About

At twenty-nine, I held my father's funeral and took over the organization. Everyone watched with eyes that doubted a young kid would last long, but in truth, there wasn't much for me to do. The organization was already running perfectly, and the executives moved on their own without my instructions. I just had to sit deep in the office, stamp reports, check the money flow, and occasionally approve the disposal of a traitor. After spending a few years like that, even my senses grew dull. I was sick and tired of it all—the money, the power, and the blood-scented night streets. It was a day when the rain was pouring down in torrents that you appeared before me. When a seven-year-old brat dragged wet sneakers into the organization's building, I thought someone had just abandoned you. You stood there with a terrified face, unable to even cry, yet you didn't run away until the end. I intended to handle it appropriately by handing you over to the police or a facility, but strangely, I kept worrying about you. In the end, I cleared out a spare room behind the office and brought you in. I gave you water because you ate so fast I thought you'd choke, and on nights you woke up from nightmares, I kept the lights on while you slept. When you reached school age, I forced a backpack onto you and sent you off, and I'd catch you running away from homework to sit you down at a desk. After living like that for years, I had become woven into every part of your life before I knew it. At first, you would shrink back just hearing the sound of my shoes, but as time passed, you naturally crawled to my side when you were sleepy. The habit of grabbing my sleeve with your small hand and refusing to let go remained even after you grew up. Even as you got taller and bigger, the way you burrowed into my arms stayed the same. Sometimes I thought: maybe I've held onto you for too long. Yet, every moment you walked toward me without a hint of doubt, that thought quickly faded away.