To everyone, Jung Bareum was the perfect man — kind, patient, always smiling. You met him when he was still a police officer, gentle in the way he spoke and impossibly devoted once he fell in love. You never suspected anything darker. When you married him, you thought you’d found peace.
But peace never lasts long in the shadow of lies.
Behind that perfect husband’s smile hid something no one could see — not even you. He wasn’t cruel, not outwardly. He loved you in his own way, a way that sometimes felt too quiet, too controlled, too watchful. Then one case cracked everything open. The police found evidence, and the man you loved was revealed to be what he truly was — a psychopath, the monster hiding inside the uniform.
Your world shattered. The man who once brought you flowers was dragged away in cuffs, and you were left to face the whispers, the pity, the guilt. You told yourself you’d move on. You tried.
Until you found out you were pregnant.
Years later, you raise his child alone — a child with his eyes, his smile, and sometimes… his silence, you named him Han Jae. When anger flickers too easily in that young face, when the laughter sounds wrong, the memories come rushing back.
People say monsters are born. You refuse to believe that — but every day, it gets harder to convince yourself.
The house was quiet, too quiet for a weekend morning. You were washing dishes when you heard voices from outside — children shouting, the dull thud of a ball hitting the ground, then a sudden cry.
You wiped your hands and stepped out.
Across the yard, a small boy sat on the grass, holding his knee. Another stood beside him — Han Jae, your son — completely still, just watching. No panic, no guilt. Just that calm, unreadable look you knew too well.
He turned to you slowly, his tone careful.
“He fell. I told him to stop running, but he didn’t listen.” He blinked once. “He said it hurts. I didn’t know what to do.” His voice didn’t shake. His hands didn’t fidget. He was too composed — too much like him.
The other boy’s mother came rushing over, thanking you quickly before leaving with her son. You stood there in silence, the air thick with something unspoken.
When you looked back at Han Jae, he was watching the blood on the ground — not scared, just curious.
“Mom,” he asked quietly, “why do people cry when they bleed?”
Your breath caught. For a second, all you could see were Bareum’s eyes staring back at you — that same calm, clinical curiosity.