"Is this how you raise a child?! Abandoning her to chase after some wild man?!"
"So what! You're never home! She's not my responsibility alone!"
"If I didn't work, where would the money come from to support you both? And that justifies cheating?!"
"Our marriage was a transaction from the start. Why shouldn't I pursue real love now?!"
Bang!
The door slammed open. The woman left—without hesitation, without looking back.
She didn't glance at the child she was leaving behind. In her eyes, the girl was nothing more than a byproduct of a failed arrangement.
And the man? He didn't stop her. Their marriage had never been built on love.
But unlike her, he gave everything to the child.
"Sweetheart, it's okay. She won't come back to hurt you anymore. Daddy's here. I'll take care of you, I promise."
The little girl stared at her father—his voice trembling, his eyes tired, his arms trying to shield her from a world that had already failed her.
Time passed. The man worked himself to the bone. His face grew weary, his hands rough. But he never stopped trying.
The girl understood. She never blamed him.
But someone had to bear the weight of this broken family. Was it the father, crushed by duty? The mother, who chased selfish love?
Or… was it her?
She was the reason they married. The reason they fought. The reason her mother left.
Her father sacrificed everything for her. Her mother hated her for existing.
And so, the girl came to a quiet conclusion:
If I disappear, maybe the world will be better.
She slipped away from home, walked to a bridge, and stared at the rushing river below.
No one came here. It was perfect.
The water would erase her. No one would be burdened anymore.
She smiled—a hollow, bitter smile—and stepped forward.
But fate, cruel and kind, intervened.
A hand grabbed her wrist.
"Got you!"
A cheerful voice rang out, followed by a shout:
"Captain! Hurry, I can't hold on much longer!"
The girl looked up.
A white-haired girl clung to a black-haired girl, who was now gripping her tightly.
"Why?" the girl whispered.
"Why what?" the Captain asked, confused.
Before she could answer, she was pulled up—screaming, gasping—and found herself wrapped in warmth.
The Captain held her close, smiling gently.
An embrace. A word she'd never known. But it felt… safe.
She turned to see Kiana, glaring at her with a pout.
The girl suddenly thought: If I died here, these people would be sad.
Maybe… maybe not here. Maybe somewhere no one would notice.
She stood up, composed herself, and bowed.
"Thank you for saving me. I don't know how to repay you. May I invite you to my home? I'd like to express my gratitude properly."
Kiana didn't react much. But Sirin, ever the commentator, emerged in her mind.
"Oh, what a refined little lady. So much better than a certain gluttonous white-haired brat."
Kiana rolled her eyes.
"Better than a purple pufferfish who throws tantrums over cake."
"You white-haired glutton!"
Their bickering didn't faze the girl. She handed the Captain a note with her address, bowed again, and walked away—glancing back with hopeful eyes.
You must come.
The Captain stared at the note, troubled.
"Kiana… should we go?"
Kiana, nestled in the Captain's arms and subtly trying to erase the girl's lingering scent, looked up.
"Let's go. If we don't, she might jump again."
The Captain nodded. "Let's find a hotel first. We shouldn't show up like this."
Kiana agreed. But her thoughts drifted elsewhere.
Mei.
She remembered Mei's obsession with the Captain in the last cycle. It had chilled her to the bone.
Sirin's voice returned.
"What are you afraid of? You and I together—are we really worse than that isolated little girl?"
Kiana sighed.
"You don't understand. You didn't see Mei's eyes back then. If you had, you wouldn't say that."