(The theme of this story is dark)
The memory came like a fractured dream—blurred, yet painfully vivid.
A woman stood over a small, fragile girl, her face indistinct, as though hidden by time itself. In her hand was a stick, and without hesitation, she brought it down again and again.
"Why… why don't you understand, Roselia?!"
The sound of wood striking flesh echoed in the room.
The little girl—Roselia—staggered with each blow. Blood trickled down her arms, staining her skin, yet she did not cry out. She did not resist.
She simply endured.
"You little brat!" the woman snapped, her voice filled with bitterness. "You should know by now—this world is cruel! There's no such thing as love in this world!"
Roselia's small hands trembled, but her voice, when it came, was soft… innocent.
"But my father… he loves me. So… that means love exists."
For a moment, silence.
Then the woman smirked—a cruel, twisted expression.
"Love? Your father?" she scoffed. "He was the worst man I've ever known."
Her words were sharp, laced with years of resentment.
"He never loved you. Never cared about this family. The only thing he ever cared about… was money."
Roselia's wide eyes quivered. She wanted to deny it—wanted to reject every word—but doubt had already begun to creep into her fragile heart.
"He left us for money," the woman continued, her voice rising. "That's the truth! If you're poor, no one will love you. Not your father, not anyone! Money… is the only thing that makes people stay!"
She grabbed Roselia by the shoulders, shaking her.
"Understand this, Roselia! Your father never loved you!"
"Those words… I hate them the most."
Roselia's voice trembled as tears slipped down her cheeks.
The past dissolved, replaced by the present.
Hayuel's hand was still gripping her face, his fingers digging into her skin.
His eyes burned with something dark, something inhuman.
"Heh… poor Roselia," he muttered. "You still don't understand anything, do you?"
Before she could react, his grip loosened—only for his foot to slam into her chest.
The impact knocked the air out of her.
Pain exploded through her body as she collapsed, gasping.
Hayuel didn't stop.
To him, she wasn't human—just something to break, to control. Blow after blow rained down on her fragile body.
Roselia cried, her voice weak, her strength fading.
But she couldn't fight back.
She never could.
Across the street, behind a quiet window, Ziyan sat in silence.
The night carried the sounds clearly—shouting, breaking, her cries.
He knew.
He knew exactly what was happening.
And yet… he didn't move.
His gaze remained fixed on Roselia's house, his expression unreadable, though something heavy lingered in his eyes.
He exhaled slowly.
"Roselia…"
His voice was barely a whisper.
"Why are you still there? Why are you with him?"
Questions filled his mind, unanswered and suffocating.
"Is it too late… to let go?"
A faint smirk appeared on his lips, though it carried no humor.
"Hayuel… you really don't know how to cherish a rose."
He leaned back slightly, his gaze softening.
"You have something beautiful… and you're destroying it."
A pause.
"I miss my dad… more than usual today," he murmured, closing his eyes briefly.
Then, quieter
"Hold on a little longer, Roselia. I'll help you… just not today."
And with that, he shut his eyes, as though trying to silence both the noise outside and the storm within.
Morning arrived, calm and deceptive.
From his window, Ziyan watched as Hayuel left the house, his presence as cold as ever. Outside, a few women had gathered—neighbors, their voices low but filled with concern.
"Did you hear that screaming last night?" one of them asked.
Shina nodded. "Yes… I did."
Mina pointed toward Roselia's house. "I think it came from there."
A worried silence followed.
"I hope everything is alright…"
But no one dared to check.
Inside that very house, Roselia lay motionless on her bed.
Her body was covered in bruises, her skin torn in places where blood had dried. Her arms were swollen, her face pale and lifeless.
She tried to move.
She couldn't.
Even lifting her head felt impossible.
Pain wrapped around her like chains.
Slowly, she pulled a pillow close to her chest and buried her face in it.
And then… she cried.
Not loudly.
Not dramatically.
Just quiet, broken sobs—the kind that came from a place too deep to be healed.
She was being destroyed… not just in body, but in soul.
Elsewhere in the house, servants moved about silently.
A man in a suit—Neel—stood before them, his voice firm.
"Listen carefully. After some time, one of you will check on Madam Roselia. If she's awake, bring her downstairs. If she can't move… take her food to her room. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," they replied in unison.
Everything continued as if nothing had happened.
As if her suffering was just another routine.
Back at his window, Ziyan sat once again.
"Hey, Roselia…" he murmured softly. "I wish I could talk to you… just once."
There was something in his eyes now—something close to worry.
"I want to understand your pain…"
But distance—and something else—kept him where he was.
Night fell once more.
Roselia, though still weak, managed to sit up on her bed.
The door opened.
Hayuel entered, handing his belongings to a servant before calling out, "Neel."
"Yes, sir."
"What did she do all day?"
"She didn't leave her room. She didn't eat anything."
Hayuel smirked.
"I see."
Moments later, he entered the bedroom.
Roselia looked at him, her gaze steady despite everything.
"Why didn't you eat?" he asked.
"You should take care of yourself."
Her lips curved faintly—not in a smile, but in defiance.
"And why should I listen to you?"
Their eyes locked.
"Because," he replied coldly, "I'm your owner."
In another place, far from that suffocating house, Ryu lay stretched across a couch, a book resting on his chest.
"The Love: Which Was Never Mine" — by Hanshen.
A man entered the room, sighing.
"How many times are you going to read that same book?"
Ryu smiled faintly.
"You wouldn't understand, brother Thian. This book… is different."
The man Thian crossed his arms. "You admire that writer too much. What's so special about him?"
Ryu's eyes softened as he stared at the ceiling, where a painted solar system stretched across the surface.
"What's special?" he murmured. "Everything."
He closed his eyes briefly, recalling the words.
"The way he wrote about the world… about love… it makes you feel like you're living inside his story."
A faint smile touched his lips.
"There's a line I love," he continued softly. "'If we start living for the person we love the most… the world becomes beautiful.'"
Silence filled the room.
Beside the couch stood a painting of a woman.
And in Ryu's eyes, there was only one thing reflected—
Love.
To be continued…