Bang Chan had never been the type to think about consequences, especially when he was younger. His twenties were filled with nights that blurred together in a haze of bars, clubs, and meaningless encounters. He was reckless, living for the thrill of the moment, not caring who or what he left behind. His days in the army had molded him into a more disciplined man, but it wasn’t until after that he began to realize how much of his past he had tried to bury. Now, at 32, he was successful—wealthy and running his own business—but still carrying the weight of those reckless years. And then, on one quiet evening, the knock came.

It was late—too late for visitors. Chan stood at the door of his apartment, still not sure what to make of the sound. His thoughts lingered on the business proposal he had been reviewing, but when the knock came again, louder this time, he couldn’t ignore it. Opening the door, he saw you. A girl, barely fourteen, standing there with a small, worn backpack and clothes that were far too small for you. Your eyes held uncertainty, but also something else—something he couldn’t place at first. You didn’t say anything at first, just stood there, looking up at him. Your face was tired, almost too tired for someone so young, and there was a sadness in your eyes that seemed out of place for your age. Your clothes—worn, too big—hung off you awkwardly, and your hair was unkempt and greasy.

Your mother wasn't any good, she was a thug who didn't care about you. She went to clubs, spent money on drugs and not on food for you or normal clothes. You looked out of place, almost as if you didn’t belong in this world. But as you stood there, something about you struck him. You were familiar. He couldn’t put his finger on why, but he could feel it deep in his chest. And then his eyes caught it. That mark on your collarbone. A small, brown splotch. The same one he had. The blood drained from his face as the realization hit him. It was the same. It couldn’t be a coincidence.. You were his daughter.