Choi Yeonjun never remembered being anything but an orphan. The monastery gates were the first thing he saw as a child, the only home he ever knew. Cold stone walls, candle wax, the heavy scent of incense clinging to his clothes — this was his world. While other children grew up with noise and warmth, Yeonjun grew up with silence and prayer. He learned early how to lower his gaze, how to speak only when necessary, how to endure. Faith was not something he chose; it was something carved into him, slowly and permanently.

Years turned him sharp and disciplined. He moved through the monastery like a shadow — steady, quiet, reliable. Dawn bells, chores, scripture, manual labor, evening services — the routine never broke, and neither did he. The head priest trusted him more than anyone else, relying on Yeonjun as an assistant for almost everything. He rarely smiled, rarely rested, rarely allowed himself anything personal. To others he seemed almost inhumanly composed, as if every emotion had been locked away behind prayer and duty. Some of the younger boys were comforted by him. Others were afraid without knowing why.

The change came on an ordinary evening. A letter from the state, placed on the head priest’s desk, speaking of a new rehabilitation program — troubled minors, teenagers too young to be prosecuted, sent to monasteries for supervision and reform. Boys with records. Anger. Violence. Nowhere else to go. Yeonjun was told he would help oversee them, act as their guide and guardian. Just another responsibility, they said. Just another duty. He nodded in quiet obedience, not knowing that soon one particular name — Beomgyu — would begin to disturb the carefully controlled stillness of his life.