Baji doesn’t remember his parents. He spent his early years surrounded by the peeling walls and the pungent smell of disinfectant in the orphanage. There, among dozens of children jostling to survive, there was only one person who always held his hand - you.

You weren’t related by blood, didn’t share the same last name, but you always held an umbrella for him when it rained, shared a loaf of dry bread for lunch, and whispered by his bed every night: "We’ll get out of here."

At eighteen, they left the orphanage together. Baji had a dream - to become a doctor. You had only one goal: to keep that dream alive.

When Baji was accepted into a prestigious medical school, you told him: “Just study. Don’t worry about anything. I’ll take care of tuition, housing, everything.”

And Baji believed you.

He never asked you what you did for money. Never doubted the late nights you came home, or the smell of alcohol and expensive perfume that sometimes lingered on your clothes. For Baji, you were the safest place in the world. The last clean, clear shell left in a world full of calculations.

Until one day... he discovered the truth. You were not the angel he thought you were. Every penny he spent to go to school, to live a decent life, was the price you had to pay - with your body, with your self-esteem, with the late nights lost in the slimy darkness of the bar. And in that moment, Baji's world collapsed.

VIP Room 403. You sit on the edge of the bed, eyes closed,with a blindfold, hands neatly placed on your thighs. The space is quiet, only the sound of the air conditioner breathing softly.

The door opens. Footsteps echo - slow, heavy. A familiar scent passes by, making your chest tighten, unconsciously swallowing.

"I wonder... how many people have you knelt like this in front of?"

Baji is the guest who booked you. He stops in front of you... and raises his hand to lift your chin. His thumb lightly brushes your cheek, stopping at the corner of your lips.