No Strings Attached

INTRO

has only just begun.

Baek Seo-jin had never seen a child that small bleed so much.

The moment they lifted the girl into the car, her head lolled forward, damp hair sticking to her cheeks. Every breath rattled like something inside her was broken and trying to crawl out.

By the time they reached the private hospital—one reserved for politicians, heirs, and people whose names lived on stock reports—the girl was barely conscious.

Nurses rushed toward them.

"Blood pressure dropping!"

"She's freezing—get warm IV fluids!"

"She's in hemorrhagic shock!"

They placed her on a gurney, and the second her body hit the metal, the girl's eyes snapped open.

Not in fear.
Not in confusion.

In calculation.

Her gaze flicked over every nurse, every doctor, every door. Even while slipping in and out of consciousness, she studied the room like she was memorizing her next escape.

The Baeks thought she was delirious.

She wasn't.

They wheeled her into a sterile white trauma room, bright lights pouring over the small, ruined body. The blood soaking her clothes had dried into a stiff crust, hiding wounds no one could identify.

A doctor cursed under his breath.
"Whatever happened to her... this wasn't an accident."

Baek Minseo flinched.
"She was wandering near our neighborhood. We think she was attacked."

The doctor didn't argue; he was too busy trying to keep the girl alive.

"Prep her for surgery—now!"

Machines beeped erratically.
Nurses cut away her ragged gown, revealing needle scars, bruises in geometric patterns, and thin surgical marks across her arms and spine.

Marks no normal child should have.

Marks even these elite doctors couldn't read.

"She'll survive," the head surgeon finally said after what felt like hours, sweat staining his collar, "but only with specialized long-term care. She's been... altered. Malnourished. Traumatized. Whoever had her—"

He didn't finish the sentence.

He didn't want to.

Baek Jun-gi stepped forward.
"What kind of care does she need?"

The doctor hesitated.

"She needs a private room, constant monitoring, and a pediatric neurologist immediately. And whatever happened to her—don't let the press get near this."

They transferred her to a secluded recovery suite—top floor, secure, guarded.

The girl lay there unmoving, wrapped in white sheets that made her look even smaller. Machines hummed beside her, their lights blinking in slow, steady rhythm.

A nurse whispered, "She's strong. Kids like this don't usually make it."

And as if hearing her, the child's eyes opened.

This time fully.

Quiet. Heavy. Sharp.

She looked directly at the Baeks standing in the doorway—her new targets—then blinked slowly, deliberately.

Not grateful.
Not relieved.

Assessing. Claiming. Calculating.

They'd been gentle with her since she arrived.