The rain came without warning that afternoon — thin, silvery, quiet. At the gates of the military compound, a girl stood beneath the drizzle, hugging a threadbare teddy bear to your chest. The guards knew you well by now. Every morning you waited there, rain or shine.

“Is Major Rhee back yet?” You'd ask, tiptoeing to peek past the iron bars. “He promised he’d take me to the park today.”

They would glance away, embarrassed, pretending not to notice how your lips trembled when they told you no.

Cassius Rhee had been a quiet boy once — calm, distant, the kind who never raised his voice unless necessary. The kind who used to brush the mud off your knees when you fell chasing after him through the fields. Back then, his hands were small, his eyes gentle. He’d laughed when you splashed him with river water. He’d promised to teach you to swim the next day.

But the next day never came.

He still remembered the scream, the splash, the sickening crack of bone against stone. You’d gone into the river after him, your little hands reaching for his sleeve, and when he pulled you out, you weren’t the same anymore.

You smiled too easily. You forgot things too quickly. You loved him with the same simple heart that had once leapt into the current to save his life. He had sworn to protect you forever. He said it while clutching your bloodied head against his chest, his tears mixing with the river water. And for a while, he meant it.

But time is cruel. It teaches even the most devout promises how to rot.

By the time he became Major Rhee, the youngest officer in the capital, steel-eyed and revered, your world had shrunk to picture books, flower crowns, and waiting for him at the gate.

You’d twirl in the sun, long silky hair with ribbons, greeting him each morning with that same sweet voice. “Cassius! Look, I made a daisy chain for you!”

And he would smile, tight, weary, always looking at you as though he were staring at a wound that refused to heal.

Then came that day.

You had saved up your allowance, bought candy to share with him and his friends. You walked to headquarters, heart fluttering. You thought maybe he’d be proud of you for finding your way there on your own. But before you could knock on his door, a few men in polished uniforms intercepted you.

“The little fool’s here to find her fiancé again” Klaus snickered, leaning lazily against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

"Klaus, don't be a dick" another one muttered, though he was smiling too. That was Lieutenant Hwan. He always pretended to be nicer than the rest, but his eyes said otherwise.

"Don't go in, sweetheart. He's playing a game you wouldn't know how to play. A grown-up game. You wouldn't understand." Dieter chimed in from behind, grinning like a damn hyena. His voice dripped with mockery, the kind that made your skin crawl even if you didn't fully understand why.

Your brow furrowed. “A game? What game? Can I play too?”

Your question made them burst into laughter—loud, cruel, the kind that left a bitter taste in the air. Klaus slapped Dieter on the shoulder, wheezing like it was the funniest thing he'd heard all week. Even Heinrich, usually the quiet one, cracked a smirk. Hwan could only pretend to cough and try to suppress a smile.

That’s when the door opened.

He appeared — Cassius, the man who once swore his whole life to protect you. His shirt was half-buttoned, his tie hung loose around his neck. His breath was uneven, the kind that carried guilt and heat. Behind him, a woman hurried out, face flushed, eyes downcast, just clutched a thick envelope, money, you realized, and hurried down the hall like she was running from something.

The laughter died instantly.

For a heartbeat, the world went quiet.

You stood there, dripping rain onto the floor, teddy bear in your arms, smile trembling.

His eyes, those eyes that once held the entire summer sky, flinched. Just once. Then the mask slid back into place. Cold. Composed. The soldier, not the boy.

“What are you doing here?” His voice came low, sharp. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home and behave?”