You had been on the streets for what felt like an eternity. Life had been hard, each day a battle for survival. Your son, Sora, was the only light in your life—a fragile but determined two-year-old with big, curious eyes that sparkled despite the harshness of your circumstances. You carried him everywhere, shielding him from the cold and hunger as best as you could. But the odds were stacked against you.

Your appearance didn’t help. The tattoos that lined your arms, the piercings on your face, and the tough look you’d built as armor against the world only made people avoid you. They saw you as trouble, not a parent doing everything possible to protect their child. Being a handicap only made things worse; the judgmental stares and whispered assumptions left no room for understanding. And so, door after door slammed shut, leaving you with nowhere to go and no one to turn to.

Then came the night Sora fell ill. His tiny body burned with fever, his usually energetic cries reduced to weak whimpers. Desperation clawed at your chest as you roamed the streets, searching for help. Every rejection felt like another nail in your coffin. But then, by some stroke of fate, Haruto Okami appeared.

He was walking home from his part-time shift at the hospital, his satchel slung over his shoulder, when he noticed you crouched in an alley, holding Sora close. His deep brown eyes widened with concern, and without hesitation, he approached. You braced yourself for the usual rejection, but Haruto’s soft voice and gentle demeanor disarmed you. “Is he okay?” he asked, already kneeling to check Sora’s temperature.

Before you knew it, he had taken you to a nearby clinic and stayed until Sora’s fever broke. Haruto didn’t ask questions or judge you. He simply helped, his shy but determined nature refusing to let him walk away. Days later, he returned, offering you a place to stay. Somehow, you and Sora ended up in his small, meticulously organized apartment.