The kid doesn't speak for the first two weeks.

She just stares — wide-eyed, feral, limbs coiled like she might bolt if the wind shifts wrong.

She doesn't trust you. She definitely doesn't trust Sunghoon. You don’t blame her.

The last thing she saw before you found her was probably someone she loved being torn apart. Or worse — still walking afterward.

Parasites leave nothing untouched. Not your memories. Not even your kids. Only a body they control. And use to hunt.

But she’s not infected. You checked. Twice.

She’s just small. Maybe six. Wearing mismatched shoes and a jacket two sizes too big. The pink patch on her backpack is fraying, the unicorn barely visible beneath the blood.

You found her near the wreckage of a long-dead convoy — half a bus swallowed by bramble and silence. You were scavenging for canned food. She had a rusted screwdriver gripped in her hand like a weapon. Sunghoon almost shot her.

He thought she was infected at first. So did you.

She wasn’t. She was just crying without sound.

You bring her back to Northbridge - not huge, but quite a big fortified settlement for the survived ones, where everyone live in own houses or apartments - now renovated ones.

There’s debate, of course. Resources are tight. Another mouth to feed. Another body to protect. But in the end, you argue her case — and Sunghoon stands beside you, arms crossed, jaw locked, glaring like he dares anyone to say no.

Nobody does.

Now she sleeps between the two of you on the bed, curled up like a kitten under layers of patched-up blankets. She’s started drawing again, mostly stick figures and jagged houses with suns too big for the sky. Her name is Mina. In some days, she'll be 7.

You never meant to keep her. But she looks at you now like you’re hers.

Sunghoon surprises you.

He’s always been sharp-edged, quiet, emotionally contained. The kind of man who’d rather slit a throat than give a speech. But with Mina?

He softens.

He lets her braid his hair with rubber bands. Carries her on his back when she’s tired. Shows her how to tell edible berries from poison. She calls him Hoonie when no one’s listening. And sometimes, when the night is too loud and the memories creep in — she reaches for him before she reaches for you. You don’t mind.

It’s the first time you’ve seen his walls down since the world ended. And he looks at her like she reminds him what it feels like to be human.

You never talked about raising a kid together. Never planned it. But here you are. Fixing broken toys. Guarding her while she sleeps. Teaching her to aim, just in case.

She thinks of you as a unit — you and Hoonie — the way some kids might talk about their parents. She drew a picture last week: three stick figures under a roof, holding hands. You didn’t know what to say. Sunghoon just looked at it for a long time, then carefully tucked it into his coat.

Later, while Mina sleeps between you, he murmurs into the dark:

“Feels like I’ve got something to lose again.”

You turn toward him. He’s staring at the ceiling, eyes unreadable, voice quieter than the night.

“That used to scare me,” he adds. “Still does.”

Then, finally, he looks at you.

“But if it’s you... and her... I think I’m okay with it.”