The sting of the slap lingered, burning across Seong Ah's cheek like fire. The sharp sound of it still echoed in her ears, louder than the murmurs of people passing in the distance. For a moment, it was as though time froze around her—the faces of strangers blurred, the night air grew heavier, and all she could hear was the thudding of her heart and the cruel words of her father.
Her knees buckled slightly, but before she could fall, Gyeonwoo's arms were there—steady, firm, anchoring her trembling body against his chest. His scent, familiar and grounding, washed over her, but she could feel the violent tremor in his muscles. He was holding her, but he was holding back so much more.
"Ungrateful child," her father had spat. The words replayed in her mind, twisting like knives. Ungrateful? After years of being treated like a tool, paraded in front of strangers as a shaman's daughter, drained of her innocence for the sake of their greed—how could they even speak of gratitude?
Seong Ah's vision blurred with tears. She pressed her fists against Gyeonwoo's chest, not to push him away, but because she didn't know what else to do with the storm inside her. "Why…" Her voice cracked, raw and low. "Why do they still have the power to hurt me?"
Gyeonwoo bent his head to hers, his hand cupping her jaw with infinite care, his thumb brushing the swollen redness of her cheek. His gaze was a fire—half rage, half sorrow. "Because they're cowards," he said firmly. "Because they only know how to break things they don't understand. But you—" his voice wavered, gentler now, "you're stronger than them, Seong Ah. You always were."
Her tears fell freely now, streaking hot against her chilled skin. "They never wanted me. Not as a daughter. Only as something to sell. Something to use." The words slipped out like a confession, heavy and bitter. "When I was small, they'd make me sit for hours, chanting for strangers… acting like I could see things I didn't… all for money. I hated it, but I didn't know better. I thought maybe if I did what they wanted, they'd love me. But they never did."
Gyeonwoo's jaw clenched, his arm tightening protectively around her. "They don't deserve to even say your name," he whispered fiercely. "They abandoned you. They don't own you. And they sure as hell don't get to hurt you anymore."
The night air swirled colder, carrying away the fading echoes of her parents' footsteps. But their presence lingered like poison, their threat gnawing at the edges of her heart. This isn't over, her mother had said. Seong Ah shivered. She believed it.
Still, in that moment, pressed against Gyeonwoo's chest, she allowed herself to breathe. Allowed herself to lean into the warmth of someone who had chosen her—not for what she could offer, not for money, not for power—but for her.
Gyeonwoo tilted her chin upward, his gaze softening. "Seong Ah…" His voice was low, almost breaking. "You're not alone anymore. Whatever comes, I'll stand between you and them. Always."
Her eyes met his, shimmering with tears, and for the first time in years, she felt the smallest flicker of safety. Of hope.
Yet, in the shadows where her parents disappeared, a pair of cold, calculating eyes lingered. Her mother's voice whispered into the darkness, sharp as a blade.
"She thinks she's free."
Her father grunted beside her. "Let her think it. For now."
And with that, the night swallowed them whole—leaving only the quiet promise of a storm yet to break.
That night, the silence of her room was deafening. The echo of the slap still burned against her skin, the words of her parents tangled around her like chains she thought she had long escaped. Seong Ah sat on the edge of her bed, her shoulders trembling, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as though holding herself together was the only way to stop from shattering completely.
The moment Gyeonwoo had left—after insisting she rest, after kissing her forehead so gently it nearly broke her all over again—she had told herself she'd be fine. That she was strong enough. That she'd survived worse before.
But as the door clicked shut, the mask fell.
Her sobs came suddenly, bursting out of her chest, harsh and aching. She buried her face into her hands, the sound muffled but raw, filling the emptiness of the room. Her tears slid down her wrists, staining her sleeves, but she couldn't stop. She cried for the little girl she once was, forced to bow before strangers, to pretend she could summon spirits she never believed in—cried for the daughter her parents never wanted, only used.
"Why me…" she whispered hoarsely, her voice trembling. "Why couldn't they just love me like other parents do?"
Her chest heaved as she lifted her eyes upward, toward the small shrine she still kept tucked in the corner—a place few people knew existed. A simple candle, a wooden carving, and the faint image of the Mother Goddess, protector of lost children and broken souls. It was the one thing she had clung to during those years, when her parents' greed had left her alone in the world.
Her knees buckled as she crawled toward the shrine, hands shaking as she lit the candle. Its soft flame flickered, casting long shadows against the walls. The warm glow blurred through her tears as she pressed her palms together, bowing deeply until her forehead nearly touched the floor.
"Mother Goddess," she whispered, her voice breaking, "you were the only one who ever saw me. The only one who stayed when everyone else left. Please… give me strength. Please, don't let me fall apart again. I'm so tired. So tired of being unwanted… of being hurt."
Her voice cracked into silence, but the tears kept falling. She stayed bowed, trembling, as though the floor itself might swallow her grief.
The flame flickered suddenly, as if stirred by an unseen breath, and though no words answered her, a strange calm began to settle in her chest. As if the Goddess, silent and unseen, had placed a hand on her heart, reminding her she was not as alone as she felt.
Seong Ah wiped her eyes with the back of her sleeve, her breaths still uneven but softer now. Her gaze lingered on the little flame, fragile but alive—just like her.
And though the pain of her parents' return still throbbed inside her, somewhere deep in her chest, a new resolve sparked.
"They won't break me," she whispered, her voice steadier this time. "Not again. Not ever again."
The candle's flame steadied, its light stretching warmly across her tear-stained face—as though the Mother Goddess herself had heard, and had quietly, silently, agreed.
The candlelight trembled softly, as though listening to her every word. Seong Ah's palms pressed tighter together, her forehead bowing again and again against the wooden floor. Her sobs had dulled into a quieter rhythm, but they still slipped free, fragile like the remnants of a broken song.
For a long time, she stayed like that—kneeling before the shrine, whispering prayers in fragments.
"Please, don't let me be weak… please, don't let them take away what I've built… please, give me someone who won't leave."
Her voice faltered, caught between despair and longing. The small candle glowed brighter, as if answering, its warmth spilling over her like a protective embrace.
Unaware to her, footsteps paused outside her room. Gyeonwoo, who had returned with the excuse of bringing her some late-night food, froze when he heard the muffled cries inside. His hand hovered over the doorknob, hesitating, but his heart pulled him forward. Slowly, quietly, he slid the door open.
And there she was.
The girl who always smiled brightly in front of him, who laughed at his clumsy jokes, who cheered louder than anyone at his competitions—kneeling in front of a dim shrine, shoulders trembling, her face streaked with tears.
It struck him like an arrow to the chest.
"Seong Ah…" his voice was soft, almost breaking.
Her head snapped up, eyes wide, tears glistening under the flicker of the flame. She quickly tried to wipe her cheeks, but the redness of her eyes betrayed her.
"You—why are you here?" she whispered, her voice raw.
"I… I came back because I was worried." He stepped inside, his gaze shifting from her tear-stained face to the lit candle and the little carving of the Mother Goddess. Slowly, he sat beside her, lowering himself onto the floor so he wouldn't tower over her fragility. "You don't have to hide this from me."
Her lips trembled. "I… I wasn't hiding… I just…" But the words tangled in her throat, and fresh tears blurred her vision. She turned away, ashamed.
Gyeonwoo's hand moved gently, cupping her cheek and guiding her back toward him. "Look at me, Seong Ah. Please."
Her gaze lifted, hesitant, and what she saw in his eyes was not pity, but a deep, aching tenderness. The kind that saw every scar, every wound, and still chose to stay.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," he said softly. "Not with me. Let me carry some of it… even if just a little."
Her breath hitched, her chest heavy with everything she had buried for years. The broken pieces she had tried to hide came rushing to the surface, and before she could stop herself, she leaned forward, collapsing into his arms.
Gyeonwoo caught her instantly, pulling her close, wrapping his arms tightly around her as though shielding her from the whole world. She buried her face into his chest, her sobs muffled against him, but he didn't care. He held her, stroked her hair, whispered words she couldn't quite hear—gentle, soothing, steady.
The candle flickered again, its flame steady and bright, illuminating the scene like a silent blessing from the Mother Goddess herself.
And for the first time in years, Seong Ah felt what it was like to not cry alone.
Seong Ah's tears soaked into Gyeonwoo's shirt, but he didn't move. His arms stayed wrapped around her as if letting go would mean breaking her all over again. Her body trembled in his embrace, but slowly, her sobs began to quiet, leaving only the sound of her unsteady breathing.
When she finally spoke, her voice was small, broken—like a child whispering a secret too heavy to carry.
"They… were my parents…" she said, her words muffled against his chest.
Gyeonwoo's hand paused mid-stroke in her hair. He didn't interrupt, just let the silence wait for her.
"They… abandoned me," she whispered again, her voice raw. "When I was little… they used me. They made me do rituals, shaman things, for clients… even when I was scared, even when I cried. If I failed… they shouted, sometimes hit me. They said I was born for this, that my body and soul were theirs to use."
Her throat tightened as fresh tears burned her eyes. "And when money became more important than me, they left. They left me with debts and curses I never asked for."
The words spilled out like a dam breaking, years of silence collapsing in one fragile confession.
For a moment, Gyeonwoo couldn't breathe. His fists clenched slightly around her back, not in anger at her, but at the cruelty of what she endured. He lowered his chin, resting it against the top of her head, his jaw tightening as he forced down the storm of emotions rising inside him.
"Seong Ah…" his voice came out low, trembling. "I can't believe you went through all of that… alone."
Her body tensed, expecting him to step away, to look at her with disgust or pity. But instead, he pulled her closer, holding her so tightly she could almost feel his heartbeat racing against her.
"You're not theirs anymore," he said firmly, his voice deep with conviction. "They don't get to hurt you again. They don't get to own even a single piece of you."
She blinked, stunned, her tears slowing as she looked up at him.
Gyeonwoo's eyes were glistening, fierce yet gentle. "From now on… you don't have to fight everything alone. You have me. No matter what past you carry, no matter what scars—" he touched her cheek, wiping away her tears with his thumb, "—I'll stay."
Her lips trembled as she searched his face, as if trying to see if his words were real. And in the silence, with the candle still burning softly behind them, she realized—he wasn't lying.
For the first time in her life, someone wasn't demanding anything from her. He was simply… choosing her.
Her body melted into his again, her arms slowly wrapping around his waist. "Don't leave me, Gyeonwoo… please…"
His chest ached at her plea. He pressed a kiss to the crown of her head, whispering like a vow, "Never."
The candle flame flickered brighter, almost as if the Mother Goddess herself had sealed the promise.
That night, Seong Ah cried until she could cry no more, and Gyeonwoo stayed—holding her through every tear, every tremble, until her breathing finally steadied in his arms.
And for the first time in years… she slept peacefully.
When Seong Ah finally drifted into a deep sleep, her head resting against his chest, Gyeonwoo laid her gently on the bed. He tucked the blanket around her, brushing a stray curl from her face. For a moment, he just watched her—so delicate, yet so strong after everything she had endured.
His jaw tightened. They don't deserve to call themselves her parents…
Quietly, he stepped out of the room, his figure disappearing into the cool night air. His steps carried him to the narrow alleyway behind the street market, where he had seen them earlier that day. He knew they would be there—lurking, watching, like predators circling prey.
Sure enough, he found them.
Seong Ah's mother leaned against a wall, her eyes sharp and calculating, while her father fiddled with a cigarette between his fingers. They looked up in mild surprise when Gyeonwoo appeared, but the smirk on her father's face returned quickly.
"Well, well. You must be the boy with her," the man sneered. "Pretty bold of you to walk up here alone."
Gyeonwoo's gaze was cold, unflinching. "Stay away from her."
Her mother scoffed, crossing her arms. "You think you can tell us what to do? She's our daughter. She owes us—"
"Daughter?" Gyeonwoo's voice cut through the air like ice. "You lost the right to call her that the moment you sold her childhood for money."
The smirk slipped from her father's face.
"I don't care what debts you've built, what greed runs through your veins," Gyeonwoo continued, his voice calm yet edged with steel. "But if you come near her again, if you so much as breathe trouble into her life… you'll regret it."
The mother narrowed her eyes. "And what will you do, boy? You think you can protect her from everything? Spirits, curses, clients—"
"I don't need to protect her from the past," Gyeonwoo interrupted sharply, stepping closer, his height casting a shadow over them. "I just need to protect her from you."
Something in his eyes—burning, unwavering, almost divine—made both of them falter. For a moment, they saw not just a boy, but someone backed by something far stronger, as if fate itself stood behind him.
He leaned in slightly, his words low but deadly clear.
"Try to hurt her again… and I'll make sure you regret ever having a daughter like her."
The air between them grew heavy, thick with unspoken warning.
And then, without another word, Gyeonwoo turned and walked away, leaving them in the silence of their own bitterness.
Back at Seong Ah's home, he slipped inside quietly. She was still asleep, her lips slightly parted, her body curled beneath the blanket. His heart softened instantly.
She doesn't need to know… not yet. She's been through enough.
He sat down beside her bed, taking her hand gently into his. And in that stillness, he made another silent vow—not just to her, but to himself.
No matter what ghosts from her past tried to return, he would fight them all.
For her.
For their future.
The morning sunlight filtered through the thin curtains, spilling soft golden warmth across the room. Seong Ah blinked awake, her lashes fluttering as she adjusted to the brightness. For a brief moment, she lay still, staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling slowly.
The heaviness from the night before lingered in her heart, but strangely, there was also a sense of comfort—like an invisible shield had wrapped itself around her while she slept. She turned her head and found Gyeonwoo sitting by the window, already awake, a faint smile tugging at his lips as he read through his notes for class.
"You're up," he said softly, setting the notebook aside.
Seong Ah smiled faintly, her voice still groggy. "You didn't sleep?"
"I did," he replied casually, walking over to her. "But someone looked too peaceful for me to move away."
Her cheeks warmed, and she quickly sat up, pulling the blanket around her shoulders. "You're teasing again."
He only chuckled and brushed a hand gently against her hair. "Did you sleep well?"
Seong Ah hesitated before nodding. "Better than I thought I would… It felt like… someone was protecting me."
Gyeonwoo's expression softened, but he said nothing—just a quiet smile, as if he was hiding a secret.
---
Meanwhile…
Down in a dim corner of the city, her parents sat in a cramped teahouse. The smoke from her father's cigarette curled upward, mixing with the bitter smell of burnt leaves. Her mother's face was drawn in frustration, her fingers tapping against the wooden table.
"That boy," she muttered, her tone sharp. "The way he looked at us yesterday… it wasn't normal. Did you feel it?"
Her husband exhaled smoke and gritted his teeth. "Tch. He's just a kid acting brave." But even as he said it, a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. That piercing glare from Gyeonwoo still haunted him.
Her mother leaned closer, lowering her voice. "We can't let him ruin this for us. The girl still has value—her power, her connection to the goddess… We raised her in the shaman ways, and whether she admits it or not, it's in her blood. People would pay a fortune for that kind of talent."
Her father smirked slowly, though it didn't reach his eyes. "Then we'll have to be careful. No more rushing in. If the boy's protecting her, we need another way to get what we want."
The mother's lips curved into a sinister smile. "And I think I know just how."
Back at home, Seong Ah stretched and looked at Gyeonwoo.
"Are you heading to the stadium again today?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Not today. Today… I'm staying with you."
Her heart gave a little flutter, though she quickly tried to mask it. "Why?"
He leaned closer, his voice lowering playfully. "Because I don't trust the world to leave you alone."
For a second, she laughed softly at his words, thinking it was just his way of being overprotective. She didn't realize how literal his promise was… or how close the shadows of her past still lingered.
---
The day unfolded gently, the kind of morning that made the world seem forgiving. Seong Ah and Gyeonwoo walked side by side along the garden path toward the campus. The air smelled faintly of jasmine, the leaves trembling in the cool breeze.
She glanced at him, curious. "Why are you really staying with me today? Don't you have practice?"
Gyeonwoo shrugged with that quiet confidence only he had. "Gold medalists deserve a break, don't they?"
She giggled softly, nudging his arm. "You're so full of yourself."
But before she could turn away, he caught her hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. "Maybe. But only when it comes to you."
Seong Ah's lips parted slightly, caught off guard, her cheeks turning warm. She didn't reply, only held onto his hand a little tighter.
---
Elsewhere, her parents were far from idle.
Her mother stood in a shadowy alley, whispering to a woman dressed in worn hanbok with eyes too sharp for comfort. The woman was an old client—a seeker of shamanic rituals who once paid heavily for Seong Ah's childhood "services."
"You're telling me the girl has returned?" the woman asked, her voice both curious and greedy.
"Yes," Seong Ah's mother confirmed, her tone smooth. "And this time… her power is stronger. She's bound to the goddess herself. If you want blessings, protection, or even curses, she can give them. For a price."
The client's eyes glittered with dark hunger. "And you can deliver her to me?"
The mother's smile turned cold. "Of course. She's my daughter, after all."
---
At that exact moment, Seong Ah paused on the garden path, her hand tightening around Gyeonwoo's.
He looked at her immediately. "What's wrong?"
She shook her head slowly, though unease prickled her skin. "I… don't know. I just felt… like something was watching me."
Gyeonwoo's gaze sharpened. His instincts, honed by more than just sports, told him she wasn't imagining it. He turned his head subtly, scanning the corners of the campus. The world looked normal—students laughing, friends running late to class—but deep inside, he knew something wasn't right.
"Don't worry," he said finally, pulling her closer. "Even if something is watching… I won't let it touch you."
Seong Ah's lips curved into a small, trusting smile. She believed him. What she didn't know was that her parents had already begun weaving their net.
That evening, the golden haze of sunset spilled across the small apartment Seong Ah shared with Gyeonwoo. She sat by the window, knees tucked to her chest, watching the horizon blur into crimson. Gyeonwoo was in the kitchen, humming quietly as he prepared dinner.
Everything looked safe. Peaceful. Almost too peaceful.
Her eyes wandered to the corner of the room where shadows pooled deeper than usual. For a fleeting second, she thought she saw the outline of someone standing there. Her breath hitched—yet when she blinked, the corner was empty.
"Seong Ah?" Gyeonwoo called, noticing her stillness. "You okay?"
She turned her head quickly, forcing a smile. "Yeah… just thinking."
But inside, her chest tightened.
---
Far away, in the dimly lit backroom of an old shaman's house, her parents sat with candles burning low. Strange symbols were drawn on the floor, ash and salt scattered in deliberate circles. A bowl of dark water reflected their faces, distorted and ghostlike.
Her father muttered bitterly, "She humiliated us… yelled at us like we were strangers. That girl thinks she can erase her past?"
Her mother's lips curved into a twisted smile. "She carries the goddess inside her. That power is ours. And if she refuses to return willingly… we'll make sure she comes back to us—one way or another."
The flame on the nearest candle sputtered, crackling as if in agreement.
---
Back at the apartment, Seong Ah tried to shake off her unease. She sat at the table, watching Gyeonwoo carry in the steaming dishes.
"Smells amazing," she said softly, forcing her voice steady.
He grinned, setting the plates down. "Only the best for you."
They ate, laughed, and spoke of little things—but every time Seong Ah's gaze drifted toward the shadows, she felt as though someone, somewhere, was whispering her name.
And in the silence between their laughter, a faint sound echoed—like a distant chant carried by the wind. Low. Unfamiliar. Unsettling.
Seong Ah froze mid-bite, the spoon trembling in her hand.
Gyeonwoo noticed instantly. "Seong Ah?"
She swallowed hard, her lips barely moving. "…Did you hear that?"
But when Gyeonwoo listened, the sound was gone.