Morning sunlight slipped through thin curtains, pale and soft, warming the tiny apartment like a quiet promise.
Seo Ye-rin had been awake for hours. Every tick of the clock had been a reminder: she had a son to wake, breakfast to make, life to keep moving.
The kettle hissed on the stove, sending spirals of steam into the cramped kitchen. The scent of instant noodles and fried egg filled the air—a simple, humble aroma that somehow felt like safety.
It wasn't much. But it was home.
She wiped her damp hands on her apron and glanced at the wall clock. 6:12 a.m.
"If I don't wake him now, we'll be late again…" she muttered.
Her voice had changed. Softer. Calmer. No longer the trembling, fragile girl who had left the city five years ago. Life had sanded away those edges.
She tiptoed down the narrow hallway and pushed open the bedroom door.
"Min-joon," she whispered, her voice warm, soft, almost musical. "Wake up, baby."
A small lump under the blanket wriggled.
"Nooooo…" a sleepy voice whined. "Five more minutes…"
She smiled despite herself.
The blanket slid slowly, revealing messy black hair sticking out in every direction and a tiny face still puffy with sleep.
Kang Min-joon. Five years old. Her entire world.
He blinked up at her with big round eyes, and her chest clenched. Those eyes… they didn't look like hers. Too sharp. Too deep. Too familiar. Sometimes, when he stared at her quietly, it felt like she was staring at someone she tried very hard not to remember.
"Mama…" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. "Do we have eggs today?"
"Yes," she laughed softly. "Your favorite. So hurry up."
That did it. He shot upright, tumbling out of bed with a small squeak of excitement.
"Eggs!"
She shook her head, watching him wobble straight into the wall.
"Ow!"
"Slow down, Min-joon!" she scolded, but the sound of her own laughter surprised her.
There was a time she thought she would never laugh again. Five years ago, she had left the city with nothing but a suitcase and shame clinging to her skin. Pregnant. Alone. Terrified.
She remembered the bus that night, staring out the window as the city lights blurred past. Her phone had buzzed endlessly—Mi-ra, Hye-jin, her father. Every call a reminder of betrayal.
She hadn't answered. She deleted the SIM card and threw it away.
If they wanted to erase her life… fine. She would disappear first.
Starting over hadn't been easy. Part-time jobs, cleaning tables, folding clothes, skipping meals to pay hospital bills. Nights spent holding her belly, whispering: It's okay… Mama's here… I won't let anyone hurt you.
She had cried quietly. But never once had she regretted keeping him.
Because the day Min-joon was born… when his tiny fingers had curled around hers… her broken world had stitched itself back together.
"Mama! It's burning!"
Her voice snapped her back to reality.
"Ah—!" She rushed to the kitchen, heart racing.
Min-joon stood on a chair, poking at the egg with chopsticks like a little scientist conducting a risky experiment. The edges were blackening.
"Min-joon!" she gasped. "I said wait!"
"But I was helping…" he protested.
"You were destroying it," she said, flipping the egg with a sigh.
He grinned sheepishly, and just like that, her heart melted again.
How could someone so small hold her entire life hostage?
She crouched down and wiped the edge of oil off his cheek with her thumb.
"You're going to school today, okay? Be good. Don't fight anyone."
"I only fight if they start first," he said proudly.
"…That's not comforting."
"But I'm strong!" He flexed his tiny arm.
She laughed. Strong… just like his father.
Her smile faltered. Five years. She had tried not to think about that night. About the man with the quiet eyes. The only man she had ever touched without fear.
Sometimes, when Min-joon slept, she would watch his face and whisper: Do you look like him? Is he living well? Does he even remember me?
Then she would shake her head. Don't be foolish. He belonged to another world—wealth, power, glass skyscrapers. She was… this. A small apartment. A small job. A small life. And that had to be enough.
After breakfast, she helped Min-joon into his tiny backpack. He grabbed her hand as they stepped outside. Warm. Soft. Trusting. Her fingers tightened around his automatically.
Cars honked. Vendors shouted. The city woke around them. Normal. Peaceful. Safe.
Her phone buzzed. Unknown number.
She frowned and answered.
"Hello?"
"Miss Seo Ye-rin?" a professional voice asked. "We're calling from Haneul Private Academy regarding your application."
Her heart skipped.
"Yes… speaking."
"We're pleased to inform you your son passed the entrance evaluation."
Her breath caught. "He… he did?"
"Yes. However, final enrollment requires a guardian to work within Seoul. Our campus policy—"
Seoul.
Her smile faded. The city she had run from. The place she swore never to return.
"…I understand," she said quietly.
"If you relocate, the scholarship remains valid."
The call ended. Min-joon tugged her sleeve.
"Mama? What happened?"
She forced a smile. "You got in."
His eyes sparkled. "Really?!" He jumped up and hugged her legs.
"We're going to the big school?!"
She hugged him back tightly. Too tightly.
Seoul… her past… her family… her step-sisters… and maybe—a certain man she never forgot.
Her chest tightened. Five years was a long time. He probably forgot her already. People like him didn't remember accidents. Still… why did her heart feel uneasy?
She looked down at her son. His familiar-unfamiliar eyes.
Decision made.
"Min-joon," she whispered softly.
"Yes, Mama?"
"We're moving."
Far away, inside the tallest glass building in the city, Kang Jae-hyun stared coldly at a file on his desk.
Five years. Thousands of CCTV clips. Countless private investigators. And still—nothing. No name. No trace. Just a memory.
A girl who vanished before dawn.
His fingers tightened on the photograph of an empty hotel hallway.
"…Where are you?" he murmured.
Outside, the city glittered—busy, massive, unforgiving. Somewhere within it… she was coming back. Walking straight toward him again, unaware.
And for the first time in years, his chest tightened—not from power, but from something else. Something dangerous. Something he couldn't ignore.
The game had begun.