12. The World's Response

 The news spread quickly. A brutal incident had taken place in one of Seoul's quieter neighborhoods, shaking the entire community. Reports flooded television screens, newspapers, and online forums, each trying to piece together the horrifying details of what had transpired that night. The story was sensationalized, fueling fear and speculation.

"A tragic case involving an eight-year-old boy who allegedly took the lives of his parents in a shocking act of violence—"

"A child at the center of a crime that no one saw coming. Was it self-defense? Was there something more sinister at play?"

The media's frenzy left little room for sensitivity. Some news stations debated the psychology behind such an event, questioning how a child could be capable of such an act. Others focused on the tragedy of an orphaned boy, emphasizing the uncertainty of his future. The police, meanwhile, had no choice but to conduct a full-scale investigation.

The authorities were under immense pressure. Due to Joon-hyuk's young age, the legal system found itself in an unusual predicament. South Korea's Juvenile Act stated that children under the age of 14 could not be held criminally responsible. At eight years old, Joon-hyuk was far below that threshold. Even if he had committed the act, the law would not allow him to be prosecuted as an adult.

However, that didn't mean he would be free from scrutiny. The police conducted extensive interviews with neighbors, teachers, and anyone who might have insight into his family life. Forensics teams combed through the crime scene for evidence, while psychologists were brought in to assess his mental state.

Detective Nam, a seasoned investigator with years of experience handling delicate cases, was assigned to oversee the investigation. Sitting in his office, he studied Joon-hyuk's file, his brow furrowed in thought.

"No prior history of violence," he murmured, tapping a pen against the desk. "Neighbors claim the father was strict but not outwardly abusive. The mother was kind, well-liked… Something doesn't add up."

The detectives debated the possibility of external involvement, but all evidence pointed back to Joon-hyuk. The problem was, without a motive or testimony, they could only speculate. Joon-hyuk himself had barely spoken since the incident, making it difficult to determine what had truly happened that night.

Ultimately, the authorities decided that the best course of action was psychological evaluation and state supervision rather than punitive measures. But before that could be arranged, another question loomed over the case—where would Joon-hyuk go now?

When word reached Joon-hyuk's elementary school, it sent shockwaves through the faculty and students. Parents whispered about the incident, their voices hushed but urgent. Many were uncomfortable with the idea of letting their children interact with a boy who had been involved in something so terrifying.

"I heard he was always a quiet child," one mother murmured to another. "But who knows what he was really thinking?"

The school administration struggled with how to proceed. They debated whether Joon-hyuk should be allowed to continue his education there, considering the unease of other parents. Ultimately, they decided to hold off on any permanent decisions until they received an official statement from the police and child welfare services.

Meanwhile, Joon-hyuk's classmates reacted with mixed emotions. Some were too young to fully understand the situation, while others felt uneasy, unsure of what to believe. Mi-jin, Lee Zin, and Yohan were among the few who remained steadfast, refusing to let the rumors affect their loyalty to Joon-hyuk.Family's Response and Custody Issues

With Joon-hyuk's parents gone, the next logical step was to place him in the custody of a relative. However, this proved to be more complicated than expected. His father's side of the family, though more financially stable, was largely uninterested in taking him in.

"He's a troubled child," one uncle had said bluntly. "I have my own family to think about."

"I don't want to bring that kind of energy into my household," an aunt added, shaking her head.

The responses were cold, but not unexpected. Joon-hyuk's father had always been distant from his relatives, and they saw no obligation to care for his orphaned son. On the other hand, his mother's family, though more compassionate, lacked the means to provide for him.

"We would take him if we could," an older cousin said regretfully. "But we barely make enough to support ourselves."

With no immediate family willing to take responsibility, the authorities considered placing Joon-hyuk in state care. However, before this decision could be finalized, an unexpected individual stepped forward—one of his father's old friends.

Kang Tae-woo was a man in his early forties, a former associate of Joon-hyuk's father. He was not a blood relative, but he had known Joon-hyuk since he was a toddler.

"I'll take him," Tae-woo told the authorities firmly. "He needs someone who understands him, not some distant relative who sees him as a burden."

There was hesitation at first—Tae-woo had no legal obligation to take Joon-hyuk in, and his past was somewhat of a mystery. However, after a background check and psychological evaluation, the decision was made. Tae-woo had the financial means and stability to care for Joon-hyuk, and most importantly, he was willing.

Joon-hyuk himself did not object. He barely reacted at all.

Packing up his few belongings, he left the house that had once been his home. He did not look back.

Time passed. Weeks turned into months. The initial media frenzy died down, replaced by new scandals and tragedies. People moved on, as they always did.

But Joon-hyuk could not.

Though he now lived in a different home, attended a different school, and was surrounded by new people, the shadows of his past never left him. The whispers followed him wherever he went, the looks of suspicion, the cautious glances. Even when unspoken, the judgment was there.

At night, when the world was quiet, he would lie awake and stare at the ceiling. Sometimes, he could still see them—his parents, the blood, the cold, lifeless eyes. And sometimes, in the reflection of the mirror, he would see someone else staring back at him. Someone with dark eyes and a knowing smile.

"You can't escape me," the voice would whisper. "I'll always be here."

And deep down, Joon-hyuk knew it was true.

No matter where he went, no matter how much time passed, the past was never truly behind him.

It lived inside him.

Waiting.