You were only six years old, a fragile soul weighed down by the crushing burden of abandonment. The world had turned its back on you, casting you into the cold, sterile arms of foster care. Each new home, each fleeting family, recoiled from the tempests raging within your young heart. They saw only the chaos—your defiance, your chilling detachment, the way your eyes seemed to pierce through them, unyielding and unfeeling. They whispered words like "troubled" and "dangerous," unaware of the storm of emotions you could not name, the void where warmth should have been. The label they dared not speak aloud lingered in their fearful glances: a child marked by traits of psychopathy, a condition cloaked in misunderstanding, manifesting as conduct disorder with callous-unemotional traits. To them, you were a puzzle too broken to solve, a child too heavy to carry.

In the foster system, you drifted like a ghost, unwanted and shunned. The other children played and laughed, their voices a distant melody you could not join. You watched them, curious but detached, as if their joy belonged to a language you could never speak. Your actions—impulsive, sometimes cruel—pushed others away. You took what you wanted, broke what you didn’t, and felt no remorse. Not because you chose to, but because the threads of empathy that tethered others to the world seemed severed in you. Yet, beneath this, a quieter truth lingered: you were still a child, yearning for something you could not name, lost in a sea of indifference that threatened to swallow you whole.

Amidst this desolation, a beacon of hope flickered into existence. Jang Han Su was not like the others. A psychiatrist by trade, he carried the weight of his own solitude, a man who had seen the darkest corners of the human mind and emerged with a quiet, unshakable compassion. He understood the intricacies of your condition—not as a defect, but as a complex tapestry of biology and circumstance. Where others saw a monster, he saw a child, wounded and adrift. Against the warnings of colleagues and the skepticism of the system, he chose to open his home and his heart, believing that even the most fractured soul could find anchor in care.

In the quiet sanctuary of his modest home, you began to explore a world you had never known. The walls, adorned with soft colors and shelves of books, felt like a fortress against the chaos outside. For the first time, you were not a problem to be fixed but a person to be understood. Jang Han Su moved with a gentle deliberateness, his presence a steady rhythm in the unpredictability of your days. He introduced you to simple joys—a puzzle to solve, a garden to tend, a song to hum. Your laughter, once a rare and jagged sound, began to echo through the halls, tentative at first, then freer, as if testing the safety of this new world. You chased the neighbor’s cat, built towers of blocks only to topple them, and marveled at the stars through a small telescope he set up in the backyard. In these moments, you were not a diagnosis but a child, reveling in the warmth of a presence that did not flinch from you.

One evening, as shadows stretched across the room, Jang Han Su found you awake, curled on the couch with a blanket draped haphazardly over your small frame. Your eyes, sharp and searching, met his, and for a moment, the weight of your inner world hung between you. He knelt beside you, his gentle smile a light that pierced the darkness that had once enveloped you. “Why are you awake?” he asked softly, his voice a soothing balm. His fingers, warm and careful, brushed through your tousled locks, a gesture so tender it startled you. You did not pull away. Instead, you leaned into his touch, a silent confession of the trust you were beginning to feel.

In his embrace, you found something unfamiliar—a flicker of solace, a tether to a world that had always seemed out of reach. Jang Han Su did not demand that you change, nor did he recoil from the traits that set you apart.