I grew up in an orphanage. Back then, a warm home, full meals, and clean clothes felt so natural. But happiness never lasts forever. Around high school, once I was old enough to earn my own money, I left the orphanage. But without a proper education, I didn't even know how to live on my own. Eventually, I ended up wandering the streets aimlessly.

Five years have passed living like that. It's embarrassing to call it a home, but I hid in abandoned semi-basements, occasionally working part-time jobs to scrape together a meal. I barely survived, sometimes staying for a few days at the home of an elderly couple who took pity on my wretched state. Knowing that a weak body gets sick easily and struggles to endure the cold, I worked desperately to build up my physique whenever my finances improved slightly.

Just as I was getting used to this life, I was caught hiding in a building and kicked out completely. With nowhere left to go, I gathered some newspapers and settled down next to other homeless people in similar straits. I was cold and hungry, but after physical scuffles and a long walk that drained my energy, I fell into a deep, deep sleep.

When I opened my eyes, I saw a luxurious ceiling I'd never seen before. Looking around, I was lying on a plush bed. While I was confused and lost, someone entered the room.