider. “Deal.”

He reached for his hoodie, pulling it over his head with a tired sigh before motioning to the door.

“Get dressed. I’ll be back in five.”

Michael nodded as Won slipped outside, closing the door softly behind him.