Kim Hae In entered her office, closing the door with deliberate precision. The tension from the council meeting still hung in the air, a familiar weight she had long since learned to bear. Approaching her desk, she placed a folder of documents and her tablet neatly on the edge before sinking into the contours of her well-worn leather chair.
Her hands moved instinctively to the stack of reports awaiting her scrutiny. She flipped through the pages with methodical efficiency, each line scanned with practiced focus. It wasn't long before her attention was caught by a small, inconspicuous envelope tucked amidst the official papers. Her name was inscribed on it in a precise and deliberate script.
Kim Hae In (thinking): "What's this?"
Setting the reports aside, she lifted the envelope with measured curiosity. Carefully breaking the seal, her eyes froze upon spotting the date written in the upper-right corner.
"2015.03.25"
The letter began in a steady, confident hand:
"Dear Little Hae In, Happy 18th Birthday!"
Her lips curved faintly as she read. The letter was from Kim Hyun Son, written during his tenure as an officer in the Delta Unit.
"I can already imagine you rolling your eyes at this, but you'll always be that stubborn little girl to me — the one who insisted on jumping over obstacles taller than she was. (And who never shied away from an argument.)
You're not that same girl anymore. Today, you're grown, capable, and fearless — ready to move mountains. But don't worry, I'll still remind you of how young you are to keep you grounded."
A ghost of a smile flickered across her face, her fingers tracing the edges of the paper as she continued.
"I'm incredibly proud of you. Becoming Deputy Captain of the Alpha Unit at just 18 is no small feat. It's a testament to your determination and sharp intellect — qualities that make you an exceptional leader.
But never forget, Hae In, that you're more than just a hunter. You're human. And you deserve happiness, not merely an endless struggle. Don't let this world consume you, as it tries to consume all of us. You're stronger than that."
A faint tremor rippled through her as she read on.
"With your new rank comes significant responsibility. The Alpha Unit isn't just a team; it's the cornerstone of our security. They undertake missions others won't touch. They pursue those who have broken their oaths. This role isn't just a job — it's a crucible. But I know you'll excel.
You'll succeed because you're resilient. Because your mind is as sharp as your will. And because I believe in you more than anyone else ever could."
Her gaze drifted momentarily into the distance, memories of those formative years surfacing unbidden.
"So, hold your head high and keep moving forward. Your strength lies not just in your hands, but in your heart.
And please, don't forget to smile. The world feels a little brighter when you do.
With unwavering respect and affection, Officer Kim Hyun Son P.S. Don't forget who spent hours helping you train. You owe me, kiddo!"
Folding the letter with care, she slid it back into its envelope. Her face remained composed, yet a quiet warmth glimmered in her eyes. She placed the letter gently on the desk before turning her gaze toward the window, where the city lights flickered like scattered stars.
Kim Hae In (thinking): "No matter how much you joked, you've always been one of the few I could truly count on."
Kim Hae In sat at her desk, her gaze fixed on the letter resting before her. Her fingers brushed the edge of the envelope, yet her eyes grew distant, as if pulled into the depths of a memory long buried beneath the weight of years."A Morning in 2006"
A frigid morning enveloped the orphanage. In the dining hall, where the children routinely gathered for breakfast, the air hummed with the clatter of dishes, bursts of laughter, and incessant chatter. Yet, in a shadowed corner of the room, nine-year-old Kim Hae In sat alone at a small table. Her short black hair framed a face marked by an uncharacteristic stillness. Once lively, her eyes were now fixed on the plate of untouched food before her.
Isolation defined her presence. None of the other children dared approach. The glances cast in her direction held a mixture of unease and fear, while the caretakers, though bound by duty, carefully avoided her proximity.
Kim Hae In gripped her spoon, her small hand trembling as an oppressive loneliness cloaked her like a second skin.
Kim Hae In (thinking): "Why do they look at me like that? Why am I always alone? What did I do to deserve this?"
Her young mind wrestled with questions that felt impossible to answer. Why had the world turned away from her, treating her not as a peer but as something to be feared, even shunned?
From an early age, Kim Hae In exhibited abilities that set her apart. She was faster, stronger, and more perceptive than her peers. Tasks that seemed insurmountable to others were effortless for her. She could lift objects no one else could budge, solve puzzles that stumped even the adults, and move with such blinding speed that her motions seemed to blur.
One afternoon, a caretaker witnessed something that solidified the growing divide. While playing alone in the garden, Kim Hae In threw a ball toward a tree. To retrieve it, she launched herself into the air, covering an impossible distance and catching the ball mid-flight. What should have been a moment of childish joy instead became a scene of terror. The caretaker, stunned and terrified, recoiled from the sight.
From that day forward, her life at the orphanage shifted irrevocably. The staff, gripped by unease and misunderstanding, began to isolate her. She was moved into a separate room, barred from playing with the other children, and excluded from group activities. Even mealtimes became solitary, her food brought to a quiet, desolate corner of the hall.
Uncertain how to manage her abilities, the caretakers contacted the Hunters Association, describing the extraordinary traits of the girl under their care. The Association promised to send representatives to evaluate her.
Until their arrival, Kim Hae In's isolation became absolute. Confined to her small room, she was forbidden from interacting with others. The staff, consumed by fear, avoided her as though any misstep might provoke an uncontrollable reaction.
She sat on the edge of her narrow bed, her knees pulled to her chest, gazing at the pale light filtering through the frost-laced window.
Kim Hae In (thinking): "I haven't done anything wrong. Why do they treat me like this? Why am I being punished?"
The ache in her chest deepened with every unanswered question. She was just a child yearning for companionship, for laughter, for the warmth of belonging. Instead, the walls of her world whispered a cruel truth — she was seen not as a peer but as a danger, an anomaly to be contained and avoided.
Through the silent tears of a child and the raw sting of alienation, an unwelcome realization began to take root: she was different. And this "difference" was not a gift to be celebrated. It was a barrier, a mark of exile that defined her existence.
Under the overcast sky, a black car bearing the emblem of the Hunters Association — a white lotus on a black background — came to a halt outside the wrought-iron gates of the orphanage. The car's arrival disrupted the otherwise somber stillness, and four agents stepped out with calculated precision. Their black suits were immaculate, their polished shoes striking a rhythm against the concrete as they approached the building's entrance.Inside, one of the senior caretakers caught sight of the car through a window. Recognizing the emblem, her face tightened with a mix of relief and apprehension. She hurriedly exited the building, followed by a shorter male caretaker whose fidgeting hands betrayed his anxiety. Together, they stood at the entrance, stiff and uncertain as the agents neared.
Hunter Agent (calm, authoritative): "You reported an unusual child. Provide the specifics."
Senior Caretaker (lowering her gaze): "Yes, it's about a girl… Kim Hae In. She's… different. Stronger, faster, and… much more intelligent than children her age. The other kids are frightened of her. They avoid her completely. We don't know how to manage her."
Her voice faltered despite her attempt at professionalism. The male caretaker nodded in silent agreement. One of the agents — a tall man with an air of meticulous observation — arched an eyebrow as he scrutinized them.
Hunter Agent (sharply): "You say they're frightened. What measures have you taken?"
Senior Caretaker (hesitantly): "We… isolated her. She's in a separate room. The other children refused to play with her, and… her abilities intimidated them. We thought… it would be better this way, to prevent any incidents."
The word "better" hung in the air like a poorly executed excuse. The agents exchanged quick glances, their expressions tightening in subtle disapproval. The tallest agent stepped forward, his voice clipped and commanding.
Hunter Agent (firmly): "Take us to her. Now."
Without further prompting, two agents followed the caretakers inside the orphanage. The building's dimly lit hallways, their paint peeling and light fixtures flickering, reflected years of neglect. As they passed open doorways, the distant hum of children's chatter was replaced by a hush. Small faces peeked out, wide-eyed, only to vanish at the sight of the unfamiliar figures.
At the end of the corridor, the caretakers stopped before a heavy door. The silence around it was palpable. One agent stepped forward and turned the knob. The door creaked open, revealing a small, sparsely furnished room with a narrow window filtering pale light. There, curled up on a thin mattress, was nine-year-old Kim Hae In. Her slight frame seemed to shrink further as she gazed up at the intruders, her dark eyes filled with trepidation.
Two agents — a man and a woman — stepped cautiously into the room. Their colleagues exchanged knowing looks and walked away, heading toward the director's office to address the situation from a higher level.
In the room, the silence was heavy. Kim Hae In's wide, darting eyes took in every detail of the strangers. The female agent knelt before her, softening her features into a warm smile.
Female Hunter Agent (gentle, reassuring): "Hello, Kim Hae In. Don't be afraid. We're here to help. You won't have to be alone anymore."
The male agent moved toward a small dresser in the corner, where a handful of items were neatly arranged: two plain dresses, a hairbrush, and a notebook filled with pencil sketches. Handling them with care, he packed them into a bag, his movements deliberate and unthreatening.
Male Hunter Agent (calm, warmly): "We're taking you to a safe place. Somewhere people won't be afraid of you. They'll help you understand your abilities and teach you how to use them. You'll be able to play and talk with other kids, just like everyone else."
Kim Hae In's wide eyes blinked, disbelief flickering across her face. For so long, she had been treated as an outcast — isolated, feared, shunned. Now, these strangers were telling her that she belonged somewhere. The enormity of their words overwhelmed her, and tears began to spill down her cheeks. They weren't tears of sorrow but of relief so profound it left her trembling.
The female agent extended a hand, gently resting it on Kim Hae In's shoulder.
Female Hunter Agent (soothingly): "It's okay. You're safe now."
Kim Hae In's small frame relaxed slightly. Her gaze searched the agent's face for reassurance, and for the first time in what felt like an eternity, she felt the fragile stirrings of hope.
Meanwhile, in the east wing of the building, two additional agents from the Hunters Association approached the director's office. The door stood closed, its imposing presence marking a boundary between past neglect and imminent accountability. They knocked briskly, and upon hearing a muffled acknowledgment from within, they entered with measured confidence.
Inside, the director — a man in his mid-forties with a haggard expression—was seated behind a cluttered desk, his hands shuffling papers in a futile attempt to mask his anxiety. The male agent, exuding a demeanor of calculated authority, retrieved an identification badge from his jacket and held it up for the director's inspection.
Hunter Agent (calm, formal): "Director, you are hereby charged with violations of child welfare laws. Your unauthorized isolation of a child exhibiting extraordinary abilities, conducted without proper medical or psychological evaluations, and your unwarranted denial of social interaction and adequate care constitute severe breaches of protocol."
The female agent beside him activated her communicator with professional efficiency, her voice cool and businesslike.
Female Hunter Agent (methodical): "This is the Hunters Association. Requesting immediate police intervention. We have an ongoing case involving unlawful confinement of a minor. Dispatch officers from the Association's response unit to our location."
The director's complexion turned ashen, his hands trembling as the papers he had been shuffling slipped from his grasp and fluttered to the floor. He began to stammer out a protest, but the agents' unyielding stares silenced him.
Hunter Agent (resolute): "You have endangered the mental and physical welfare of a vulnerable child. Law enforcement will arrive momentarily. I strongly advise compliance."
The female agent, still on her communicator, moved to the window to provide precise coordinates and details of the situation. The director, recognizing the inevitability of his predicament, slumped into his chair, his eyes darting nervously between the agents and the scattered documents at his feet.
In the modest room where Kim Hae In had been confined, the two other agents had completed gathering her belongings. The female agent gently extended a hand to help the girl rise from her narrow bed, her movements deliberate and reassuring. The male agent carried a small bag containing the girl's sparse possessions, his eyes occasionally scanning the corridor in quiet anticipation of their colleagues' return from the director's office.
Female Hunter Agent (soft, steady): "It's alright, Kim Hae In. We're taking you to a place where you won't have to feel alone anymore."
The girl, her voice fragile and trembling, hesitated before asking:
Kim Hae In (timid): "Are you… sure you won't hurt me?"
Female Hunter Agent (reassuring): "No, we're here to help you. You have nothing to fear."
The male agent, standing nearby, offered a brief nod of affirmation, his expression a mix of empathy and determination. Together, the agents exuded a quiet resolve, their presence a stark contrast to the neglect and fear that had defined the girl's young life.
Later that year, the Hunters Association would archive a comprehensive report detailing the rescue of a gifted child from harmful circumstances. But in this moment, their focus was singular: to guide Kim Hae In out of her isolation and into a future where her potential could flourish under the Association's vigilant care.
Outside the orphanage, the sharp wail of police sirens shattered the stillness. Within minutes, patrol cars arrived, their flashing lights casting alternating hues of red and blue across the building's weathered facade. Uniformed officers emerged, their movements purposeful as they conferred briefly with the agents stationed at the entrance. The atmosphere grew taut, charged with the weight of transformation.
In the director's office, where the Hunters Association agents had laid out the charges, the arrival of law enforcement marked the next phase of accountability. Two officers stepped inside: the first, a seasoned professional with a piercing gaze that conveyed experience and authority; the second, a younger partner whose visible nervousness was tempered by a determination to uphold his duty.
The senior officer addressed the agents with a calm, authoritative tone:
Police Officer: "We've been briefed on the situation. We'll handle it from here."
The agents nodded, stepping back but maintaining a vigilant presence as the officers moved to formally detain the director. The weight of the moment was palpable, and while the scene unfolded with the precision of a well-rehearsed operation, its implications resonated deeply.
Through the corridors, the sound of measured footsteps echoed faintly as Kim Hae In walked alongside the agents who had come to retrieve her. Each step she took was a quiet defiance of the fear and solitude that had once defined her world. For the first time in years, the promise of safety and understanding felt within reach — a turning point that marked not just an end but a beginning.
Police Officer (calmly):"We have received a report regarding alleged violations of child welfare standards. Who here is in charge?"One of the agents from the Hunters Association stepped forward, holding a compact device equipped with a camera and a digital dossier.
Hunter Agent (measured but firm):
"We possess substantial evidence. This footage documents the conditions under which the child, Kim Hae In, was kept: enforced isolation, denial of basic social interaction, and exposure to psychological distress. These actions directly violate child protection laws."
The police officer's expression hardened as he reviewed the device, scrolling through the accompanying frames. It took only seconds for him to discern the severity of the issue.
Police Officer (sternly):
"Director, given the evidence presented, you and your staff will need to accompany us to the central station for further questioning."
The director — a man in his mid-forties, visibly sweating — began to falter. His trembling hands betrayed his mounting panic, while his eyes darted to the gathered staff behind him, searching in vain for support. The caretakers, clustered nervously, began spouting defensive justifications.
Caretaker (shrilly, on the verge of hysteria):
"This is a misunderstanding! We were only trying to protect the other children! She's dangerous — none of you understand!"
Director (his voice rising):
"This is an outrageous accusation! That child has been nothing but trouble! We had no choice but to act in the best interest of the others!"
The police officer raised a hand, commanding silence. His partner stepped into the hallway to coordinate reinforcements over the radio, arranging transportation for the staff and the children. The latter would be temporarily relocated to a certified care center while investigations proceeded.
Police Officer (emphatically):
"Your protests will not alter the facts. With the evidence at hand and the clear breach of legal standards, you are required to comply. Additional units are en route to facilitate transportation."
Meanwhile, the director's desperation escalated. His erratic gestures and frantic shouts betrayed his struggle to maintain any semblance of control.
Director (pointing accusingly at the Hunters Association agents):
"This is a gross overreach! You have no jurisdiction here! Interfering with orphanage operations is an abuse of power! This is tyranny!"
One of the agents, standing nearby, visibly bristled but held his composure. Before he could respond, the senior police officer intervened with a sharp yet composed tone.
Police Officer (coldly):
"These arguments can be presented at the station. For now, you are legally obligated to cooperate. Any resistance or refusal will be treated as an obstruction of justice."
The younger officer returned to the room, nodding to his superior to confirm that vehicles were approaching. Down the hallway, the sounds of activity grew as additional Hunters Association agents briefed child welfare workers about the logistics of relocating the children to a safe environment.
The director's shoulders sagged as the gravity of the situation set in. His pale face betrayed resignation, while the caretakers exchanged defeated glances, some unable to suppress their tears. The agents and officers remained resolute, their collective focus on ensuring the children's safety and delivering accountability.
Police Officer (conclusively):
"All of you will be escorted to the station for processing. Let's avoid any unnecessary complications."
The officer gestured for the director and the caretakers to proceed toward the exit, where the arriving vehicles awaited. Outside, flashing lights illuminated the orphanage's weathered facade, signaling the beginning of a necessary reckoning. The oppressive atmosphere within the orphanage gave way to the quiet promise of justice and a safer future for its young residents.
The children, under the vigilant supervision of agents from the Hunters Association, were carefully escorted into specially equipped transport vans designed to ensure their safety during relocation to more secure environments.One of the Association's agents, who had remained silent but observant, leaned toward a colleague and spoke in a deliberately low tone, ensuring the director could overhear:
Agent (quietly, but pointedly):"Monsters, you say? Ironic, isn't it? The real monster here is you, Director — condemning a child to isolation without even a shred of humanity."
The director opened his mouth to object, but a police officer standing nearby raised a hand, silencing him. Without further discussion, the officers escorted the orphanage staff from the office, their steps firm and purposeful. The Association agents stood back, their expressions reflecting quiet relief as justice began to take its course.
Outside, the courtyard hummed with controlled activity. Police officers, Association agents, and child welfare workers moved in synchrony, ensuring the children were handled with care and efficiency. Vans idled near the gates, their engines a steady hum, ready to transport their young passengers. As the children were led out, their faces betrayed a mixture of fear, confusion, and tentative hope, sensing the gravity of the moment without fully understanding it.
A child welfare worker, a middle-aged woman with kind eyes and a reassuring presence, approached one of the groups. She knelt to help a small boy zip his coat before turning her attention to the Association agents. Her gaze landed on Kim Hae In, who stood a short distance away, clutching a small bag of belongings tightly to her chest.
Child Welfare Worker (with concern):
"What about that girl?"
Her eyes lingered on Kim Hae In, who appeared isolated, her wide gaze filled with a blend of apprehension and curiosity. One of the Association agents stepped forward, his movements measured, his demeanor calm.
Agent (reassuringly):
"She'll be coming with us. She needs medical evaluations and additional support. The Association will take custody to ensure her safety and well-being."
The welfare worker nodded, her expression softening with understanding. She glanced toward Kim Hae In with a gentle smile, as if to silently communicate reassurance.
Child Welfare Worker (gently):
"Understood. I'll focus on the other children. They need to understand what's happening and know they're safe."
She turned her attention back to a group of children nearby, their small hands clutching hastily packed belongings. With calm and soothing words, she reassured them, helping to ease their tension and prepare them for the transition to a new and more stable environment.
Meanwhile, the police officers maintained their watchful presence. At the gates, confirmation came over the radio that transport vehicles were ready. The orphanage director and his staff, subdued and visibly shaken, remained under close supervision.
The Association agents continued their work with quiet precision. One of them crouched beside Kim Hae In, his tone low and comforting.
Agent (softly):
"It's time to go now. Don't be afraid — we're here to help you."
Kim Hae In nodded slowly, her small frame trembling slightly as she mustered the courage to offer a faint, hesitant smile. Clutching her bag tighter, she took careful steps forward, following the agents to the waiting vehicle.
The atmosphere was thick with the weight of change. For those involved, paths diverged — some toward justice and accountability, others toward safety and hope. Yet the essence of the day was clear: this was a moment when justice and compassion converged, ensuring the well-being of the children took precedence over all else.