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Rudo is — A sharp-tongued bad cat.
A super-naughty cow cat who’s willful, cunning, and quick to snap at others even though he hasn’t even learned all the words in the Ground yet.
Zanka often silently badmouthed his boyfriend like this. He stood with his arms crossed at the side of the training ground, watching as Rudo’s attention was easily diverted by any greeting from a passing colleague. “Good morning, Rudo—!” He turned his head; if he really had a pair of cat ears on his head, they would surely be fluttering at that moment. “Good morning. ” Being so polite at a time like this meant sacrificing his own dating etiquette! The long blue stick didn’t even glow in the air—it was just an ordinary stick—but it hooked onto Rudo’s shirt collar and forcibly turned his head, like using a toast clip to clamp a cat’s head.
“Focus,” Zanka tapped the stick with his fingertip and continued, “You’re welcome.”
The kid whose collar was crooked very much wanted to ask “You’re welcome for what?”—he hadn’t planned on thanking him at all. But in this, his very first love in this life, he’d learned a thing or two through repeated failures and growing resilience: some questions were best left unasked, because Zanka would often give a very high-and-mighty answer.
For example, sometimes in the bedroom, he’d pinch Rudo’s little face to lift his head, leaving him at a loss as to what to do amid the increasingly urgent, dizzying ecstasy, Zanka Nijiku was an exceptionally mischievous and inventive teenager. At moments like this, he wouldn’t let Rudo beg for mercy or say things like “Please, Zanka, I beg you,” but instead slid his thumb into Rudo’s mouth, toying with his tongue like a cat playing with a mouse. The blue-eyed boy stared intently at him and said calmly, “Say ‘thank you,’ Rudo.”
His kitten struggled a couple of times, letting out a snort that showed he wasn’t about to give in, but Zanka was very patient. He repeated once more, “Say, ‘Thank you, dear Zanka, I love you.’”
Those eyes, round as crystal balls and shimmering with a deep sea-blue glow, were just inches away. In fact, Zanka had a face that didn’t look particularly aggressive—no matter what his hands or body were doing beneath—but when he spoke, the curve of his lips was gentle, often tricking Rudo into losing track of his situation. His struggles proved futile, and in the end, he became a well-behaved cat who would purr even when Zanka stroked him against the grain of his tail.
This wasn’t the norm, though. Because once Rudo put on his pants, he wouldn’t admit any of this.
Most of the time, it was just like on the training grounds: his mentor would kindly remind him to focus on training, only to be swept up the next second by the sudden, whirlwind-like force of the activated jinki.
It was truly a wild and frenzied display, but Zanka loved it. Even if Rudo Surebrec himself couldn’t shake his unpredictable, feral cat nature, it didn’t matter. There was still plenty of room in his young life to indulge him—to dote on him while simultaneously being tolerant of his own ever-growing mix of mischief and tenderness.
More than a formal declaration of love, this was what they needed—something akin to a teenage version of wedding vows—
I promise that whether in poverty or wealth, whether he’s rude or short-tempered, whether we argue and clash every day, I, Rudo, will grow up alongside Zanka and always love him more than anyone.
I promise that, in good times and bad, in sickness and in health, whether he’s a stinky little brat or a well-behaved kitten, I, Zanka, will always love Rudo, cherish him, and remain faithful to him until death.
It’s still too early to think about this. Although there’s no legal marriage age in the Ground, that 15-year-old face just looks like it would eat so much wedding cake at his own wedding that he’d end up looking like a balloon. Zanka doesn’t want to marry a dummy, so this plan is on hold for now. Let’s wait until he grows up a little more—and until they both mature a little more—but by then, they’ll definitely be able to take more mature wedding photos.
This was important to Zanka because he planned to have them displayed forever on his bedside table, alongside that pot of plastic flowers.
But he could never have imagined that his plan would be derailed—or even reversed—in such an unfathomable way.
It was just an ordinary cleanup mission in a contaminated zone. Only five people went in total, and they didn’t even enter any restricted areas. How on earth did things turn out like this?
The child Gris had dragged back—that action alone was already baffling—was clinging to the man’s arm, hiding his body in the shadows. He didn’t even look fifteen years old in height or build. Gone, too, was his usual fierce, snarling expression. He crossed his left leg over his right, as if unsure why he was there. He looked up in bewilderment, his head tilted back as he saw that everyone passing by was taller than him. Rudo’s fingers clenched, pulling at Gris’s cuff until it wrinkled.
The blond man sighed first. As Zanka closed in step by step and blurted out, “What happened? Huh?” Gris rubbed his temples and answered as briefly as possible: “Although the exact circumstances aren’t clear, it’s likely due to the influence of some new type of trash beasts. No other givers were found at the scene; he was already like this when we found him.”
He had reverted to a child barely over ten years old.
The silver lining was that although Rudo had lost his memories from after arriving at the Cleaners, his emotions still seemed to exist within him in some way. This was evident in the fact that he didn’t resist his companions’ touch or closeness; he even instinctively and affectionately leaned in—especially toward Gris—allowing him to pick him up in one arm and carry him back to headquarters. Perhaps for a child that much younger, all he needed was a figure who momentarily remained him of his father.
But for Zanka, this was a situation that made him grind his teeth in frustration.
While he wasn’t exactly jealous of his colleague, that didn’t mean he could tolerate Rudo hiding behind Gris to avoid his gaze. He reached out and called out tentatively, “Come here. Come to me, Rudo.”
Those eyes peered out from the shadows, blinking bright red as if weighing whether to approach the person before him. With every blink, Zanka grew more restless. He stretched out his arm, his fingertips taut; from this not-too-distant distance, he could easily grab the boy by the collar and pull him back into his arms. Youth is prone to impatience. As Gris watched the blue-eyed teen, he found that the boy is unconsciously furrowing his brow. Though not uncommon, this usually meant the Nijiku was rapidly losing patience.
Finally, he crouched down in front of Rudo first. Gris reached out to run a hand through the boy’s hair and said softly, “This is Zanka. You know him, don’t you, Rudo? I need to go report today’s incident to the boss and Semiu. In the meantime, Zanka will look after you. You can trust him.” The boy shook his head from side to side. He wanted to say that this guy looked a bit scary, but some inexplicable instinct prevented him from feeling truly afraid; instead, he wanted to take the hand that was reaching out to him. “Okay… Will you come back to pick me up later?”
After ruffling his hair and reassuring him repeatedly, Rudo finally nodded and reluctantly took hold of Zanka’s two fingers.
As they walked toward the dorm, he kept glancing back in Gris’s direction every few steps.
Zanka, who had finally been “returned” his boyfriend (the mini version), twitched the corner of his mouth and silently grumbled to himself: “Well, that's def not happening.” He felt like he’d became an evil kindergarten teacher, while Gris was the good dad in Rudo’s heart who would always come for him no matter rain or shine.
Are you kidding me!?
But thankfully, although the younger Rudo was more wary, he was also more well-behaved. When Zanka took his hand, he followed along; when Zanka fed him, he opened his mouth. Although he was still as bad at showing emotion as he would be when he grew up, the way his hair swayed back and forth and his legs dangled from the dining room bench—too short to touch the floor—still made Zanka’s heart soften like never before.
Until—
“Hey? What’s with that pose?”
The bathroom was filled with steam. Zanka stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at the child with his arms crossed over his chest. Rudo puckered his lips and narrowed his big eyes, then let out a little squeak and scurried away as Zanka tried to peel him out of his filthy uniform.
The two of them were locked in a standoff, which made Zanka feel so exasperated he almost laughed. He reached out with one hand to pinch Rudo’s cheek, emphasizing once more in a threatening, boastful tone, “I’m your boyfriend, you know that? I have the right to give you a bath.” The little boy stood barefoot on the bathroom floor, tilting his head back and replying suspiciously, “Boyfriend?”
“Yeah, partner, lover, husband—whatever you Sphere folks call it.” He said it brazenly, reaching out again to tug at Rudo’s sleeve. For some reason, this cheeky nonsense actually worked. Rudo’s little hands, which had been crossed over his chest, dropped to his sides. He took a few steps closer and began to stare intently at Zanka.
Partly to keep him from getting a stiff neck from looking up, and partly for ease of access— The blue-eyed teenager knelt before Rudo. With their eyes now level, he deftly began stripping Rudo of his clothes, one by one. “What are you looking at?” Fragrant bath foam drifted through the entire bathroom as the boy’s slender collarbones, waist, abdomen, and pressed-together legs were laid bare before him. Surprisingly, at this point Zanka actually wanted to say: Can’t you have a little more wariness?
He was such a contradictory person, mainly because of the conflict Rudo had caused him. Originally, Zanka Nijiku’s life had only one goal—to become strong, strong enough that the specter of the Nijiku name would no longer constantly haunt him. But after the strange little spherite arrived, in a very short time, all of Zanka’s senses—ones he hadn’t even known existed—were awakened.
He felt anger, dread, excitement, regret, hunger—and at the same time, his entire heart melted away completely, like a cotton candy secretly stolen by a stupid stray cat, washed in water before eating. He wanted Rudo to shut up, yet he also wanted Rudo to obediently part his lips, revealing the tip of his tender, rosy tongue; he wanted Rudo to be his defeated opponent, but more importantly, he had to teach Rudo to become strong—strong enough to conquer this whole fucked-up world; he wanted Rudo to love and trust him unreservedly no matter what, even if he become a 10 years old child.
But when he was actually scrutinized by the wide-eyed ten-year-old boy, Zanka couldn’t help but sigh at the innocence and candor in those eyes.
“…What are you looking at?”
The boy, now sitting obediently in the bathtub, had one arm draped over the rim above the water, while Zanka cupped his other arm in his palm, scrubbing it carefully to avoid the area covered by the glove and bandage.
“You.”
Sure enough, the little boy, Rudo Surebrec, wasn’t very good with words; he even omitted the verb, sounding a bit cold. But because of the duck-shaped shower cap on his head—which Zanka had discovered by chance while looking for children’s shampoo in the storage room— to be honest, he didn’t know exactly how to use it, nor had he ever bathed another child, so he didn’t realize that this kind of shower cap was only meant for infants aged 0–2, designed to keep water from running into their eyes while washing their hair. Regardless, Zanka thought it was cute, so he earnestly placed it on Rudo's forehead without a second thought. His future boyfriend didn’t refuse; he just looked puzzled and continued to scrutinize him intently.
“Why are you looking at me? Do I look good?”
Amid the warm steam, Rudo shook his head and then nodded: “You look a little mean.” That sentence slipped out smoothly, but the words that followed made his little brain work overtime for a while: “Regto said… he hopes I’ll marry a gentle person someday.” He clearly took everything Zanka said for real and, after trying hard to process it, had reached a conclusion.
Hearing his late father’s name made Zanka pause for a moment, wondering if he should tell him that they hadn’t yet received the blessing of both their families. But the next moment, Rudo gestured, as if to make up for his lack of words: “But if it’s you, it’s okay.”
His hand reached back to grasp Zanka’s arm; the rough texture of the 3R made its presence all the more distinct.
Zanka had no way of knowing whether the “it’s okay” this child spoke of meant: “It’s okay even though you’re mean,” or “It’s okay even though you’re not gentle.”
Or—“As long as it’s you, nothing else matters.”
He couldn’t force anything more out of the bewildered yet obedient boy, nor could he press him for answers. Zanka paused his scrubbing, rested his hands on the edge of the bathtub, lowered his head, and met Rudo’s gaze. “Is that true?” he whispered. That tiny body seemed to hold both the memories of his life before age ten and all the emotions he’d felt up until fifteen. He didn’t know what had happened between him and Zanka, yet he could sense how he had ultimately come to love this odd-browed teenager standing before him.
Love? How strange—Rudo even struggled to understand that word. He simply gazed instinctively and slowly into Zanka’s fairy-tale-like sapphire eyes and nodded earnestly at him.
His cheeks, as white as milk, were gently pinched, and Zanka kissed his forehead beneath the brim of his duck-shaped cap. The body wash was probably strawberry-scented, making Rudo taste even sweeter—he smiled without even realizing it.
Worried that the water in the tub might cool down and give him a cold, he continued with the routine of pouring hot water, applying bubbles, and gently scrubbing. Zanka was completely absorbed in the task until he wrapped the child in a long towel like a freshly baked butter cream roll, then he stole another quick kiss on the plump left cheek. Watching Rudo blink—like a butterfly perched on Zanka’s nose—he couldn’t help but wrinkle his nose and huff from the heart:
Grow up quickly, hurry up and become my Rudo again.
…That way, you’ll be able to kiss me back properly.
Rudo is — A little vanilla cream puff.
The kind sold at dessert shops in town, displayed in glass windows facing the street, tempting even those who don’t usually have a sweet tooth to reach for their wallets.
Gris was a man of his word. Whether it was the resolve to face life and death before every mission or a casual remark in daily life, he would always carry out his promises without fail. Therefore, after reporting the cause and details of this unusual regression incident to Corvus, Gris returned to the dormitory area and knocked on Zanka’s door.
Of course, Zanka didn’t readily hand over the kitten roll he was holding. Gris had anticipated this—after all, the two teenagers’ boisterous first love affair was an open secret at the Cleaners headquarters, the talk of the town, even though the two of them thought they were keeping it well hidden, which only made them seem even more suited for each other. But being a perfect match wasn’t a reason to monopolize him. Gris appealed to reason with the overly protective boyfriend, and finally reached a tentative agreement with Zanka.
“There’s a two-week mission coming up, and you’re on the list, Zanka.”
The boy let out a wail, then quickly cleared his throat, regaining his usual aloof, unapproachable expression. Gris continued to coax him gently: “So leave Rudo to us; the people staying at headquarters will take good care of him.” He emphasized the word “us,” stressing that his self-interest wasn’t a major factor—proving that even adults can lie with a clear conscience.
Watching the boy reluctantly mull it over for a while before finally agreeing, a barely perceptible smile flitted across Gris’s face. As he said goodnight and left, he could see Rudo, who’d been placed on the bed, poking his head out and waving at him through the crack in the door, still wearing an incredibly funny yet utterly adorable duck bath cap.
Not long ago, when he’d seen that tiny figure standing all alone amid the ruins, the first emotion that had actually welled up in Gris’s heart was panic.
The white-haired boy was still wearing his uniform, his face and body covered in the grime typical of such work, but his expression was like that of a child who’d gotten lost from his parents at a park—so bewildered, and vacant—August’s meticulously tailored uniform now hung loosely on him, revealing his slender shoulders and most of his collarbone. The boy tilted his head back, gazing up at Gris amid the swirling ash.
In that moment, he silently apologized to Enjin in his heart; it turned out that at a time like this, he didn’t know what the right thing to do was either—and the person before him wasn’t even the fifteen-year-old Rudo, but a being who looked much younger and far more fragile. He hunched his back as if approaching a kitten that had just opened its eyes and could barely stand, moving closer step by step. Driven by some instinctive urgency, he stretched out his arm, murmuring softly, “Hey, Rudo, it’s me. It’s okay. I won’t hurt you… Come on, come over here, good boy.”
He was afraid Rudo wouldn’t recognize him, and at the same time, he feared Rudo might have been injured in this sudden upheaval, but fortunately, none of the misfortunes he’d feared came to pass. Rudo stared at him for a moment, as if rummaging through the ruins of his memory—he had always been a boy skilled at finding treasures amid piles of trash. Finally, he began to move, slowly climbing over the remains of spotted beasts and debris in the contaminated zone until he reached Gris and settled into his arms.
Even though he had lost all memories from after the age of ten, as the tall man held him tightly and carried him back to the car—and as they sped all the way back to headquarters—Rudo was, surprisingly, utterly quiet. He kept tilting his head up to look at that reassuring face. For some reason, even though he had not the slightest recollection of the name “Gris,” Rudo could sense the scent of a big brother, the scent of a father.
Unusually, Gris didn’t even drive; instead, he let someone else take the wheel while he sat in the back seat, holding Rudo close and chattering away about everything that had happened since Rudo first met them. The child in his arms listened, occasionally nodding or blinking. Finally, as if growing drowsy, his soft, curly hair—as white as the snowy landscape—resting against Gris’s chest, Rudo lay there quietly, like an utterly exhausted little bird that had finally found a safe nest.
It wasn’t that he hadn’t imagined falling in love with a nice lady, marrying her, and having a child. Vaguely, Gris thought, he would have a child in this lifetime. But that future hadn’t arrived yet; instead, a boy with red eyes full of lost had fallen from the sky.
Whether Rudo was fifteen or ten, he was never a difficult presence for Gris to embrace—perhaps because Gris had long since prepared himself for the arrival of a child, and the boy, who had descended like an angel or a stray kitten, fit that role perfectly.
Like an elementary school student ready for a spring outing, he was dressed in children’s clothes that Zanka had forced August to rush through overnight. The moment the door opened and he saw Gris, his eyes lit up; his feet tapped the floor excitedly. As soon as Zanka let go, he dashed out the door, bumped into Gris’s leg, and looked up, exclaiming, “You’re here to pick me up!” In truth, he didn’t have a particular favorite or anyone he was looking forward to seeing more than anyone else; for a child, a promise that’s been kept without fail is what matters most—it makes him feel safe. Still, Zanka’s face darkened by three shades in a single second.
“Mm-hmm.” Gris bent down to ruffle Rudo’s hair, then ran his hand down to the boy’s cheek. “I’ll be taking care of you for the next few days, Rudo.”
The child, who had no objections to this arrangement, nodded. Just as he was about to take a step toward his new life, he turned around and waved, saying, “Bye, boyfriend.” The abrupt and unambiguous words coming from the mouth of a little boy just 1.2 meters tall made Gris want to ask if that was really necessary, but when he saw Zanka’s face suddenly light up, he shook his head and kept his mouth shut.
Well, it was certainly a nice-sounding term, and he’d finally gotten to hear it too.
He wasn’t sure if it was his imagination, but after a night’s sleep, Rudo—whose hand Griss was holding as they walked toward the Cleaners’ headquarters—looked even younger than the day before.
When they arrived at the cafeteria for breakfast, his little legs and feet, which didn’t quite reach the floor, wobbled even more. He seemed utterly amazed that everyone could so precisely cater to his dietary preferences—or rather, Rudo’s brain currently held no memory of ever having tasted sweets, yet miraculous things kept happening. he kept being fed heavenly delicacies he’d never tasted before. The little boy stretched his arms across the table, trying to reach the plate in front of Gris, and looked as if he were about to climb right onto the table. Fortunately, his makeshift dad acted quickly, bringing a piece of pancake drizzled with maple syrup to Rudo’s lips. He immediately bit down on it—fork and all— Rudo chewed and chewed, his eyes and eyebrows scrunching up into a look of pure contentment.
“Rudo,” Gris said gently, reaching out to wipe the syrup from the child’s lips. “Do you know how old you are now, Rudo?” Yesterday, when they left the ruins, though he’d been dazed, he’d actually been able to state his age and the fact that he was a spherite accurately. But now, the child at the table blinked hard, held out his gloved hands, and hesitantly raised and lowered his ten fingers—8, 9, 10—he went through them all, but in the end he still couldn’t make up his mind. He tucked his head in and shook it, as if being asked a question he couldn’t answer were a terrible sin.
He pursed his lips and cautiously watched Gris’s expression, but the very next second, he was treated to an even sweeter bite of cheesecake. Gris’s other hand reached out to stroke his fluffy, soft hair, and he whispered, “It’s okay. Don’t worry about a thing, Rudo. Leave it all to us. Everything’s fine.”
His child shouldn’t feel anxious about anything—that was the adults’ responsibility.
Since the first thing that happened after returning to headquarters yesterday was being sent to the infirmary for a checkup, Rudo was no longer unfamiliar with Eishia. Or rather, the sensation of her fingertips gliding over his skin like cool spring water was instinctively recognized by Rudo as a sign of friendliness and safety.
Today, he was brought here again.
The familiar measuring tools were exactly the same as the day before, and the same procedure was repeated. Rudo didn’t quite understand why, but he overheard Gris and Aisha whispering to each other—“I have a hunch that he seems… smaller than yesterday.”
Rudo looked down at the loose white nightgown he was wearing. Unable to discern whether the adult’s tone was positive or negative, he could only try to cooperate a little more, and then a little more still. When Aisha said, “Come on, Rudo, open your mouth,” he let out an “Ah—” and opened his mouth wide, revealing his bright red tongue. Once all the examinations were complete and he was cradled back in Gris’s arms, the girl standing by the bed spoke hesitantly: “Today’s height and weight measurements are both lower than yesterday’s. Although we can’t accurately determine his age based on the shape of his teeth, he’s clearly a bit younger than yesterday. If he was ten yesterday, then today he’s probably seven or eight…”
“Does that mean his age will continue to regress?”
Aisha looked at Rudo’s upturned face. She bit her lower lip with her canine tooth and whispered, “Perhaps… that possibility exists. But since we don’t currently know whether the cause is the power of trash beasts or a giver, we’ll just have to keep observing. I’m sorry… I don’t know how to cure him, nor do I know how to make Rudo return to his original self…”
A shadow of gloom fell over the girl’s face. She twisted her fingers nervously, her short brows furrowed. As the only healer among the Cleaners, every major medical incident or serious injury brought a dual wave of responsibility and pressure crashing down on her. But the next moment, a broad, calloused hand landed on her shoulder, patting it once, then twice. Gris’s body temperature was slightly higher than others’, radiating a steadfast and reassuring strength: “Thank you, Eishia. You’ve done a wonderful job. We’ll all continue to rely on you in the future—including this child—so…” He bent down and pinched Rudo’s cheek, saying, “Rudo, you need to thank Eishia, too.”
The boy, whose countless wounds she had tended to, was now wrapped in a nightgown with embroidered patterns on the cuffs. Even though it had been hastily made, traces of its intricate design were evident—she could instantly recognize her older brother’s handiwork.
Because Rudo had suffered so many wounds; because Rudo carried such heavy hopes; because Rudo, though so young, had been tossed back and forth in the maelstrom of revenge and saving the world; because Rudo was loved… That was why Eishia found it especially unbearable to have botched this—she absolutely could not tolerate seeing this late-blooming, unopened bud snapped off.
“Thank you, thank you! Aisha, I don’t hurt anywhere.”
Held in the arms of his towering protector, the boy strained to lift his head and spoke with a bright expression he would never show once he grew up. The older one gets, the harder it becomes to voice one’s true feelings—this is true for everyone, and especially for Rudo. But at this moment, he hadn’t yet mastered the art of concealment. To emphasize what he wanted to convey, he even wiggled his limbs one by one, signaling to Aisha that he wasn’t feeling any pain anywhere in his body.
This was the safest state he could think of.
Even beneath those tattered gloves, everyone knew his hands were constantly steeped in excruciating pain. Yet even at just eight years old, Rudo had already grown accustomed to its ever-present shadow. He wouldn’t even cry out in pain, nor would he ask Aisha to find a way to heal him—he knew that the pain rooted deep within him was like the dark side of the sun and moon, destined to coexist with him for eternity.
But a child should really be more willful. Whether crying, complaining, or cursing the whole world—anything would be better than this quiet, contented demeanor. He was truly grateful to Aisha, and truly grateful to Gris for always holding him close. You could see in his eyes that Rudo was happy right now, on this ordinary afternoon with misfortune lurking just beyond the door.
Aisha clenched her fists, letting them hang at her sides, pressed tightly against the hem of her dress. She felt the urge to cry welling up in her eyes, so she swallowed nothing with a blank expression, took a deep breath, and then replied:
“Um, um… You’re welcome, Rudo. No matter what kind of power this is, I’ll find a way to cure you.”
Only after finally leaving the room filled with the smell of disinfectant and returning to the lounge filled with the aroma of snacks did Rudo allowed himself to show a slightly anxious expression. Although he was holding a cream bun—which Gris had given him as a reward, just as one might reward a child for bravely getting a shot—Rudo didn’t immediately bury his face in the sweet treat. Eishia’s words still echoed in the boy’s mind, and a twinge of unease made him hesitate before speaking:
“If I can’t go back to the way I was… will everyone be disappointed?”
Cure implies illness; the need to return to his original state suggests that everyone was looking forward to the “real” him. Taking it a step further, perhaps everyone was merely tolerating his current self. Rudo’s limited mental capacity arrived at this conclusion, and it felt as though everything from his hands and feet to the pit of his stomach had grown cold, leaving him unable to even eat the cream bun.
He saw Gris’s eyes widen at the question. During the brief silence, the boy tilted his head back in Gris’s arms, pressing his cheek against the man’s chin, which was lightly covered in stubble, with a hint of hurt. He traced the scar running across the side of Gris’s blue eye, then ran his fingers through his golden hair. In the unbroken silence—from which he could never elicit a response—Rudo couldn’t discern the shock Gris felt at those words; all he could make out was—
“You all prefer the old Rudo, don’t you?”
The little body, growing panicked, struggled desperately to stay calm. He pressed his lips tightly together, fighting the urge to let them curl downward uncontrollably, almost wanting to apologize and say, “I’m sorry for causing you trouble,” but Gris saw right through the storm raging inside his mind. He slipped his hands under Rudo’s armpits and turned him so he was facing him fully, his tone direct: “ “No, Rudo, that’s not it.”
To ensure the child could hear every word he said, Gris cupped Rudo’s cheeks with his palms like round bowls. He stroked the soft, warm skin with the pads of his thumbs, as if kneading a piece of rice cake, and looked into those big eyes from just inches away, saying:
“To me, Rudo is just Rudo. There’s never been a distinction between the ‘old you’ and the ‘current you.’ The Rudo I cherish is right here. No matter what, you’re always worthy of love. Do you understand?”
This solemn declaration, too weighty for the innocent child, hung in the air, Rudo opened his mouth and then closed it again, as if he needed to actually chew on the words to digest them. Once more, he thought of Regto; even though the face in his memory bore little resemblance to the blond-haired, blue-eyed man before him, Rudo still felt a familiar warmth settle in his stomach, making him feel drowsy and want to curl up and snuggle against his chest.
Even if the world were ending right now, it wouldn’t matter. My baby boy, you can rest on me.
He reached out, wrapped his arms around Gris’s neck, and buried his cheek deeply in the crook of his neck. “Mmmm...” The cream bun was still clutched tightly in his hand; the scent of whipped cream mingled with the warm, dusty scent of Rudo’s body, resting safely on Gris’s shoulder.
Right now, you’re more important to me than my absolute favorite dessert, he seemed to be saying.
The most generous language of love a child could give.
Gris also gently tilted his head, letting himself lean against Rudo, pressing close without causing him any pain, his palm patting Rudo’s back gently, stroke by stroke. He hoped there would be many more opportunities in his life to lull this child to sleep in his arms.
For that, he was willing to learn to sing more lullabies and memorize a thousand and one bedtime stories.
Rudo is — My sun and moon.
The young supporter, nope, the newest giver jumped down from the jeep, his footsteps thudding as he raced from the headquarters entrance down the hallway to the common lounge. He was panting heavily, beads of sweat dripping from his hair, his cap still askew. Follo bent over, propping himself up with one hand on his thigh, while extending the other toward Gris:
“Ha… haa… Give it to me.”
Just like a robber.
Demand it wilfully.
The calm and composed man turned his face, originally preparing to say “Welcome back,” but quickly narrowed his eyes, sensing something was off. Follo was on the list for that two-week mission—not as a main force, but simply to help him adapt to the givers’ combat style. It was a perfect training opportunity, so Follo had set off with the team, brimming with confidence. Yes, before setting out, he hadn’t known about the little “accident” involving Rudo, but perhaps he’d overheard Zanka let something slip along the way. In any case, Gris knew him too well—he could tell at a glance that Follo was displaying his rare, defiant attitude.
“Not even Zanka skipped duty to come back,” he sighed heavily. The implication of the second half of his statement was clear: coming all this way without even being in the relationship; truly, youth knows no bounds; if you don’t take risks, you won’t win; the underdog seizes every moment. But rather than blame, Gris felt mostly a sense of helplessness.
The boy before him was panting heavily, his left hand held firmly in the air. “Whatever… I don’t care.” He was practically spinning in circles like a sheepdog whose tail had been stepped on. It was a mission with a very low risk level—it had simply taken so long because the radiation zone was so vast. So, after quickly confirming within three days that there were no civilian casualties, he didn’t hesitate to flag down a passing pickup truck heading toward headquarters and hitch a ride, skipping work on a whim with lightning-fast efficiency.
As for Zanka, of course he couldn’t skip with him—if he came back too, how would Follo go about stealing his boyfriend?
Blame it on the fact that you’re too capable—the team can’t do without you, dear Mr. Ordinary—and blame it on the fact that you haven’t suffered enough in this relationship. After all, it’s the two of you who are in this romance, but all the pain have been left to me. Follo felt a sense of relief at this moment, as if the clouds had finally parted to reveal the moon—even as Gris spoke up the very next second: “You know he’ll turn back, right? This effect is definitely only temporary…”
Follo finally caught his breath, took a few steps forward, and said with even greater urgency, “It’s fine!”
The boy who had almost grown onto Gris these past few days turned his head at the sound. They were watching a soap opera, a genre that was surprisingly popular in the Ground. Although Rudo was growing younger by the day and finding it increasingly difficult to empathize with the loves and hates of the characters on screen, he loved watching the characters shout and argue, often repeating the lines aloud along with them. In just a few short days, Gris had played along with him, taking on the roles of lovers, spouses, father and son, and even best friends turned enemies. If someone were to ask him the question every child is asked—“What do you want to be when you grow up?”—his answer would probably be an actor, or a full-time snack-devourer; Gris said he could definitely handle either one.
What was young Rudo’s true wish at that moment? Perhaps it was simply for some abandoned stuffed animal to find a home again, just like he had—but now Rudo already had a home, wrapped tightly in a soft, loving cloud of affection, so his former wish could be revised into something happier, lighter, and easier to achieve.
And what about the young Follo’s dream?
He wanted to be extraordinary; he wanted to be the center of envious or admiring gazes; he wanted—to be the main character of this story.
But his wish had already come true, too.
That day, lying in the infirmary bed and listening to the chaotic chatter all around him, the key phrase he could make out through the haze was probably “Rudo used the power of 3R on him”—weaponization… power of those who connect with others… power of cherish. In that very long moment, Follo thought: If I were to live on as Rudo’s weapon, that wouldn’t be so bad.
But the boy explained, flustered and annoyed: I didn’t use that kind of power on Follo! They were all so poor at explaining their actions and intentions with words that it required repeated interpretation and mediation by the adults around them. Gris thought it through, and Corvus analyzed it as well. Finally, everyone—and most importantly, Follo—came to understand: Rudo had simply channeled that power—a power born of caring and cherishing—into himself. It was a force that often surged forth whenever Rudo refused to let go of something. In that very moment, Follo felt that his confession hadn’t been a complete failure after all.
Of course, he had misunderstood his crush a lot. I mean, A LOT.
An angel who had fallen from the sky, breathtakingly beautiful, almost as if clad in a pure white feathered robe that instinctively made everyone want to protect and cherish him—and who born with the power to either save the world or utterly destroy it—such a person seemed incredibly distant. Yet Follo still felt an overwhelming desire to draw closer to him, just as he had when he left his hometown to join the cleaners. So he thought: first love and dreams are equally powerful things—they leave you speechless and make your mind go blank.
Why couldn’t Rudo just be a little sweeter to him?
If it were just a matter of relaxing in front of adults—men far more mature than himself—squinting as he let their hands stroke and rub his head and cheeks, Follo could tolerate it, after all, one day he’d reach that age too; or if he were just shy and blushing around girls—Riyo and Amo were both so overflowing with passion, wrapping around his limbs like silk—“Rudo, you’re so cute,” “Rudo, look at me,” “Rudo, let’s always be there for each other, okay?” They could say things like this with ease, yet even though these very words swelled within Follo like a sour dough, what ultimately burst from his mouth in a furious roar were words twisted and distorted like magma.
Even so, he could still endure it. If Rudo liked girls, that was perfectly normal—he’d heard that his first love in the sphere was also a girl—so Follo was willing to accept and pursue a life where he was simply Rudo’s first best friend. But as it turned out, life had other plans.
He never wanted to see Rudo and Zanka kissing in the corridors late at night.
What the fuck was this? Another boy, roughly the same age as Follo himself—he wasn’t soft either, didn’t have the broad palms of adults or the gentle touch of girls; in fact, he was a hundred times harsher. Yet still, Rudo stood on tiptoe to kiss him, like a little rabbit looking up to lick a berry.
The young supporter’s pride shattered along with his first love. Shattered, then regrown, sprouting itchy granulation tissue—only to be shattered again upon seeing them holding hands. Then it would heal, only to shatter once more. In this endless cycle, Follo could no longer pinpoint exactly what he hated. He couldn’t hate Zanka—he’d been that way since they first met, never changing. Was being loved a natural gift, just like awakening as a giver? For that boy who claimed to be merely ordinary, perhaps it was perfectly normal.
So he could only blame Rudo. In his mind, Follo repeatedly crossed out the first two words of “adorable little spherite” and replaced them with “hateful little spherite” but in the blink of an eye, it would automatically refresh back to its original form. So Follo would carve the words in even more forcefully: He doesn’t take me seriously—hateful; he’s too charming—hateful; he’s too powerful, resilient, and brave—hateful; he just doesn’t understand my heart… that’s the most hateful of all.
If he could, Follo would have loved to attribute Rudo’s rejection entirely to the fact that he wasn’t a “powerful, well-match giver worthy of him”—it sounded both reasonable and cruel, yet Rudo had completely overturned that notion in the most absolute way possible.
Follo never imagined that Rudo would chase after him off the cliff like a child who didn’t understand the meaning of life and death.
The already shattered, scorching blood within his chest surged even more violently; Rudo stubbornly refused to accept Alan as a memento, and even more so, refused to let Follo die.
「Angel」
Suddenly, Follo recalled Amo’s choice of words. Perhaps what he had encountered was an angel as well—a once-in-a-lifetime encounter, in which the angel generously infused his body with cherishing and tender love. Thus, Follo’s dream and heart both left his body, wrapped in Rudo’s sweet soul, and then settled firmly back into his chest.
Follo, now awakened as a giver, was no longer the Follo of the past. He was a vessel branded with the mark of Rudo Surebrec, holding a red heart that beat steadily for him at all possible minutes.
Nothing else mattered anymore—his boyfriend, his plan for revenge upon returning to the sphere, his age—none of it mattered, Follo thought. As long as this boy existed, everything had already taken on a pure and sweet meaning.
Finally, as his mind drifted off once again, a small hand appeared before him out of nowhere, grabbing the hem of his shirt and tugging at it.
“Gris said… you’d have a play date with me.”
He snapped out of his daze and jerked his head up. His knees buckled, and he immediately crouched down to meet the gaze of those eyes, as sweet as strawberry candies.
In just a few short days, Gris had already nursed Rudo back to plump, round cheeks—or perhaps it was simply that at that age, his features were naturally chubby. In any case, Gris was exceptionally skilled at doting on and raising children; after all, before Rudo came along, it had always been Follo himself who was the object of that indulgence, and now it was the same. He looked up at Gris—the one who had always silently comforted him during his struggles to find what he longed for but could not have. Gris propped his face up with one hand, like a father watching his children run and play beside a sandbox at the park. The man looked up and said, “Go on. But he's only thinking like a five-year-old right now. If you don’t know how to handle it, just contact me.”
Even with the white haired boy's memory a blank slate, even in his naive, worldly-ignorant state, Follo still couldn’t help but pull Rudo into his arms, cheek to cheek, and whisper:
“Hey... hey, my name is Follo.”
Follo. Follo. Follo. Follo… Follo…
Rudo loved playing with this black-haired boy. He’d take him away from headquarters to explore the town’s fascinating candy shops and amusement parks all day long; he’d let him curiously touch that mysterious hammer; and when drowsiness set in, he’d hold him close in his arms, with Rudo’s little head resting on Follo’s shoulder, whispering, “Follo…” He was already very familiar with that name. Whether before bedtime or during the day, the boy would always teach him how to pronounce those two syllables over and over, as if time were running out and he had to etch his name deeply into Rudo’s mind.
Sitting quietly on the edge of the bed, the child dozed off, his head bobbing slightly within the space enclosed by Follo's legs, His fluffy white hair, like a cloud, covered most of his face; the younger he grew, the more it enveloped him. So Follo had learned to tie Rudo’s hair into two small buns on either side with hair ties. They would bounce gently with their owner’s movements, fanning all the aching softness within Follo like little wings.
In the palm of his own hand, he traced the strokes of the characters for “Follo,” over and over again, then took Rudo’s small hand to imitate the motion. Now that the gloves felt incredibly big to him, writing was difficult, but the clever kid eventually learned to write “Follo” in the script of the ground. The scripts used in the Sphere and the ground were markedly different—a fact that became clear to Follo the moment he saw the memo board hanging on Rudo’s wall. But now, he had bridged that gap; the way Rudo had learned to write “Follo” was the hundred percent real him.
Next, he taught Rudo to write—“Like”.
These two characters were a bit difficult, and it took Rudo quite a while to finally ask, “Why?”
Follo smiled and first wrote “Rudo” in the palm of 3R. Then he pointed to the boy himself and wrote: “Like.” “I like Rudo—very, very much.” Perhaps the one being confessed understood it, perhaps not—these were words Follo could never bring himself to say frankly to the 15-year-old Rudo. But at least in this once-in-a-lifetime moment, he didn’t run away or lie. Follo then wrote “Follo” on the same palm with a feather-light touch. His finger traced back to his own chest, then slowly copied: “Like.”
“…Like.”
This time, Rudo tilted his head, opened his mouth, and repeated after him.
Rudo is — A gift with jelly flow heart.
It took nearly a fight to wrest Rudo—who belonged to AKUTA and, by extension, to herself—back from Follo, and Riyo was a little pissed.
But she was quickly won over by the sparkling look in the child’s eyes as he gazed at her hair. “Pretty!” He could only say simple words now, but it was enough for Riyo to understand everything he wanted to express. So, for the first time in a long while, she let her long hair flow freely even during the day. It swayed gently, and when she lay on the bed, it transformed into a deep-red, fairy-tale lake. Rudo lay beside her, his hands playfully twining through her red locks in wonder. He gazed at Riyo’s hair, then used one hand to pull his own cheek, wanting the girl to look into his eyes.
“Same.”
We’re the same, that's what Rudo wanted to say.
The next moment, he was held tightly by the girl’s arms and legs. Riyo had almost no scent of her own; only when you were extremely close, then you could catch a faint, warm whiff reminiscent of burning fireworks. “Yes, we’re the same, Rudo. I’ve known it ever since I first saw you.” She pressed the child’s cheek against her beating heart. A overwhelming desire for destruction and a torrential sense of duty to protect swept over her simultaneously. Finally, Riyo patted Rudo on the back, helping him slowly and peacefully close his eyes. “…We are one.” Her voice was ethereal, like a single syllable of a lullaby:
“We’ll be together forever, Rudo.”
I promise.
Rudo is — An angel.
If she became a mother, would she be a good one?
Amo would occasionally ponder this question, just as she pondered which zodiac signs corresponded to various types of men—it was merely one of countless random thoughts floating through her mind. It might take a very, very long time for her to find the answer—once, she had also thought it would be a very, very long time before someone reached out to her with a hand not meant to vent anger—but the curtain of fate often falls at the most unexpected moments.
Rudo, wearing the onesie that August had once again painstakingly altered to fit, was clattering down the hallway toward her. “Rudo, you’re doing amazing!” She clapped her hands and spread her arms wide in that direction. “Come on, Rudo, come to Amo!” The child then ran toward her with even greater determination; though his steps were unsteady, his gaze was intense. Even as such a young and innocent being, he remained just as he was when they first met—uncompromising in pursuit of his goal.
Amo loved Rudo deeply—not as a first love, not as a crush, not as a type of man she was interested in, but as the most precious treasure that appeared behind the door of love she had never known before, a door that had been opened for the very first time.
Amo heard Rudo knocking, and this was her reward for bravely answering it.
When the distance between them was finally less than half a meter, Rudo also threw his arms wide open. “Amo—” he called her name, throwing himself into her arms.
So amazing, so brave, so adorable—my angel.
Amo taught Rudo how to make a promise: they hooked their pinkies and wiggled them back and forth, then pressed their thumbs together in a seal, and the pact was now permanently sealed:
“Rudo will grow up with me. Remember, no one can take you away from Amo.”
Because if something like that were to happen, Amo would get very, very, very angry.
Rudo is — A bright spot of light in the abyss.
When they finally ran short on manpower and this newest little cleaner was placed on Corvus’ desk, his first thought was: Why did I get assigned this version, the hardest one to take care of?
The soft little creature made cooing sounds as it crawled back and forth across the wooden tabletop. The man in charge of all the Cleaners sighed and smiled at the same time. He moved his coffee cup out of the way, moved the pen with its sharp nib out of the way, and moved anything else that might hurt the child out of the way, then held out a palm to prevent him from falling.
He embodied a certain kind of hope— that was undeniable. Corvus stroked the soft white hair; strangely enough, this was actually the first time he’d ever done so.
Rudo is — A rare miracle.
Tomme lay on the floor to meet Rudo’s eye level. She handed him a page from her notebook, along with a box of crayons, and let him scribble beside her like a real child while she documented this brand-new form of Rudo.
He was, after all, a real child.
Rather than his habits, abilities, or attack patterns—rather than all the things she was accustomed to and had recorded countless times—after gazing at him for a long time, Tomme ultimately drew only a portrait of Rudo. She painted all day, until the child lay on the carpet, fast asleep. Then Tomme set down her brush, cradled him in her arms, and began to gently rock him to dreamland.
She would be a good mother someday, everyone knows it.
Rudo is — My Love
……
Rudo is — My Love
……
Rudo is — My One and Only
L.O.V.E.
……
Rudo is — A child parasitized by the fate of the entire world.
Semiu didn’t mind working at the front desk while holding the baby. Although it had been an exceptionally busy season lately, but once all the givers and supporters had been assigned their tasks, she found herself with more free time at headquarters. This gave her time to prepare milk, study the toddler’s tiny hands, feet, and little face. Rudo was very well-behaved, so he didn’t wear her out; instead, he was a good companion who kept her company while she tackled the tedious paperwork.
Yet on this particular afternoon, she kept hearing a distant sound in the back of her mind, though she could never pinpoint its source. In the quiet, empty Cleaner headquarters, not even a stranger would pass by for no reason.
All day long, she read dozens of reports, and nothing happened. The only person who actually came to the front desk to conduct business was Tamsy, returning from his vacation.
His long hair hung loose, and he seemed lighthearted and serene, as if nothing in the world mattered to him. Upon seeing Rudo—who had completely regressed to a toddler in Semiu’s arms—he merely widened his eyes slightly and asked, “Is that the effect of some giver?” After exchanging a few polite pleasantries back and forth, the conversation ended, and he went on to report on related matters to Corvus' office.
For some reason, the noise in Semiu’s ears suddenly grew louder. She shook her head, trying to make out the sound or pinpoint its source, but to no avail. Instinctively, she pulled the child closer to her chest, tapped Rudo’s nose, and muttered to herself:
“Where’s your Mr. Enjin? Isn’t that man the one who should be taking care of you the most right now? Why did he leave you here—with us?”
Rudo — “It's a good name.”
It turns out that, in the end, love is fear.
Mr. Enjin, the 28-year-old who was currently the target of his best friend’s resentment, had spent fifteen years—more than half his life—getting himself into a rut before he finally came to understand this truth.
He had known about that accident earlier than Zanka, earlier than Gris, and earlier than anyone else—he had been on that mission, too. But when he saw the small figure in the distance, its outline overlapping with his memories as the sandstorm receded, his heart suddenly began to race, and his steps grew heavy; he simply couldn’t bring himself to approach.
In the blink of an eye, he thought:
What if it wasn't me that picked him up back then?
The very next second, Gris appeared—the same Gris who had harped on him about how a rescued child shouldn’t have been dragged by a chain, much less handed over to human traffickers. Perhaps he would have handled it better; of course he would, that The Gris. So Enjin stood where he was, avoiding any chance of being seen by Rudo, shying away from eye contact, and drove the jeep all the way back to headquarters on the driver’s seat.
Perhaps it's the power of trash beasts, or perhaps unknown givers; his age had begun to regress; he had no memories, but he retained all his emotions; he had been picked up by Zanka, unharmed and safe.
...
The voice coming through the communicator was flat and calm, devoid of any unnecessary emotion, but in the end, Gris still asked:
“Why?”
Enjin blinked somewhat rapidly, even though he was alone in his own room where no one could see him.
Then, as casually as ever, he replied, “Ah… as for why, I’m not really his guardian, so it’s not my responsibility, is it?” It was the truth; he wasn’t lying. Even though his guard and alarm systems had been on high alert from the moment he met Rudo—running almost twenty-four hours a day without rest—his instincts commanded him to protect this boy. He’d rather have clamped down on his arm, clamped his jaws around his neck, swallowed him whole, or whatever it took—Rudo absolutely could not disappear from his sight again.
So he never let him out of his sight. Using a leash, using binoculars, whatever it needs. Enjin began to find it unbearable for Rudo to be away from him for more than half a day, not counting sleep, because he could always push open the door to his room in the middle of the night. Of course, he’d done this before; it wasn’t anything new. August had done it, and Riyo had done it, so even if he pretended not to admit it, doing this was really just a matter of instinct.
All the turbulent emotions he couldn’t express during the day could only surface at moments like these. Sometimes he would just stand blankly by the window, watching Rudo toss and turn in his nightmares; other times he would sit cross-legged on the edge of the bed, or kneel, rubbing his forehead back and forth against the sheets, his blond hair scattered like a small pool of moonlight’s reflection, When Rudo was in pain, he was in pain too—but he had so many, many, many grievances and agonies that he couldn’t even confide in Rudo.
For example—
Did you know that the moment you were born, our fates were already tied in an unbreakable knot?
Enjin felt like crying and laughing at the same time; he wanted to chew Rudo to pieces and swallow him whole, so the boy could clearly see the obsession that had raged and entangled him for the past fifteen years.
How could fate make me remember you as an infant, only to snatch you away immediately, leaving me with a lingering uncertainty about when you’d return?
And then, from that point on, be even more cruel by actually letting me have you again?
Since childhood, Enjin had been a kid who struggled to accept nice things, not even true gifts; rather than feeling surprised, he was at a loss, as if he’d been forced to swallow a cup of boiling water. So even as that white haired boy sat right there across the dinner table, hamburger sauce still smeared at the corner of his mouth, his eyes wide as he uttered his own name: “…Rudo”.
After Enjin chewed the two syllables silently in his mouth several times, all he tasted was a cold, sharp, blood-tinged sweetness, as sharp as a razor blade.
About your father; about your hatred and revenge; about us.
Enjin had many opportunities to speak up, but each time, cold sweat would first break out down his spine. No, absolutely not. Until the raging past completely tore everything apart, Enjin just wanted to shield him from the storm, then smile sweetly as he fed Rudo a piece of candy.
Watch out for cavities, or don’t worry about them, there are plenty more sweets, and I’ll go buy more after you finish them all;
You’re too skinny, your waist is too thin, eat more, and I’ll feed you;
Whether you fall in love with someone other than me, or kiss and hug them, Zanka is a good kid, you’re around the same age, and you two look so perfect together, I won’t be jealous, you deserve all the joys life has to offer.
Enjin forced himself to think only of these things. Rudo was already fifteen, and fate had moved far ahead. I was no longer the helpless 13 years old, nor was Rudo a bundle of bright, crimson hope in swaddling clothes. We're now companions, fighting side by side, sharing both joys and sorrows.
Nothing more than that should happen.
Nothing more than that should him let it happen.
Enjin kept telling himself, “That’s just how it is.” He would do everything in his power to keep life exactly as it was—perfect and stable. Late into the night, he would swallow the grievances born of his long journey and endless waiting, asking for no response in return. He was an adult—a mature, optimistic, and strong team leader. And so, naturally, he didn’t need Rudo to love him back the way he loved him.
Don’t think about it, don’t think about it—just forget it. I have no claim on his life, even though I was the first to meet him—even though I almost lived my life waiting the day to love him.
Until this sudden, howling upheaval crashed down on him, shattering every mask Enjin had worn. That child stood amid the ruins, his uniform hanging loosely—how could Enjin not be swept away once more by the ferocity of his memories, dragged back to those years of gritting his teeth and waiting endlessly?
Even now, he is still afraid.
There’s no helping it; he has to admit it: the more Rudo regresses, the more terrified he becomes. That child is practically sprinting back to the day they first met. Enjin stumbles and falls; he’s just a hair’s breadth away from doing the one thing fate has owed him for so many years—taking Rudo from that person’s arms, nodding solemnly, and saying, “I do.”
If we could start over this time, would you love me back as deeply, as desperately as I love you?
Or would you simply listen to the heart I cannot voice? It's swollen to the point of bursting yet still overflowing, its stinging, hot blood already coursing through my entire body. Every time I touch you, it screams to gush forth from my eyes, ears, mouth, and nose, to completely drench you and devour you.
Even just hearing it himself, Enjin found it too heavy, too repulsive—so he decided against it. He'd simply avoid seeing him, hide away. Whether it was the trash beast or giver doing, the effects would eventually wear off. When that day came, everything would return to normal. And he could swallow back the heart he'd staggered to vomit up, pretend nothing had happened, and continue to watch over and protect Rudo’s life from the sidelines.
The time was almost up.
Eishia had been poring over her research in the infirmary for nearly half a month. She was almost certain that this ability had a cycle; once Rudo's age regressed completely to zero, he would return to his original self.
Enjin should be breathing a huge sigh of relief, just like everyone else at headquarters. No matter what personal motives they might harbor, everyone hopes that Rudo will have an ordinary happy life—and most importantly, that he’ll remember them and spend that ordinary happy life together with them.
Just one more day? Two? Three at most—then it would all be over.
The current Rudo was already in a state not long after birth—the state Enjin could least dare to look at. But soon, his Rudo would come back.
The Rudo who loved him as a brother, a friend, a savior.
But never anything more.
If it hadn’t been for the knock on the door in the dead of night, that’s exactly how fate would have unfolded.
He froze in the hallway; his instinctive movement to shut the door was swiftly blocked by Semiu. The woman’s gaze, bathed in moonlight, seemed icy and resigned:
“I won’t ask why you’re hiding here—I know you won’t tell me. But for this child’s sake, at least, don’t lie. That’s what matters most, isn’t it?”
A heart-wrenching cry came from her arms—the pure, unguarded cry unique to an infant. The baby wailed as if being scorched by a raging fire, causing Enjin to feel his blood boil and then run cold in an instant. “Rudo has been crying all night. No matter what I do, I can’t get him to quiet down. I think if anyone can ease him even one bit, it’s you.” She held out her arms, presenting him with the swaddling cloth she’d wrapped rather clumsily. Enjin took a deep breath, then another, and finally lowered his head to meet the gaze of those same eyes he'd seen 15 years ago.
In that instant, Rudo topped crying.
It was as if the thorns of fate had suddenly retracted, leaving nothing to hurt him. The child’s eyes widened, and he fell silent, as if he had finally reached the one and only destination. Then, he stretched out his tiny hands toward the blond boy before him and called out in a babbling murmur:
“En…Jin.”
The world turned pure white.
In those two words—which sounded like a baby’s first cry to the world—Enjin had, at some point, subconsciously reached out and pulled the child into his arms. He should have done this long ago; who could blame him for that?
“He… recognizes you? But wasn’t he supposed to have lost all his memories…?”
Semiu’s voice wavered between near and far, fading into the background like the chirping of summer cicadas.
Rudo's round, crimson eyes, just as they had been that day in the rain, stared intently at him, as if carefully examining, understanding, and committing the boy before him to memory. Everything around them vanished in an instant, Enjin once again felt raindrops striking his skin and trickling down his hair. That had once been a memory he treasured all to himself, but the innocent baby in his arms opened his palm. He was too small to keep the gloves on anymore, so his little hand—with fingertips covered in scars—was incredibly soft as it reached out to touch Enjin’s cheek.
Once again, in his childish voice, he called out, “...En, Jin.”
The name bestowed upon him by Alto.
On that day when his entire fate shifted abruptly.
His tears fell drop by drop; there was no curtain of rain to shield them now, so they landed with crystal clarity on the baby's palm, cheek, and lips. Enjin could not explain what exactly had left his body in that instant—whether it was pain, fear, or the grievances that had accumulated over the years, or perhaps, simply an answer. He cried for such a long long time, unconsciously sliding down the doorframe to the floor, his forehead pressed against the swaddling cloth—a position that wasn’t exactly comfortable for an infant.
Yet from start to finish, the child simply stroked Enjin's face gently with tiny hands, as if trying to etch something into memory for his future self.
When the faint morning sunlight streamed through the windowpanes, Rudo opened his eyes. His limbs ached, yet he felt a light, comfortable sensation; the long-missed feeling of a good night’s sleep enveloped him completely.
“Good morning…”
A slightly hoarse voice came from beside his pillow. Golden strands of hair spilled out, brushing against Rudo’s cheek. He drew his neck back at the gentle tickle; still half-asleep, he instinctively replied, “Good morning, Enjin...” He then startled a little, wanted to ask why he was there. In a daze, he felt as though he’d been in a very long dream. He worried that he might have disturbed Enjin’s sleep during the night, but something heavy pressed against his waist and shifted slightly. It took a few seconds for Rudo to realize it was Enjin’s arm.
He was drawn deeper into an embrace, their breaths mingling and overlapping, yet strangely, it didn’t feel unfamiliar to Rudo.
Enjin still hadn’t opened his eyes; he simply tightened his arms, drawing Rudo’s breath closer to his own. He stroked the boy’s back with his palm, gently caressing it pat by pat. In a whisper, as if speaking to himself, Enjin said:
“Go to sleep.... We still have all the time in the whole world...”