"My king," He said. Youngjae's blood turned ice cold. How had He found him?

With a smile that Youngjae recognized as having made the oblivious housemothers giddy with anticipation, He unwrapped his scarf and set it on one of the pegs rooted into the wall. Little did the women of the orphanage know that behind The Director's handsome appearance and desirable mannerisms, a treacherous secret—from his bearing—bore into the hearts of the very own children whom they used to care for and love.

Did the Director continue to work at the orphanage? Or had he spent the past decade of his life trying to find Youngjae? Youngjae felt the bile in his stomach churning.

The Director stretched his arms out before him. Youngjae did not move. The Director scowled.

He always wore a coat emblazoned with a cross on the cuff. Today was no different. The shimmery material cast shiny streaks of prismatic light across its surface. Today's cross was red to match the maddening blaze of his dress shirt. Tomorrow's might be blue as repentance for the bodily crimes he would commit today. Or white. White was his favorite. You see, as a child, Youngjae's skin was as pale as the snow that blanketed the orphanage during the shortest and most silent days of the year.

In seeing the color white, the Director would be reminded of Youngjae and therefore, be kept from acting out without reason. He needed to be certain that a favor was in his future before punishing the other boys. Otherwise, he dare not act.

Youngjae tried to force his eyes shut but something inside of him refused to loosen its hold on the terror that flooded his body. He had learned how to keep his fears at bay and the negative emotions from overtaking the puddle of joy he had managed to regain in the years after his departure from the orphanage but in seeing the Director again—after nearly a decade of having lived with the tainted memories of his adolescence—Youngjae lost control. His emotional barricade splintered and disintegrated, allowing the pain to consume him.

The other boy's fears and tears pressed into all corners of his heart until it felt like he could not breathe. For the longest time, Youngjae had thought Death the only answer he could take as proper penance for having failed to protect the other boys. Even now, he realized, that thought to end his life had never truly left.

Youngjae looked on towards the large, gothic window that had suddenly replaced his front door. He could only hope that this was all just a dream. (Yet everything felt so real.)

The Director drew close to Youngjae from behind. Youngjae shuddered. There was no feeling. Only an existence.

"I hope no one has hurt you." The Director breathed into Youngjae's ear; heightening his need to move away from this dangerous man. But as much as he tried to push himself to move, Youngjae knew that his feelings were entirely one thing and his struggles another. No amount of mental probing could unroot him to the spot.

He was trapped. Stuck again in the body of his pre-adolescent self. Without selflessness and without a way to escape, no matter how often or how hard he tried.

"I missed you."

Youngjae's stomach swelled with revulsion. He tried to remain calm. He needed to be a doll; lifeless in character but beautiful in appearance.

Bemused, the Director tightened his grip around Youngjae's waist. Cold. His grip itself was death. "Do you know what I did to the little boy who threw mud at you yesterday?" The Director laid his spindly fingers on the edge of Youngjae's knee.

Youngjae shoved the tears away. He hated to think that this man would only ever feel sympathy for him—one, among tens of other boys whose happiness had been muddied since the Director's arrival.

With his unoccupied hand, the Director took ahold of Youngjae's and lifted it up into the air. The sheen on the cross drew Youngjae's attention further up to where the familiar glove greeted him.

After days of never having been seen without something to cover his hands, speculations arose as to what kind of disfigurement marred the skin on those limbs. Some even went as far as to say the Director carried a magical power that should never be used. Everyone who assumed so got one part correct.

But Youngjae knew the truth. There was nothing on his hands but skin equal in complexion to the impeccabilty on his disgusting face.

Youngjae felt a light tap against the back of his leg. He understood. He crossed his right foot over his left heel. A curtsy. Even now, the gesture came to him as natural as breathing.

Everything was odd. Youngjae had grown into a stature that would allow him the pleasure of trying to overthrow the Director. Yet he didn't dare try. He was a child again and as a child, the inescapable hopelesness of this hellish nightmare had returned.

The Director started inching his fingers up along Y