Dr. Kim Taehyung sat in his dimly lit office, a single desk lamp bleeding yellow light onto the folder stamped in red: “Patient #214 — Male, 14 years old.”
He opened it carefully, as if it might shatter.
The reports inside were jagged pieces of a childhood carved apart by cruelty:
Multiple rib fractures, untreated for days.
Cigarette burns scattered across the arms and legs.
Malnutrition documented year after year.
Selective mutism after age eleven.
Severe trauma.
Handwritten notes filled the margins:
“Patient does not speak. Avoids all human contact. Exhibits extreme mistrust. Reacts violently when approached. Cannot tolerate physical touch.”
Taehyung turned the page—and froze.
Paper-clipped inside was a drawing, smeared in black crayon. A small figure crouched in a corner, knees to chest. Around it loomed faceless shadows, their hands warped into claws, belts, fists. The boy had pressed so hard on the crayon that the paper tore in places.
He exhaled, but the air in the office felt heavy, almost suffocating.
Then came the line that made his chest tighten:
“Patient has no known guardians. Parents deceased. No relatives willing to take custody. Permanent ward of the state.”
So he was alone. Fourteen years old, already stripped of family, of safety, of childhood. Left with only silence and scars.
Taehyung closed the file, but the boy’s world clung to him—black crayon lines burned into his mind. This wasn’t a case. This wasn’t data. It was a child, abandoned in every possible way, swallowed by shadows that no one had pulled him out of.
For the first time, Taehyung felt an ache he couldn’t name. Fear? Helplessness? Or perhaps a quiet rage at the world that had let this boy disappear into its cracks.
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