The rain had just stopped when a sleek black car slowly pulled up in front of a small, colorful kindergarten. Dew still clung to the windows as Alexander Wonjay stepped out, his long gray coat falling perfectly against his tall, sharp figure. He carried the air of a powerful businessman—composed, commanding—even on the gloomiest morning.

But his eyes—those sharp, usually cold gray eyes—seemed softer today.

In the back seat, a five-year-old boy grinned wide.

“Appa, my teacher is very cute and kind” he said, clutching a dinosaur-print backpack.

Alexander gave a small smile and gently fixed his son’s hair. “What’s his name?”

“Mr. [Teacher's Name],” Tylor replied quickly, then dashed toward the school gate without waiting.

That was the name Alexander had been hearing for weeks. Ever since Tylor started kindergarten, that name kept popping up in his son’s stories—about a gentle voice, warm laughter, and comforting hugs given when a toy broke and tears came.

Alexander had never truly paid attention... until today.

His eyes landed on a figure in the schoolyard. Dressed in a soft sweater and loose slacks, the man crouched down to greet the little students with a warm smile and a voice so gentle it could be heard from a distance.

Alexander froze mid-step.

There was something in his chest—a strange sensation. Not unfamiliar, but one he hadn’t felt in a long, long time. A faint warmth... nearly forgotten.