Prologue: The End of a Monster
His name was Chairman K.
A mafia boss.
A killer.
A man who once smiled while burning a house full of people alive — including his own wife.
For ten years, he disappeared like smoke.
But one man never stopped chasing him.
Detective Kim Jeahyun.
---
Jeahyun stood in front of the warehouse.
Gun loaded. Eyes sharp. Breath steady.
Behind him, his team waited. This time, they weren't guessing.
This was the place.
"Move in."
The doors burst open.
Gunshots echoed.
Screams followed.
One by one, bodies dropped.
Jeahyun didn't stop until he reached the back office — where the monster finally sat.
Older. Greyer. Still smiling.
"You're late," the mafia boss said.
Jeahyun didn't reply.
He punched him — once — right across the jaw.
Blood spilled.
Ten years of justice in a single hit.
The handcuffs clicked.
It was over.
---
But right before they took him away, Jeahyun heard something he didn't expect.
"Wait…" the monster muttered. "What about my daughter?"
Jeahyun froze. "What did you say?"
The man laughed. "She's in the back room. Ten years old. Raised in blood."
---
They found her sitting in a dark room.
No toys. No blanket. No light.
Just her — sitting in silence.
A little girl with long black hair, pale skin, and eyes that didn't cry.
"Who are you?" Jeahyun asked softly.
She didn't answer.
"Are you… alone?"
Still no reply.
But she stared at him — like she already knew who he was.
Like she had been waiting.
---
That night, Jeahyun didn't take her to child services.
He took her home.
She didn't ask
.....
She never cried.
Not when she moved in.
Not when she had nightmares.
Not even when she finally unpacked the bag she carried from the warehouse.
She was born Im Yerim, daughter of a killer.
But under this roof, she became someone new.
Kim Yerim.
Jeahyun gave her the name casually one day over breakfast.
"Kim Yerim," he said, ruffling her hair. "Sounds cooler, right? Feels more like mine."
She didn't answer.
But she didn't correct him either.
That was enough.
---
Life with her wasn't easy.
She was rude, quiet, and impossibly stubborn.
She did everything herself — woke up before him, made her own food, cleaned her room without being asked. She didn't like asking for help. Didn't like showing weakness.
And yet…
She listened when he spoke.
She watched him closely when he thought she wasn't looking.
And sometimes, when he cracked a stupid joke or made a silly face—
She smiled.
Just a little.
Just once.
But it made his whole week.
---
Jeahyun tried everything to break her walls.
Terrible dancing.
Weird games.
Even showing up to her room in a towel, pretending to be a ghost.
Sometimes she rolled her eyes.
Sometimes she shut the door.
Sometimes she said, "You're embarrassing."
But sometimes…
She laughed.
---
He taught her more than jokes.
He taught her how to fight.
How to use her size to her advantage.
How to throw someone twice her weight onto the ground.
How to run without making a sound.
She was a fast learner.
A scary-fast learner.
He joked, "You're gonna beat me one day."
She replied, "I already can."
---
Years passed quietly.
And something strange grew between them — not just the bond of family, but the bond of two people who saw each other exactly as they were.
Flawed.
Damaged.
Loyal.
He wasn't just her guardian.
She wasn't just the girl he rescued.
They were each other's person.
---
Now, she was sixteen.
Still cold.
Still independent.
But when Jeahyun ruffled her hair, she didn't push his hand away anymore.
---
One morning, he stepped into the kitchen holding a letter in one hand and a half-burnt piece of toast in the other.
"Guess what?" he said with a big grin.
Yerim raised an eyebrow. "You finally learned how to cook?"
"Nope. Worse. I got transferred."
She blinked. "To where?"
"Seoul. Big city. They want me to check out a school case. Drugs being sold to students. Real mess."
She said nothing.
Just sipped her tea.
Then: "When do we leave?"
Jeahyun smiled.
---
And just like that, their quiet home in Busan faded behind them.
A new place waited ahead.
Neither of them knew what they'd find there.
But one thing was certain:
They weren't alone anymore.
---