After leaving the hospital, Terrence asked, "Mr. Reed, do you want to go back to the mansion, or?"

"Back to the Westside," Jason replied absently. The Westside was where Grace lived. Terrence wondered how long his superior planned to stay in that small rental apartment with the damaged woman. A thought struck him: perhaps Jason wasn't as calm as he appeared. Maybe he intended to seek revenge, and his time with Grace was merely preparation for something.

At a traffic light intersection on the way to the Westside, Terrence noticed something. "Uh, Mr. Reed, Miss Cummins is on the side of the road."

Jason turned and saw a slender figure sweeping with a broom. She wore a fluorescent work suit and a simple ponytail. The cold air caused her breath to form white vapor with each exhale.

Suddenly, an electric bike, trying to beat the changing light, struck Grace's leg, knocking her down. The rider didn't stop.

"Mr. Reed, should we find the bike owner and make them take responsibility?" Terrence assumed Jason would again defend her, considering his actions when Grace had been drunk and beaten.

Jason's gaze fixed on the fallen woman. His grandfather's voice echoed in his mind: "Remember what you have said today. Do not act like him" He would never care about a woman the way his father had. It was just a game; he wasn't Jason Reed, just a stranger, so why should he care about a sanitation worker named Grace?

"There's no need to worry about it," he said calmly, looking away.

Terrence was stunned. The light turned green, and the car drove on.

Claire helped Grace to her feet. "Grace, are you alright? Do you want to go to the hospital?"

Grace checked her injury. There was no bleeding, only swelling where her ankle was scraped. "No need. It's just a bruise."

"If the swelling doesn't go down, get it checked," Claire said, then cursed the hit-and-run driver.

Grace thanked her friend and resumed cleaning.

That evening, Grace arrived home to find a man sitting under a light.

"Sister, you're back," he said, rising to greet her. The chill left her body. What she wanted was someone to wait for her, even in their small, simple apartment. Having someone who cared made it a home.

"Well, I'm back," she smiled gently. "I'm hungry. A few minutes to wash up, then I'll make dinner."

"Okay," he replied, watching her limp to the kitchen.

"What's wrong with your foot?" he asked, though he already knew.

"It's just a scratch. I'll massage it with safflower oil," she said lightly, but her face changed with each step, and sweat beaded on her forehead.

Jason pursed his lips. "Then clean it now." He caught her, pulling up her pant cuff.

She gasped. A large lump was visible, even through her sock. When he pulled the sock down, he saw a purple bruise.

He thought he wouldn't care, even if she broke her leg. But seeing her injury stirred something within him.

"It's nothing," she insisted. "Safflower oil will fix it."

She tried to pull away, but his grip was firm. Silence hung in the air.

"Where's the safflower oil?" he asked.

"It's in the medicine cabinet on the bedside table," she replied.

He scooped her up, bridal style, carried her to the bed, and retrieved the oil. He sat, pulling her injured foot onto his lap. He removed her shoes and socks, pressing on the lump. It was hot and swollen. He felt for broken bones.

She hissed but didn't complain.

"Point your toes," he instructed. "Now flex your heel. Roll to the right, then left."

She clenched her jaw but obeyed. The bone was fine; it was only a flesh wound. He poured safflower oil onto his palm and began to rub her ankle.

His touch wasn't gentle, but she gritted her teeth, her body trembling. The pain must have been intense; considering the impact and fall, she was remarkably uninjured.

"Isn't it painful?" he asked. Most women would have screamed.

"I'm fine," she said, though a wince betrayed her. "This isn't as bad as when I" She paused, avoiding the word "prison." "It's nothing compared to the past."

Jason looked at her thoughtfully. He understood her unspoken words. Even when he'd been cold and inactive, the Atkinson family hadn't left her alone in prison. Many there sought favor with the Reed family. Her prison life had been far worse than that of an ordinary person.

"My sister has suffered," he whispered.

"It's all in the past," Grace said. "The pressure is already reducing, thanks to you."

He grunted, disbelieving her. Such a contusion would take weeks to heal.

"Jay, thank you. You're a really good person." She smiled.

"Good person?" His lips curved. Even flatterers never called him that. He'd done many things, none of which qualified him as "good."

"Sister, do you really think so?"

She replied earnestly, "Yes, of course, Jay is a good person." She spoke matter-of-factly, as if, in her eyes, he truly was her good younger brother.

"Then, if one day you find out I'm not a good person, will you be disappointed?" he asked.