Crimson. The color seeps through your mind, thick and relentless, clinging to every fragment of thought. Blood. Warm, heavy, unyielding—a constant presence staining the fragile veneer of your composure. The word echoes mercilessly, a relentless drumbeat pounding in your chest. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood. Blood.

There was a time when the world gleamed in hues of gold, soft and comforting, a light so tender it seemed eternal. Childhood wrapped itself around you like a sanctuary, where nothing sharp could pierce the illusion of safety. The mornings glowed with quiet joy, your laughter woven into the fabric of sunny days. Evenings hummed with whispered prayers, woven with your family’s quiet pride in their perfect child—the one who never questioned, only obeyed, smiled shyly, and tried desperately to be enough.

You were the pride of the family.

Honor thy father and mother.

It wasn’t just a commandment. It was a weight pressing into your chest, an unyielding mandate demanding your complete surrender. Accept. Obey. Submit. Carve yourself into the shape they desired. Always. But growing up felt like being thrust into an abyss—a hollow space devoid of answers or comfort, filled only with echoes of your silent pleas. The golden light dimmed, giving way to shadows that suffocated every breath of certainty you had clung to.

Prayers whispered in the still of night became blades, slicing away at who you thought you were. Scripture etched itself into your skin, each word a reminder that you were flawed, broken, unworthy. While others bore purity, you carried a festering wound where righteousness should have bloomed.

Then the blood came, warm and sticky against your trembling hands. It wasn’t the sting of the blade that cut deepest—it was her gaze as she found you. Your mother’s eyes, heavy with disappointment yet softened by weary determination, traced every crimson line with precision. Her hands were steady, cleaning the evidence of your supposed transgression.

“God loves you, dear. He heals everything,” she murmured, her voice too gentle to be comforting. The words twisted like thorns around your heart. Each syllable etched itself into your skin, a quiet plea for redemption you couldn’t grant. The kiss she pressed to your forehead felt hollow, an attempt to wash away what she refused to understand.

Your father never kissed. His hands folded in prayer before each blow, his faith unwavering even as the sting of his discipline left marks you carried long after the bruises faded.

Wrong. Corrupted. A mistake.

The prayers twisted into the sobs caught in your throat, a desperate symphony of guilt and self-loathing. You begged for forgiveness for the crime of existence, for the cracks spreading inside your chest. But the void remained, gnawing at the edges of your being, endless and unyielding.

Then Hyun-ju’s voice cut through the chaos like a thread of light.

“Are you okay?”

Soft yet steady, her words sliced through your unraveling. Your body froze, hands trembling around the cold weight of the blade—the only thing that felt solid in a world disintegrating around you. Her presence anchored you, though your mind recoiled from the warmth she radiated.

Her green uniform bore splatters of red, a stark contrast against its muted tone. Blood. Always red. Her eyes, filled with concern, searched yours, seeking something you couldn’t give. You couldn’t hold her gaze—not with the crimson shame still fresh against your skin.

Hyun-ju stepped closer, cautious yet unwavering. Her touch lingered between resolve and hesitation, as though bracing for your fragile frame to collapse beneath it. Slowly, she guided you away—from the chaos, from the noise, from the weight of judgment pressing against your ribs.

“May I?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. The simplicity of her question cracked something deep inside you. You nodded because words were impossible, the knot in your throat tightening with every breath.

Cold water met your skin as she cleaned away the blood, each touch a reminder of tenderness foreign to your battered soul. Her hands moved with a gentleness that stung far more than pain ever could. You flinched instinctively, body rejecting the care it had never learned to accept.

But Hyun-ju didn’t pull back.

Her gaze never wavered, and for a fleeting moment, your eyes met. In that raw exchange, something ignited—an aching collision of desire and shame, burning through every defense you had built. It consumed rationality, stripping you bare to emotions you dared not name.

You tore your gaze away. You couldn’t face it. You couldn’t acknowledge what it meant.

Submit. Be good. Be perfect.

But her touch defied condemnation. It was life itself—fragile, fierce, and unyielding. And for the first time, a scream clawed its way to the surface. Not born of pain, but of the cruel realization that tenderness existed when you had never learned how to hold it.

Because in her hands, you were something fragile and untamed, and once again, your skin stars to burn.