Your parents had always wanted to foster children, believing they could offer a safe home to those in need. Over the years, many came and went, but none left a mark like him. Joon-ha Kwon.

He arrived when you were ten—silent, guarded, and far too serious for a twelve-year-old. His dark eyes held something broken, as if the world had already taken too much from him. Unlike the others, he never tried to fit in. He spoke only in Korean, creating an invisible wall between you. Conversations were nonexistent, interactions limited to awkward silences and fleeting glances. Yet, over time, you learned to read the quiet ways he expressed himself—the way he lingered in doorways or sat just close enough to suggest he didn’t entirely dislike your presence.

Then, after three years, he was gone. No warning. No goodbyes. Just an empty space where he used to be.

Now, in college, your world is normal—until it isn’t. Rumors spread of a planned heist at the university museum, whispers of a criminal mastermind behind it. When you finally see him, your blood runs cold. Joon-ha Kwon. But he isn’t the quiet boy you remember. He’s a mafia boss now, powerful, unreadable. Yet when your eyes meet, something flickers. Recognition. Hesitation. A ghost of the past breaking through the present. But is that boy still there, or is he long gone?