The neighborhood had changed.
Not physically—the cracked walls, narrow hallways, flickering lights, and stained stairwells were all the same.
But the air was different.
Every time his mother stepped outside, she felt it.
Eyes.Watching.Judging.Whispering behind hands.
Poverty made people desperate.Desperation made people bitter.Bitterness made people cruel.
And cruelty needed a target.
They chose her.
And her child.
The first sign came at the laundry area behind the apartment complex.
While his mother washed clothes, two women nearby murmured loudly—clearly wanting her to hear.
"That's her, right? The one whose baby talks too early?""I heard he stares like a ghost child.""So creepy… I'd never let my kids near him.""She should take him to a doctor.""Or a priest."
His mother froze.
Her hands trembled around the soap bar.She lowered her head, pretending she couldn't hear.
But she heard every word.
And so did he.
He sat quietly in the stroller, watching the women with an unsettling patience that didn't belong to a child his age.
He didn't glare.He didn't cry.He didn't reach out.
He simply observed.
Calculating.
He learned early that enemies come in two forms:
Those who attack with fistsAnd those who attack with tongues.
Tongues were sharper.
That night, his mother held him tightly while feeding him porridge.
"I think… I think you should slow down," she whispered, voice cracking. "Don't act so smart… okay?"
He blinked.
Her tears dripped onto his tiny hand.
"People don't like it…" she whispered. "They'll say bad things… they'll hurt you…"
He rested his head against her chest.
Not because he agreed—but because he understood.
Sometimes, to win a war, you must hide your weapons.
So the next morning, when she handed him a book, he pushed it away and pretended to play with a plastic cup instead.
Her eyes softened with relief.
He would learn at night.And act normal in the day.
Poker face—skill from his first life.
Two days later, she took him to the local minimarket to buy rice.
A normal, quiet place.
At least… it used to be.
The moment she stepped inside, the gossip lady appeared.
She wrinkled her nose dramatically.
"Oh look, it's her," she announced loudly. "The mother of the strange child."
All eyes turned.
His mother's face paled instantly.
She bowed slightly, trying to pass quietly—but the gossip lady stepped in front of her.
"You think you're something special now?" the woman sneered. "Selling wallets? Bringing rich people to our building? Acting like you're above us?"
His mother backed away, shaking. "I-I'm just trying to work—"
"Your child isn't normal," the woman said loudly. "He's unnatural. He learns too fast. Children like that bring misfortune."
His mother's breath hitched.
People nodded.Agreed.Or simply stared.
He watched silently from the stroller.
Not scared.Not confused.
But angry.
This was not childish anger.
This was the anger of a man who had lived a whole lifetime—one where he learned how words destroyed futures more effectively than knives.
The gossip woman leaned closer to his mother, smiling cruelly.
"You should remember your place."
His mother shook violently.Her eyes filled with tears.Her lips parted to apologize—
But before she could say anything…
A small hand reached out.
His hand.
He grabbed his mother's sleeve, stood up in the stroller shakily, and looked straight into the gossip woman's eyes.
And in the softest, saddest toddler voice, he said:
"Mama… hurt."
Everyone froze.
His mother gasped.
The gossip lady blinked, taken aback.
He continued—tiny voice trembling intentionally, eyes watering.
"Mama… no cry…"
Silence spread through the shop.
The gossip woman's face changed—shock, guilt, then defensiveness.
"I—I didn't—He's lying! Babies don't understand—"
But the damage was done.
Customers glared at her.The cashier frowned.Some women whispered:
"She made the child cry…""That's too much…""Poor mother…"
Public anger shifted.
Against her.
For the first time.
His mother clutched him tightly, tears streaming, not from sadness—
But from relief.
He didn't speak much.He never talked loudly.
But when he spoke perfectly chosen words…the world changed.
As they stepped outside, his mother still shaking, a sleek black car parked at the edge of the street.
The back window rolled down.
Han Junseok.
Again.
He looked at the toddler.
Then at his mother's tear-stained face.
His expression darkened.
He stepped out of the car, approaching with calm, controlled anger.
"Mrs. Seo," he said gently. "Is everything alright?"
She bowed quickly. "Y-Yes, I'm fine—just a misunderstanding—"
He looked around at the crowd still gathered.Then at the gossip woman glaring from the doorway.
His voice lowered into something cold.
"Was someone harassing you again?"
His mother panicked. "No! No, sir—please don't worry—"
But Junseok wasn't fooled.
He looked down at the toddler, who was still clinging to his mother's coat.
The child stared back up at him—quiet, alert, too observant.
Junseok knelt and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"You're a strong little one," he said softly. "Take care of your mother. She needs you."
The toddler nodded.
Not dramatically.Not childishly.
But calmly.
Like a man.
Junseok's eyes flashed with recognition—a feeling that something about this child…was extraordinary.
He stood up and turned to the gossip woman.
"I run a company," he said flatly. "If I hear anyone threatening or humiliating this family again… I will personally ensure they regret it."
The gossip woman turned pale.
People in the area stepped back.
Respect followed power.Fear followed influence.
His mother covered her mouth to stop herself from crying again.
"Th-thank you…" she whispered.
Junseok bowed slightly.
"Your talent deserves safety. And your child deserves peace."
He returned to his car and drove away.
Leaving the neighborhood stunned.
Leaving his mother shaken but protected.
Leaving the toddler with one clear realization:
He was no longer fighting alone.A new ally had entered the battlefield.
And the sewing shop owner?The gossip woman?The jealous neighbors?
They had no idea the storm they were provoking.