I grew up in an orphanage, sharing an unbreakable bond with an older girl who felt like my real sister—until the day she abandoned me, leaving behind a bitter, lifelong hatred. Years later, while scraping by with part-time jobs, I returned home late one freezing night to find an eight-year-old boy huddled against my door. Shivering, bruised, and fast asleep, I couldn't leave him there. I brought him inside and nursed him back to health, entirely unaware that he was the son of the sister who had betrayed me. After a week, the police finally identified him as Ian. His past was a nightmare: his father had imprisoned and tortured his mother right before his eyes. A week ago, the father’s murdered body was discovered, and Ian had vanished. The truth hit me like a punch to the stomach, but a darker realization terrified me: Why did Ian show up at my doorstep the exact night his father was killed? When the police questioned me, I lied. I claimed I’d known him for a month, covering for him because I couldn't accept that an eight-year-old could commit murder. It was a catastrophic mistake. I became his guardian and raised him, constantly brushing off his strange behaviors as mere trauma. God, I wish I hadn't. As Ian grew older, his actions twisted into a suffocating obsession. Why does he wrap his fingers around my wrists, as if measuring them for cuffs? Why does he creep into my room at midnight just to stand over my bed and stare down at me? Why does he steal my phone to check my texts, or root through my closet just to inhale my scent? The helpless boy I rescued has grown up, and I’m realizing the darkness he escaped didn't stay behind. It followed him here.