Livia did not return directly to the hospital.
Instead, she wandered alone into the narrow veins of the city, where crooked alleys twisted into darkness. The lamps here were dim and flickering, their glow warped by the mist of damp stone. Rainwater lingered in shallow pools upon the cobblestones, reflecting shards of light like broken glass. A chill clung to the air, carrying with it the scent of mildew and smoke.
From the shadows of a corner came the faint mutterings of a beggar, his words fractured and indistinct. Beneath a tattered cloth tent, a weary mother huddled with her infant, clutching the child so tightly one could almost feel her desperation. The baby's cries, muffled against her chest, seeped through the night. Not far away, several children lurked behind passing strangers, their thin fingers trembling as they reached for scraps—bread crusts, half-eaten apples, anything that might mean another day alive.
All of this… it was a scene she knew all too well.
It was the world of her previous life, painted in grime and hunger. She had once lived amid the stench of sewage and mud, every breath feeling like a skirmish with fate itself. Survival had been her only compass. She had hated it—hated the filth, the ceaseless struggle, the gnawing emptiness of her belly. She had longed to break free, to claw her way into another existence. Yet she had clung on, teeth bared, refusing to be swallowed whole.
And now, standing here again, gazing upon those same images she had once despised, she felt something she never expected—nostalgia.
Because back then, despite the bitterness, life had been simple.
There was but one goal: survive.
No labyrinth of schemes, no masks, no treacherous games of hearts and daggers. Just the naked clash of blades and the raw truth of hunger.
In contrast, her present self stood cloaked in silk and status, basking in the envy of countless eyes. Wealth, power, influence—all were within her grasp. Yet, entangled within that glittering net came things far less tangible: friendship, love, blood ties. These emotions wrapped around her like coils of rope, tightening with every step she took. She was no longer the girl who only needed to charge forward, teeth clenched against the world. She had become something else—a piece in a game woven of desire and deceit, drawn ever deeper into a pit with no bottom.
"Miss, are you all right?"
The sudden voice shattered her thoughts. Startled, Livia turned—and found herself staring at Red.
He carried an armful of bread and dried provisions, stacked so high it almost spilled over. His face, illuminated by the feeble glow of a streetlamp, bore a smile untainted by guile. It was the smile of the boy she remembered from the alleys, yet steadier, calmer, as though the restless spark of youth had finally anchored into quiet strength.
Seeing her gaze, Red immediately spoke, his voice filled with pride:
"Thanks to your recommendation and kindness, I've been doing better and better under Lord Elias. Back then, our group of brothers—well, most of them have now found their own paths. We're no longer wandering like beggars, scraping day by day."
His words carried a rare glow, a pride that seemed fragile yet genuine. After a pause, he added:
"Oh, and the little girl you once asked me to look after—she was later taken in by a decent family. They're not rich, but she eats, she has clothes. She doesn't have to hide in alleys or beg for scraps anymore."
Livia's chest tightened. Those words—those memories—stabbed deep, flooding her with visions of the past. Images she thought she had buried returned with painful clarity, swelling against her ribs until her breath caught.
Red lowered his head slightly, his gaze falling upon the loaves of bread in his arms. His voice, low but firm, carried a quiet weight:
"Still… there are so many left on the streets. Hungry. Cold. I just think—if I can help, even a little, then I should. After all, I was once one of them."
The words struck her like a hammer.
Yes. Compared to the torment of her past life, wasn't she being too fragile now? She thought herself entangled, confused, suffocating under the weight of human hearts—but she was no longer a helpless prey. She held power. She had choices. And more than that—her existence was shifting the paths of others.
People like Red. Like that little girl.
Because of her, they had been given a chance to step out of the gutter. To live. To dream of more than tomorrow's meal.
Wasn't that progress? Wasn't that worth something?
Her gaze softened. The mist in her heart, so thick and suffocating moments before, now began to thin. She looked at Red—not the scrappy, reckless boy from her memories, but the young man standing before her now, carrying the warmth of bread in his arms and the strength of conviction in his eyes.
And in that moment, the fog within her heart seemed to lift, carried away by a gentle wind.