Kim did not wake like other people do.
He did not open his eyes and feel relief,
nor did he rise as if nothing had happened.
He woke up…
feeling that time had grown heavier.
Not slower,
but deeper.
As if every second
left a clear mark on his body.
He sat up slowly.
The pain was still there—
steady,
quiet,
like a beast bound by a short chain.
It no longer tore at him,
but it had not fallen asleep.
He looked at his hand.
The black veins had not vanished.
But they were no longer creeping.
They were…
watching.
He stood.
Outside,
the city was waking.
This world—
the one he had not chosen,
and never asked for—
moved on as if nothing had happened.
Women opened windows.
Children ran barefoot.
Men carried bread.
Life.
Kim froze.
This was what he hated.
Life that continues
without asking
who has fallen.
He stepped outside.
When people saw him…
they stopped.
Not in fear.
In hesitation.
The man who had nearly destroyed the room yesterday,
who had screamed until the walls trembled,
who carried darkness in his veins…
was now standing there,
quiet,
weaker than they had imagined.
An elderly woman stepped forward.
She carried a bowl of soup.
She did not ask him anything.
She did not smile.
She only held the bowl out.
Kim hesitated.
He said coldly,
"I don't need it."
She shook her head.
"Not for you,"
she said.
"For us."
She placed it on the steps
and left.
Kim stood where he was.
Something simple.
Stupid.
Unimportant.
Yet it pressed on his chest
harder than the pain.
He stepped forward,
tried to taste a little of it.
As he ate, tears welled in his eyes.
Was there dust in the air?
He didn't know.
But the answer came out of him anyway,
his voice changed, trembling:
"Mom…
I missed your cooking."
That was what he wanted to say.
That day…
he was not alone.
No one sat beside him.
They did not speak much.
But they were there.
Someone cleaning in front of the house.
A child leaving colored stones by the door.
A man silently fixing the broken wood.
Kim watched them
the way a wounded animal watches
a forest it does not understand.
Later, he said to Neer in a low voice,
"They're wrong."
Neer looked at him.
"How?"
Kim said, tears filling his eyes,
"They'll hate me."
"Or I'll disappoint them."
Neer smiled a small smile.
"We always do."
"No one is complete."
Then he added,
"And still… we stay."
At night,
the pain grew a little stronger.
Not an explosion.
A reminder.
Kim sat on the floor.
Breathed slowly.
He whispered,
"Stay…"
He did not ask the pain to leave.
Only not to grow.
At that moment—
a soft knock was heard.
He opened the door.
It was Neer.
And with him…
Biath.
He was walking with difficulty.
But he was alive.
Kim looked at him for a long time.
Let him in.
Sat him down.
Biath groaned,
but did not regret it.
He said, panting,
"I used to think sacrifice…"
"…meant death."
He looked at Kim.
"But I was wrong."
Kim raised his gaze.
"Then what does it mean?"
Biath was silent for a moment.
Then said,
"To choose to stay…
even when leaving would be easier."
The words struck something old inside Kim.
Jack.
A memory that did not ask permission.
A voice.
A laugh.
A hand on his shoulder.
He lowered his head.
Neer noticed.
But he did not ask.
Days passed.
Slowly.
Kim began to help.
Not out of kindness.
But out of silence.
Carrying wood.
Fixing the roof.
Standing guard at night.
He did not use his power.
He did not break the seal.
And the pain…
respected that.
The children stopped hiding.
They began to approach.
One of them asked,
"Are you a monster?"
Kim looked at him for a long time.
Then said,
"Sometimes."
The child laughed.
"Then you're like my dad when he gets angry."
Something…
cracked.
One night,
Kim and Biath sat by the fire.
The silence was not heavy.
Biath suddenly said,
"I once had a friend very dear to me."
Kim turned to him.
"He died,"
Biath continued.
"I couldn't save him."
He took a deep breath.
"And when I look at you…"
he said,
"I feel like I still have a chance
to be a friend again."
Kim swallowed.
He said with painful honesty,
"Don't make me a replacement."
Biath shook his head.
"I won't."
Then he smiled.
"An… older brother."
Kim was silent for a long time.
Then said softly,
"I had a friend too.
We were alike in our past."
He looked into the fire.
"His name was Jack."
And for the first time…
he spoke.
Not everything.
But enough.
About laughter.
About trust.
About betrayal.
About death.
Biath did not interrupt.
He did not pity him.
He only listened.
When Kim finished…
he felt exhausted.
But not empty.
That night,
he slept.
Without nightmares.
And in the morning—
he woke to something new.
Not healing.
But…
a desire to protect this quiet.
He looked at the veins.
The darkness had not vanished.
But he was no longer alone.