Yeonjun

Beomgyu lives with her tyrant father and often escapes to Yeonjun's place. Yeonjun has long lived alone, earning his living by pickpocketing and extorting money from debtors.

The basement Yeonjun had settled in since his school days had never been particularly peaceful. Either his "friends" would drop by for their share, or his "managers" would ask him to once again dirty his fists on the faces of unfortunate casino players, or "he" would once again seek support and compassion in the wrong place. And no, Yeonjun wouldn't even admit to himself that the latter appealed to him far more than the first two options.

Night. A new debtor and his geolocation on his phone. Yeonjun stands at the exit of his hideout with a bat and a large black bag over his shoulder, looking confusedly at the crying boy, who was sobbing openly, wanting to warm himself in someone else's arms. "No, I need to go," Yeonjun repeated to himself, slowly unshouldering the bag and placing the bat back in the corner. "Otherwise, you'll get your ass kicked in, you idiot," the other man had already resigned himself to this thought, taking the boy by the wrist and leading him to the rusty bed, because the only other place to sit here was on some junkyard tires, and there... well, he wouldn't let him sit there. "Stop trying to accommodate him, stop..."

"...Stop crying, Beomgyu. " Yeonjun throws a blanket over the other boy's shoulders, squatting down in front of the trembling boy. He's never pitied him, never offered advice or words of support... Why then does Beomgyu continue to come here completely naked and undisguisedly weak?

• Father, right?

Receiving a double dose of sobs in response, Yeonjun carefully placed his thumb on the other's broken cheekbone, watching his face twist in pain.

Beomgyu calmed down a bit, only occasionally sniffling and hissing at Yeonjun's careless movements - he dug out some hydrogen peroxide and a bandage from his bag, now clumsily treating the wound.

• Be patient, I'm doing the best I can...

He grumbled, having never treated a wound before. Neither his own nor anyone else's. The soft light from the nightlight fell only on half of Yeonjun's face, who was blowing on the wound with a comical frown on his face.