The apartment was tucked away in the outskirts of the city, isolated by the thick stretch of forest that surrounded it. A two-storey building, plain and devoid of any warmth, standing like a stark reminder of the distance from everything familiar. It wasn't much—just a quiet, empty place. Yet it was now where you were supposed to live, a small room upstairs awaiting you, far from the chaos of the world you'd known.

Masachiro had been given the responsibility of looking after you. His mission, as dictated by the higher-ups, was clear: provide for you, keep you safe, and, most of all, train you. But there was something in his eyes, a slight hesitation, that made it clear he wasn't entirely comfortable with the role they had placed on him.

Before he returned to the apartment with your supplies, Masachiro had made a stop. His car had pulled up to a house, dark and silent under the weight of its own history. The house was quiet, untouched—except for the photographs on the wall, framed memories of a time long gone. His steps were heavy as he walked through the house, making his way to a small room, where the air was thick with dust. A crib, a shelf lined with forgotten toys, and a walker in the corner, left untouched, as if time had stood still here. He reached down, picking up a small toy box, the remnants of something he'd once cherished. Without a word, he left, the weight of what he had done pressing heavily on his chest.

When he arrived at the apartment, the silence greeted him again. It was oppressive, as if the very walls knew the weight of what was happening here. Masachiro went upstairs to find you—curled up on the bed, your small form trembling with the weight of whatever turmoil you were feeling. The room was still, save for the faint sound of your quiet breathing.

He crouched beside you, his movements tentative, as though afraid that any sudden movement might shatter the fragile quiet. Your back was turned to him, your small body shaking with the aftermath of everything that had happened. He hesitated for a moment, unsure if it was his place to comfort you, to ease your pain. But something—maybe a sense of responsibility or something more—compelled him to reach out, his hand hovering just above your shoulder before gently resting there.

"Shh... it's alright," he whispered, his voice soft, though it couldn't fully erase the unease that lingered in the room.

Masachiro didn't know what to say, so he tried to distract you. He spoke about the higher-ups, how they were meaningless, how you wouldn't have to worry about them for long. You were going to be a sorcerer, he said, trying to make it sound less ominous. Training, he said, would be fun. He painted a picture of something more, something brighter, trying to steer your mind away from the darkness that had descended upon your life.

When he saw that you hadn't moved, that you were still lost in the storm of your thoughts, he silently stood up and walked to the corner of the room. He placed the toy box down beside the bed, a small act of kindness in the sea of uncertainty and pain that surrounded you both. 

Masachiro's movements were slow, deliberate, as he reached for the new blanket he had brought for you. The bags lay forgotten at the edge of the bed, their contents scattered with the chaos of the day. He ignored them, focusing only on the small, trembling form before him.

He gently pulled the blanket from the bag, the soft fabric whispering as he unfolded it. The room seemed to quiet further, as if even the air was holding its breath. Carefully, he draped it over you, smoothing it out to make sure it covered you fully, providing warmth and comfort.

He paused for a moment, looking down at you—your body still shaking, though your breathing had started to slow. With a soft exhale, he leaned down slightly, his hand hovering before gently patting your back. The gesture was soft, calming, an attempt to reassure you in the silence of the room.

"Sleep..." he murmured, the words barely more than a whisper. "It's alright now..."

He stayed there for a while, just watching over you, his hand resting lightly on your shoulder. No words could fix what had been broken, but in this moment, he hoped his quiet care could offer you a small bit of peace.

He closed the door with a quiet click and lingered for a moment, his fingers tightening around the handle before finally letting go. With a heavy sigh, he turned and made his way downstairs, each step slower than the last, as if the weight of his thoughts had settled onto his shoulders.

He had to live here now. Watching over a child—no, not a child. A weapon. A tool for those damn old hags to wield as they pleased. His jaw clenched, a bitter taste settling on his tongue. His fists curled at his sides, nails pressing into his palms.

There was nothing he could do.

Not against them. Not against the system that had already decided her fate.

The frustration simmered beneath his skin, but he forced himself to exhale, to swallow it down. Because right now, he was the only thing standing between that little girl upstairs and the life they wanted to carve out for her. And if nothing else... he could make sure she didn't lose herself completely.

Even if he had no power to stop them—he could still be there.

Maybe—just maybe—he could be there for this little girl.

When he hadn't been there for his own.

The thought settled heavily in his chest, a dull ache pressing against his ribs. His fingers twitched at his sides, the familiar itch creeping in, the one that always came when his thoughts strayed too far into the past. Self-loathing curled inside him like smoke, thick and suffocating.

Perhaps this was fate's way of giving him a second chance.

With a sigh, he reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigarette. The flick of his lighter echoed in the quiet space, the soft glow momentarily lighting up his tired features. He took a slow drag, letting the bitter burn ground him.

He exhaled, watching the smoke curl and dissolve into the air.

If he couldn't change the past... maybe he could at least make sure this kid didn't end up as lost as he had.

CHAPTER COMPLETED 

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A/n : short chapter but I'm getting back on red strings. Was tempted to write that one scene of sang woo from squid game. All depressed, lying in tub, smoking. But anyways I didn't knew where to put it 🫤