The morning was dark—as if the city didn't want to wake up. Ryu Sungyeon, bundled up in black from neck to fingertips, sat behind the wheel in silence. The car moved smoothly, but his fingers drummed on the steering wheel, betraying his irritation.
Beside him, in the passenger seat, sat Kang Jihan—relaxed, almost lazy. Gray sweatpants, a warm hoodie, hair pulled back into a low ponytail. No weapon at his hip, no coldness in his eyes—a strange, almost human look.
— Are you seriously going with me? — Sungyeon asked, not taking his eyes off the road.
— Why not?
— Volunteering doesn't sound like your style.
— Maybe I'm multifaceted.
Sungyeon snorted:
— Multifaceted is when a person has a soul.
Jihan smirked, looking out the window.
— Are you sure yours hasn't evaporated after hundreds of years of life?
For a moment, their eyes met in the rearview mirror. Then—silence again.
The car slid along the highway, where the gray clouds hung so low it seemed they were touching the neon. The cold road led out of Lyran—to where the city gave way to the wasteland, and steel power lines stretched to the horizon.
"Is he really coming with me?" — Sungyeon thought, and the irritation stung sharper than he cared to admit.
Three hours later, they passed desolate blocks and drove into the lower sector of Rayen. The road wound between hills and rickety warehouses. An old building appeared on the roadside—a former rural school, now with a sign that read Maison de Laurent. It used to be a place for literacy. Now, it was a place for survival.
In the yard, where gravel and dust replaced grass, several children were playing. Seeing the car, they rushed toward them.
— Uncle Sungyeon! — they shouted all at once.
Ryu stopped, tapped his finger on the glass, signaling them to move away. Then he turned to his passenger:
— Hey. Take the bag of buns. At least you'll look human.
Kang Jihan hummed, climbing out of the car. He held the huge pink bag as if it were a suitcase full of money. Sungyeon opened his door and unfurled an umbrella—more out of habit than necessity.
The children surrounded him, reaching out, pulling his sleeve:
— We thought you weren't coming! The teacher said maybe Uncle was busy!
— I promised, didn't I? — Sungyeon crouched down, smiling. — But you approached the car again. How many times do I have to say it—it's dangerous.
— We just missed you!
Jihan stood behind, observing the scene with a look of slight confusion. A boy about ten years old ran up to him:
— And who are you? Uncle Sungyeon's friend?
— No.
— Then why did you come?
— Working.
— What does a worker do?
— Works.
The children burst out laughing, and the tension dispersed. Sungyeon shook his head:
— Alright, off inside. Let's go say hello to the teachers.
He nodded at Jihan:
— This uncle bought the buns. If you behave, he'll give you all of them.
— Hooray! — the children shouted and rushed toward the building.
When the last ones disappeared through the door, Sungyeon said coldly:
— And one more thing. Don't talk to them.
— What?
— They get attached quickly. And then they wait. If you're not planning to return, don't start.
Jihan looked at him grimly, then replied quietly:
— I don't like waiting, either.
Those words—short but heavy—somehow struck deeper than expected.
Inside, it smelled of paint and old paper. Two women—the caregivers—came out to meet them, bowing cheerfully.
— Mr. Ryu! You are always on time!
— Of course. — He smiled, but his gaze remained cautious. — This is my assistant. Strong, silent. He'll do anything you ask.
Both women stared at Jihan, craning their necks. He was nearly a head taller than them, broad-shouldered, with a cold look—but then he bowed slightly, smiling:
— Hello. Hammer a nail, fix a door, change light bulbs—just say the word.
The caregivers laughed, exchanging confused glances. Ryu sighed inwardly: "He shouldn't be catching criminals; he should be breaking hearts at Vermilion."
Within a couple of hours, Kang Jihan had become a local legend. He worked with rare focus: mopping floors, carrying boxes, repairing furniture—as if trying to sweep the anger out of himself. The children followed him like a litter of puppies. Even those who usually hid in corners now watched him skillfully handle tools.
Meanwhile, Ryu Sungyeon read a fairytale. He sat by the window, surrounded by children, and told the story—slowly, in a low voice, like an incantation.
— And the princess woke up because someone finally understood her.
When he paused, a seven-year-old girl—Soojin—asked:
— Do you have to have a prince to be happy?
Ryu smiled.
— No. Sometimes the prince gets in the way.
— Then why do they always get married?
He pondered for a second, then answered simply:
— Because fairytales are afraid of loneliness. But life is not.
The girl frowned:
— What about you? Are you happy?
He didn't have time to answer—because Jihan was sitting in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, watching them. "Damn it. When did he sit down there?"
Ryu pretended not to notice and continued:
— Happiness is when you are listened to. Even if they don't understand.
In the evening, they had a party. The room, decorated with balloons, shone with warm light. The children ate cake, laughed, smearing cream on the adults' faces. Sungyeon sat in the center—hugging the smallest girl, Minju.
Kang Jihan stood by the door, watching. And for the first time, he saw him—not as a vampire, not as a liar, but as a person who laughed genuinely.
— How long has he been coming here? — he asked the caregiver.
— About seven years now, every month. Sometimes more often. The children simply adore him.
Seven years. For someone who had lived for over a century—a blink. But for a child—a lifetime.
Jihan looked at him differently. Something warm, almost tender, flickered and vanished.
The door opened. An elderly woman with a cane entered—Director Lee Hayoung. Her gait was unhurried, but her eyes were alive and bright.
— Sungyeon, dear! — she said, and her voice held genuine joy.
Ryu immediately got up, as if caught red-handed.
— Director! I was just about to visit you.
She laughed:
— And I was just thinking if you'd forgotten the old woman.
Noticing Jihan, she added:
— And who is this with you?
— ...An escort.
— Ah, a bodyguard, then. Excellent, I could use one myself. Come, let's have some tea.
Her office was small—books, old files, a kettle, a curtained window. When Lee Hayoung brewed the tea, the room filled with the scent of jasmine and dust.
— You've changed, — she said, handing him a mug.
— They say I'm getting old.
— Vampires aren't supposed to age.
— But they are allowed to get tired.
She smiled.
— And your companion? Have you known each other long?
— We are not friends. He just... happened to be around.
Jihan, sitting nearby, intervened with the most placid expression:
— We've known each other long enough that I'm looking after him. He recently suffered an injury.
— What?! — the Director gasped.
— Don't listen to him! — Ryu flared up. — It's nonsense!
— Heavens, still be careful! — Lee Hayoung threw up her hands.
Jihan bowed his head, hiding a smirk.
The conversation gradually shifted to her past. She spoke about the post-war orphanage where she grew up, about a boy who shared his bread with her, and about the words she remembered all her life: "If in a few years you are still waiting for me—I will return."
— He didn't return, — she said quietly. — But I stayed anyway. Maybe that's why I'm here now.
Ryu listened in silence.
— Do you still remember him?
— Not his face, just the warmth. That is sometimes scarier.
He smiled, but his eyes remained serious. And Jihan—for the first time all day—looked away.
As they were saying goodbye, Lee Hayoung exclaimed:
— Oh, yes, I prepared some persimmons and chestnuts for you.
— Director, please...
— Don't argue! — She turned to Jihan. — Young man, you're strong, aren't you? Will you help carry them?
— Of course.
She leaned on his arm—and laughed:
— Heavens, your palm is like steel.
They went out together, and Sungyeon was left alone. He sat back down, picked up the cup where the tea had cooled. Through the slightly open blinds, a strip of faint light fell onto the table—the last before the rain. In the reflection of the glass, he saw himself—and didn't understand which of them was truly being waited for: the person he once was, or the one he had become now.