Compared to Qi Huai, who carries Alpha genes, these petty debt-collecting thugs were no match at all.

Huddled in the alley, Baek Soo-kyung went from shivering into a ball to staring wide‑eyed. He never imagined that Qi Huai, who acted so well, could also fight this overwhelmingly.

Qi Huai controlled his technique to avoid causing serious injury, which instead gave the lead thug a chance to slash him with a knife.

“Ah! Qi Huai!” Baek Soo-kyung cried out instinctively.

Qi Huai frowned and flicked his wrist. “It’s fine.”

It wasn’t even as deep as the knife scar on Yoon Nam-hyuk’s arm.

…Why think of him?

Their scuffle was loud; someone nearby called the police. Sirens could be heard clearly from two streets away.

Sensing things going south, the small-time punks quickly backed off, spat toward Baek Soo-kyung, and snarled, “You little cur, I’ll remember you. Next time we meet, you’d better have the money—otherwise… heh!”

They bolted.

Baek Soo-kyung anxiously grabbed Qi Huai’s sleeve. “Qi Huai‑hyung, let’s go too. If the police take us in to make a statement, passersby will see our faces. They might not publish our photos, but as a new artist, any association with violence…”

Qi Huai nodded. “I’ll take you home.”

Baek Soo-kyung shook his head hard. “N‑No, I can’t! Those… they know where I live. I have to hide.”

The system’s heart ached a little for him: The uke protagonist is so pitiful… running around dodging debts, still working odd jobs to earn money—who could stand it?

“They harass you like this often?” Qi Huai asked.

Eyes lowered, lips bitten, Baek Soo-kyung hesitated. “It’s… manageable… But when you’re unlucky, you have to swallow some humiliation. Even the police can’t do much about this kind of thing.”

Six hundred million won was indeed an astronomical figure for a nineteen‑year‑old. With that weight pressing down on his back, life could hardly be lived freely. This was why Qi Huai had decided to prioritize paying the debt for him.

Qi Huai thought a moment. “Then how about this—I’ll find you a hote—”

“Can I stay at your place for one night?” Baek Soo-kyung looked at him with pleading eyes. “I’ll leave first thing tomorrow. I won’t disturb you, I promise. Please, Qi Huai‑hyung—I’m scared to be alone right now.”

Qi Huai was silent for a beat.

The system scratched its head: But we’re living in a rooftop room right now… With the uke’s pure, shy temperament, if you live like this yet offer to pay his debts, won’t he refuse out of guilt?

Anyone would feel bad about that, right?

Qi Huai mulled it over: Then I’ll think up an excuse later—like… I had a falling‑out with the family and my black card was frozen, so I was down and ended up in a rooftop room. But after the film aired, the family saw my effort and reactivated the card. How’s that?

The system approved: Corny, but effective. Sold.

Qi Huai wasn’t trying to deceive the protagonist on purpose; he just felt this was a good chance to get closer. The things the system couldn’t provide—more of Baek Soo-kyung’s past experiences and inner thoughts—perhaps he could sound them out through this encounter.

He agreed and decided to take Baek Soo-kyung home.

On the way, they stopped at a pharmacy for bandage supplies. Qi Huai sat at the roadside and opened the powder; Baek Soo-kyung reached to take it.

“I can do it myself,” Qi Huai said.

“Let me,” Baek Soo-kyung insisted, face earnest. “You got hurt helping me. If you won’t let me at least do this little thing, I’ll die of guilt.”

Qi Huai couldn’t help a bitter smile and handed over the powder and gauze.

The cut wasn’t deep—just about a finger long, so it looked scary.

Baek Soo-kyung dusted the medicine lightly, then pursed his lips and blew on it. His long lashes veiled those innocent doll eyes; from the side, he looked like a little fallen angel.

But the gesture made Qi Huai uncomfortable.

A tic tugged at his brow; he fought the urge to pull away and said lightly, “Thanks. I’ll do the gauze myself—I’m pretty used to it.”

“…Okay.” After a brief pause, Baek Soo-kyung passed him the gauze and watched him wrap the wound—done in seconds, clearly more practiced than he was.

Baek Soo-kyung felt relieved.

They walked side by side down the alley. It was a cold, windy January night; the tip of Baek Soo-kyung’s nose was red. He rubbed his shoulders and edged closer to Qi Huai, looking quite pitiful.

The system’s saintly impulse surged. “Host oppa, look at him—he’s freezing. Maybe give him your coat?”

Host oppa had Alpha genes—better cold tolerance.

Qi Huai furrowed his brow for a long moment and finally said, “We’re about to reach the taxis. He won’t be cold once we’re in.”

The system: …

Now it understood why most missioners of Qi Huai’s cohort had long found worlds to settle in, while Qi Huai still drifted like a wanderer…

This was the root cause.

Perhaps Qi Huai was too quiet—or perhaps the cold had forced words out of Baek Soo-kyung.

Sniffling, the uke suddenly let out a wry laugh. “You heard it, didn’t you?”

“Hm?”

Qi Huai snapped back from debating gentlemanly limits with the system.

Soft‑voiced, with a thread of a sob, Baek Soo-kyung said, “You must’ve heard what they said—the reason they’re after me is that I’m in debt. No… to be precise, my dad is.”

“Is it a lot?” Qi Huai asked gently.

“Six hundred million won…” Baek Soo-kyung sighed, crushed under the weight. “That’s astronomical to me.”

Before Qi Huai could respond, Baek Soo-kyung fell into memories. Head lowered, showing a stubborn, sorrowful profile, he spoke slowly.

“I became a trainee at eleven—scouted after school because I looked cute. My parents were thrilled; they thought I was sure to become a star, and agreed right away… You know how idol training is a gamble for kids, right, Qi Huai‑hyung?”

Qi Huai nodded.

It’s said there are over two million trainees in Korea, yet fewer than a hundred debut each year—competition is brutal. For many poor families, it’s a path to change fate; every year, children rush in like moths to a flame.

“From the first day I became a trainee, my parents waited with high hopes. They expected me to become a household-name super idol, and so did I. I worked so hard to debut. I wasn’t the best, but I did okay and got praised often—until I turned sixteen…”

“People from the company approached my dad and said I had a good chance to debut, but there were so many excellent kids that if I wanted it, it wasn’t just up to the kids to work hard—parents had to work hard too.” He pressed his lips. 

“My dad isn’t the type to understand hints. He just thought I was definitely going to be a big star, so he bragged everywhere. He already loved to drink; after being flattered as the father of a future star, he drank more. Then he gambled—whole nights at a time. When he lost, they egged him on to borrow. At first he hesitated, but everyone said: ‘Soo-kyung’s debuting, right? With a future star in the family, what are you afraid of? He’ll be living in UN Village in a few years.’”

He gave a bitter smile. “So the new loans piled onto the old before we could pay them back. Compound interest, higher and higher… but my debut never came. Trainees usually debut around sixteen or seventeen; a debut past twenty is already considered old. Those lenders saw I still hadn’t debuted, so they pretended to be my relatives and went to the company to ask. The company told them I wasn’t in the debut plan. They made a fuss. The president got fed up and directly terminated my contract. My path to debut was completely cut off.”

Choking up, he closed his eyes. “We were already impoverished paying off my father’s gambling debts for years. Debuting was our only hope—and even that tiny hope was throttled. My father beat me in a rage. My arm fractured and my face swelled; I could only stay home, unable to face people. Then the police called my mom to say my dad had fallen drunk into the Han River and drowned.”

“And then…” Baek Soo-kyung enunciated slowly, “the day after we claimed my father’s body, my mother disappeared—took half the family’s savings, and left a letter.”