Three days passed since the market miracle.
His mother was still riding on quiet joy—sewing faster, smiling more often, humming soft songs while cooking. Every night, she pulled out the tiny stash of bills she earned and stared at them like they were diamonds.
He loved watching her smile.
It reminded him why this second life mattered.
But good days never lasted long in poor neighborhoods.
And trouble always returned wearing the face of someone petty.
Late morning.He sat on the floor stacking blocks—pretending to be preoccupied. His mother washed dishes in the kitchen.
Then—
KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.
Sharp.Impatient.Aggressive.
His mother froze.
That knock wasn't friendly.It was a threat wearing shoes.
She wiped her hands quickly and approached the door.
The baby already knew who it was.
The teenage boy.
Smirking like someone who enjoyed kicking people on their hardest days.
"Hello, Mrs. Seo," he said with fake politeness. "My father wants to speak with you."
Her shoulders stiffened.She opened the door wider.
The boy stepped inside without permission.
A bad sign.
When someone walks into your home like they own it, they already decided you're beneath them.
He stood over her sewing table, inspecting it like a judge evaluating a criminal.
"So… you're selling things at the market now," he said.
She bowed her head. "Yes… I just tried a few small items."
"And you made money," the boy added with a sharp tone.Not a question.An accusation.
She swallowed. "Enough to buy food."
The boy scoffed. "My father says you're getting distracted. He depends on your sewing. If you start doing your own thing, you won't have time for his orders."
There it was.
Not concern.Not business.
Control.
They were afraid of losing cheap labor.They were afraid she would grow.They were afraid of her having options.
He felt a cold fury rise in his small chest.
The boy leaned closer. "So… my father says stop. No more selling your own items. Just do the sewing orders we give you."
His mother's hands shook.
She needed the sewing work.She needed the money.She needed stability.
But she also needed freedom.
And for the first time, she hesitated.
Even a tiny pause.
The boy noticed—and didn't like it.
He stepped closer, lowering his voice.
"We're being generous. Don't forget your situation."
Her lips trembled.
The baby felt her fear.He also felt her quiet wish—
I want to stand on my own.
But she couldn't say it.
Not yet.
The boy was still glaring at her when he felt two small hands grip his pant leg.
He looked down.
The toddler stood there—small, fragile-looking, staring up with unnerving calm.
The boy snorted. "What? Want to bite me again?"
His mother panicked. "No, no—he won't—!"
But the baby opened his mouth.
And said his first real sentence.
A simple one.A childish one.But spoken with perfect clarity.
"Mama… no bad."
The room froze.
His mother gasped softly.
The boy's eyebrows shot up.
"What did he just—?"
The baby raised his tiny arms, blocking the boy from approaching her. His posture was ridiculous—clumsy, wobbly—but his eyes were steady.
Not a toddler's gaze.Something colder.Older.Unbreakable.
His mother knelt beside him, voice shaking. "Baby… what did you say…?"
He pointed at the boy and repeated, louder:
"No bad."
Not eloquent.Not aggressive.
But firm.
The teenage boy stepped back, unsettled.
This wasn't normal toddler behavior.
The child had spoken like someone defending territory.
Like someone protecting family.
Like a man.
The boy clicked his tongue. "Whatever. Just tell my dad if you don't want trouble, stop selling your stuff."
He turned, muttered something under his breath, and left.
The door closed.
Silence returned.
His mother sank to the floor, covering her mouth with trembling hands.
Tears fell.
Not the gentle ones from the market.
But the heavy, helpless ones.
"I'm trying… I'm trying so hard…" she whispered. "Why is everything… always so difficult…?"
He crawled into her lap and hugged her tightly.
She held him close, burying her face in his soft hair.
"You're so small… but you defended me," she whispered shakily. "My brave baby…"
He wanted to say more.
He wanted to tell her everything—
That he wasn't just a baby.That he knew her pain.That he would save her.That he'd make them untouchable.That he'd destroy anyone who hurt her.
But all he could say was:
"Ma…ma… good."
She laughed through her tears.
"You're all I have," she whispered.
And in that moment, he understood something important:
She wasn't crying because she was weak.She was crying because she was fighting alone.
And he would end that.
Permanently.
That night, while his mother slept, he sat up in his crib, staring at the faint moonlight slipping through the curtains.
The sewing boy's father thought he owned them.
He thought poverty made people obedient.
He thought he could control their lives forever.
But he was wrong.
Very wrong.
A storm had been reborn in that crib.A storm that had witnessed the future.A storm that hungered for power—not for greed, but for protection.
The world had broken him once.
In this life?
He would break the world back.