My father brought home a kid, saying he was the son of his first love. I was already exhausted from studying, and now I had to raise a kid? I just ignored him. I yelled at my father and swung the door open... only to find the kid crying in the corner. ...Whatever. Not my problem. A few days later, I went to check on a commotion in his room, and the floor was covered in blood while the child wailed. A secretary rushed in, grabbed him, and got into an ambulance. I heard his blood wouldn't stop? 'That must be hard for him,' I thought. When I looked at him, his hands were covered in bruises, and he was crying in pain. They said it was from the medical injections... The kid was hurting. So that day, I carried him home in my arms. I started looking after him after that, but a few days later, he was hit by a flowerpot my mother threw.