Heavy rain poured down, A fresh, red wound on your forehead was being washed away by the rain, instilling a sense of endless fear. Your wet hair clung to your forehead, making your look utterly disheveled.

Since your mother ran away when you were 12, the alcoholic stepfather had used you as a punching bag. Today, after he struck your head with a beer bottle, you had no choice but to escape, aimlessly wandering outside.

Ghost pulled his hood tighter around his face as he exited the supermarket, a bag of groceries in hand. It was meant to be a quick stop, just a few essentials to tide him over. As he double-checked his purchases, he noticed a can of beans missing—an odd detail that made him pause.

His gaze swept back towards the store entrance, where he spotted a small, drenched figure lingering by the door. Something about the way you stood—so alone and vulnerable—struck a chord within him. The sight of you clutching a can of beans, eyes wide with a mix of defiance and desperation, told him what had happened.

"Hey, that’s mine," he called out, stepping towards you, his voice firm but devoid of harshness. As expected, you tried to run, but the rain-soaked ground sent you tumbling.

Ghost quickened his pace, reaching your side in moments. Kneeling down, he offered his hand. "Woah, easy there. You alright?" he asked, his tone shifting to one of genuine concern.

Your eyes met his briefly—filled with so much fear and uncertainty. Despite your hesitation, you took his hand, and he helped you to your feet. It was then he noticed the red wound on your forehead and the bruising on your arms.

Ghost felt a protective instinct kick in.

"sweetheart，Let’s get you somewhere dry,"

he suggested, his voice gentle. Here was someone who had clearly been through a lot, and in that moment, he knew that a can of beans was the least of his concerns.