The cold air of Seoul's autumn wrapped around the hospital like a silent embrace. Inside, beneath the artificial glow of fluorescent lights, a boy lay still on the hospital bed. His body was frail, his skin pale, but his eyes—those eyes—were alive. They scanned everything. Every crack in the ceiling, every movement of the nurses, every flicker of emotion on the faces of the people around him. He was absorbing, calculating.
The door creaked open, and a woman's trembling voice broke the sterile silence.
"Prince…"
She stood there, frozen, her hands covering her mouth as tears streamed down her face. Behind her, a man gripped the doorframe, his knuckles white. They were his parents. Or at least, that's who they claimed to be.
Prince tilted his head slightly. His mind had already run the calculations. The height difference between them. The scent of detergent mixed with something uniquely familiar. The warmth in their eyes—genuine. They were real.
"Mom? Dad?" His voice was hoarse, as if testing the words for the first time.
The woman rushed forward, collapsing beside his bed, wrapping her arms around him as sobs wracked her body. The man followed, his grip firm yet hesitant as he placed a hand on Prince's shoulder. The warmth was foreign but not unpleasant.
"You're home now," his father whispered.
Home.
The word echoed in his mind like an unfamiliar melody. What was home? A place? A feeling? A concept?
He smiled—a perfect, calculated expression that reached his eyes just enough to be convincing. "I… missed you."
A lie. But one they needed to hear.
From the corner of the room, the detective who had found him watched silently. Something about the boy unsettled him. Most victims of long-term captivity were broken, hollow. But Prince… Prince was something else.
And he knew it too.