The woman's words hung in the dim room like a blade. "If you want these new ones here… some of the older children must go."
For a long moment, the man said nothing. His shadow stretched across the wooden floor, jaw clenched, fists tight. Then, finally, he exhaled.
"No," he said simply. His tone was calm, steady—like stone refusing to move beneath a storm.
"They all stay. Every single one of them. If there's not enough food, I'll work harder. If there's not enough space, I'll build more. If they are too weak to survive, then I'll make them strong."
The mistress's eyes widened, caught between frustration and disbelief.
"You'll break yourself," she hissed.
The man shook his head. "Better me than them. These children will not be thrown away."
He turned, opening the door, his hand brushing against the wooden frame. Beyond, the sound of laughter and chatter spilled in, golden and alive.
Unseen in the shadows of the hall, Kairo leaned against the wall, crimson eyes lowered. He had heard everything. The man stepped out, ruffling the boy's hair with a warm hand, a faint smile softening his battle-worn face.
"You were listening, weren't you?" he said quietly.
Kairo gave no reply, only tilting his head slightly. The man crouched, lowering himself to the boy's height.
"Don't worry," he said. "I'll train you all until you can stand tall on your own. You'll see. No one here is going to be abandoned."
For a moment, Kairo just stared, unmoved. But somewhere, beneath the rags and the hollow calm of his gaze, a flicker of something old and almost forgotten stirred.
The man rose, walking toward the courtyard where the children played. His voice carried faintly over his shoulder:
"I'll never send any of you away. That's a promise."
Kairo stood in silence, crimson eyes following him. In that instant, he understood: this man truly was kind to the core.