Winter loosened its grip on the small Seoul neighborhood. Thin layers of frost melted into narrow gutters, children began playing in the alley again, and the market stalls reopened with the smell of hot street food drifting into the apartment.
He sat on the floor, legs wobbling but steady, stacking a tower of cheap plastic blocks.His mother thought he was playing.
He wasn't.
He was training his focus—refining motor skills, testing reflexes, calculating balance angles, analyzing how the blocks' weight shifted.
Everything was information.
Everything was preparation.
He heard his mother muttering in the kitchen, counting coins again.
"₩1,000… ₩2,000… ₩3,000… ah… still short."
Rent.Always rent.
He pushed himself up and toddled toward her—soft steps, arms out for balance. She turned, startled.
"Huh? You're awake?"
He pointed at the coins.
"Ma…money?"
Her eyes widened.
"You learned a new word! Money?"
He nodded slowly, pretending innocence.
She laughed and picked him up."You're too smart. Mama has to be careful, huh?"
He rested his head on her shoulder, but his mind was racing.
If he was going to build wealth in this timeline, mastering communication early was key.But too early?Suspicious.
So he formed short words only:
"Eat.""More.""Cold.""Mama.""No.""Come."
Simple. Natural.But spoken with clarity beyond his age.
His mother bragged to neighbors—"He's a fast learner!""He listens well!""He's gifted!"
But he always acted shy, innocent, childlike.
Never revealing the storm inside.
One cold afternoon, someone knocked on the door.
His mother stiffened.
She wasn't expecting anyone.
Her hands wiped nervously on her apron before she opened the door. He sat quietly on the floor, observing.
A man stood there.
Middle-aged.Sharp eyes.Formal clothing.Hands tucked into his pockets.
Not a neighbor.Not the landlady.Not a friend.
"Are you… Mrs. Seo?" the man asked.
His mother swallowed. "Yes."
"I'm from the local community center. We're checking the families in the area—especially single parents."
Her shoulders relaxed a little.
"A-ah, yes. Come in."
He stepped inside, glancing around the tiny apartment. His gaze lingered on the sewing machine, the stack of finished clothes, the cracked heater.
"You live alone with your child?" he asked.
"Yes… my husband is not here."
Not "dead."Not "gone."Just… not here.
A carefully chosen truth.
The man scribbled notes.
"We noticed you haven't participated in any assistance programs."
"I didn't know there were any," she said quietly.
He nodded. "We have some support options. Food packages, child help, job training, sometimes even small financial aid."
His mother's eyes brightened with a hope she was too scared to show.
But he—the toddler sitting on the floor—felt a warning bell in his mind.
Assistance programs meant:
Risks.Records.Oversight.Attention.
Attention was dangerous.
But they needed help.He couldn't earn money yet.She couldn't carry everything alone.
If this was safe?It could buy them time.
The man noticed him and smiled.
"And who's this strong little guy?"
He blinked up innocently.
The man knelt slightly. "Can you say hello?"
His mother encouraged gently. "Go on, say hi."
He opened his mouth.
He knew how to say it clearly.Hello.
But he forced a small, baby-like lisp.
"Hewwo."
The man chuckled."Very cute."
Good.He passed.
Never too perfect.Never too sharp.Never too adult-like.
The man handed his mother a pamphlet.
"We're also offering a new program: early childhood scholarships. It helps cover kindergarten and basic education."
Her hands shook slightly as she held the paper.
A chance.A small one, but real.
He watched her face.
Hope.Fear.Desperation.Relief.
All mixed together like a fragile glass.
"Thank you," she whispered. "I'll apply."
The man nodded and left.
His mother closed the door softly, leaning on it for a moment. Her breath trembled.
Then she looked at him.
"We might… be okay," she whispered, kneeling beside him.
She hugged him tightly, burying her face in his soft hair.
"Mommy will try her best. So you… grow strong for me, okay?"
His small hand patted her back.
He couldn't speak the truth yet.
But if he could, he would've said:
"I will grow strong for both of us.""I will change everything.""And one day… you will never need help again."
That night, she placed a few children's books beside his crib—donated from the community center.
She didn't expect him to understand.
He did.
He stared at the words in the dim light, silently mouthing syllables.
Korean characters were logical—patterns, lines, circles.Easy to read.Easy to memorize.
He devoured the words mentally.
Animals.Objects.Simple verbs.Basic sentences.
He absorbed it all like oxygen.
Soon he would ask for more books.But not yet.
Step by step.
Intelligence shown slowly earns praise.Intelligence shown too fast earns suspicion.
The next morning, a slip of paper was stuffed under their door.
His mother picked it up, frowning.
Her face drained of color.
"Rent… is increasing next month…" she whispered.
His heart squeezed.Again?Already?
He tightened his grip on the blanket, eyes cold.
This was the world that had broken him once.
But not this time.
In this life—
He would break it first.