#manipulative feeder | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

elikajinnie · 26 days ago

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P: Ghostface!Heeseung X Fem!Reader (Recommended age 18+)

Warnings: Stalking, Obsession, Possessive Behavior, Murder, Violence, Knife Use, Manipulation, Noncon/ Dubcon, Suggestive Content, Mental Instability (hes insane but in love), Yandere Undertones, Voice Kink, Choking, Light Manhandling, Voyeuristic Tones, Degradation, Dark Themes, Chasing, Forced Proximity, Implied Torture

Synopsis: Heeseung’s spent years loving you from the sidelines, silently watching you give your heart to the wrong people. Now, as Ghostface, he’s done waiting. He’ll tear your world apart, piece by piece until the only place left to run is straight into his arms.

Wordcount: 19k

a/n: After disowning my previous Ghostface!Heeseung fic, I am ready for a do-over :D

now playing: do i wanna know by arctic monkeys | i was never there by the weeknd

You never had much luck with people.

Whether it was fate, bad timing, or some cruel curse stitched into your skin at birth, you never met someone who stayed. No one who let you cry on their shoulder without expecting something in return. No one who hugged you just because they noticed you needed it, even when you didn’t say a word. No one who remembered the little things, like the way you only like white lilies in the spring, or that you always hum when you're nervous.

You were always too much, or not enough. Too quiet, too distant, too soft around the edges for people who only wanted you when it was convenient. If you were unlucky with friends, you were a full-blown disaster when it came to love. Your exes left faster than they said I love you, and those words never felt real anyway. They only knew the version of you that smiled at dinner and made polite conversation. None of them stayed long enough to learn how you took your coffee or what your silences meant.

None of them really saw you. And the ones who claimed they did turned out to be liars in the end—liars, cheaters, or something worse.

And even if you told yourself every time that the next one would be different—someone better, someone kind—you’d hold onto that hope like it was gospel. You told yourself you’d find someone who would treat you like a flower, or at the very least, like a person with a heart. With dignity. But you never did. What you always found instead were the bottom-feeders—the emotionally vacant, the cruel, the ones who looked at your softness like it was a challenge to break. They’d call you dramatic for crying, clingy for needing affection, a burden for simply wanting to be heard. Some of them didn’t even bother pretending. They treated you like an inconvenience, a piece of gum stuck to their shoe, something to be scraped off and discarded the second it lost flavor.

And the ones who came back… They never came back out of guilt. Or love. They came back when they needed something. When they were bored. When they missed the feeling of being wanted and knew you’d still answer. Some just came back to watch you break again just to see if they still could.

Still, you held onto that hope. That slim, flickering chance that maybe, just maybe, you’d find someone who would choose you every time. Someone who wouldn’t make you beg to be seen. Someone who’d put your needs first—not when it was convenient, not when it made them feel powerful but simply because they wanted to see you happy. Someone who would hold you while you cried and swear they'd never let the world touch you like that again. Someone who would burn everything down just to stop your pain.

And maybe that was your biggest mistake. Because if only you had realized that someone had already been there. Right under your nose. Watching. Waiting. Loving you so much it made him sick. So much that he couldn’t stand the way others touched you. So much that he had to make it stop.

Because Heeseung had been patient. Painfully, cruelly patient. He watched from the sidelines with clenched fists and a twisted heart, swallowing the urge to act every time you smiled at someone who didn’t deserve it. Every time you cried over a person who wouldn't even notice if you disappeared. He told himself he had no right to intervene. He wasn't your boyfriend. He wasn’t really your friend either, just the guy who hovered near, talked when you let him, looked away before his gaze gave too much away. He didn’t feel like he deserved you. He never had.

That’s why he stayed quiet. Why he didn’t reach for you, didn’t touch, didn’t confess. Because if he let himself have just one taste of what it would be like to call you his… He knew he wouldn’t be able to stop. He knew it would break him. But you were always kind to him. Gentle. You didn’t know how much that alone unraveled him, thread by thread. You spoke to him like he mattered. Looked at him like he wasn’t just Lee Heeseung. You smiled. You gave him hope. And that hope festered. Grew teeth. So when he saw them hurting you—again, and again, and again. He snapped, because if no one could love you right, then he would make sure no one else ever got the chance.

His breaking point was simple.

You were seeing a guy. Not the worst you'd ever dated, but not the kind of man who looked at you like you were everything either. Heeseung had tried to stomach it—biting down on jealousy so hard it tasted like iron, pretending not to notice how fake the guy's smiles were, how his hand always lingered too low on your back.

And then you found out. He’d been cheating. Not just once. Not just with one girl. Multiple women. Meaningless flings. You’d heard it from someone else first, then saw the proof with your own eyes. And it shattered you.

Heeseung watched from across the courtyard that day—watched the way your expression crumbled while you stared down at your phone, watched the way you left early, head low, arms wrapped around yourself like you were trying to hold in all the pieces. And he didn’t move. Not at first. He just sat there on the bench, watching you walk away with that broken look on your face, like your chest had been cracked open and all the softness inside was spilling out. He could feel your pain like it was his own.

He’d seen you hurt before. But never like this. And maybe it was selfish, but something in him broke too. Because no matter how close he was, how many smiles you’d given him, how many conversations you’d shared in passing. He still wasn’t the one you ran to. You didn’t even know he was there.

Heeseung sat there long after you disappeared, hands in his lap, fists clenched so tightly his nails dug into his palms. His heart was racing, his breathing uneven, something cold and sharp blooming in his chest like frostbite. He didn’t go to class that day. He followed your boyfriend instead. Just watched. At first. Watched him flirt with other girls like nothing happened. Watched him text while walking, probably lining up his next lie, his next hook-up. He watched until his vision blurred with fury.

Because how could someone treat you like that? How could anyone look at you and not realize how fucking lucky they were? You deserved someone who would memorize the way you liked your tea. Someone who’d know when you were overwhelmed just by the way your shoulders tensed. Someone who would never, ever make you feel like you were easy to leave.

And if no one else could give that to you... Then Heeseung would carve out a place for you himself. But first… He needed to rid the world of the scumbags who hurt you. He needed to make them disappear. And he knew exactly how to do that.

The moment the chains around him snapped, so did his restraint. And with it, his sanity. He had spent years studying you, memorizing your habits, your smiles, the little shifts in your mood when something wasn’t right. But he’d also studied them. The ones who broke your heart. The ones who made you feel like nothing. The ones who looked at your kindness and mistook it for weakness.

He remembered names. Faces. Addresses. It was almost too easy. Tracking them down was like finishing a puzzle he’d been piecing together in his mind for years. And once he found them, once they were alone… He gave them no mercy. Not an ounce of it. Not when he cornered your ex behind that bar where he always flirted with anything that breathed. Not when he followed the girl who spread those rumors about you in high school into the dark parking lot after her shift. Not when he faced the ones who laughed at your tears, who used you and tossed you aside like you were disposable.

They all begged. They all screamed. And he watched—expression calm—as they writhed beneath him, as the light bled from their eyes, as their bodies twitched and stilled, and finally… stopped. He watched them take their last breath with his knife buried deep, his gloved hands covered in everything that made them human. They were monsters, all of them. And monsters deserved to die.

He didn’t regret it. Not a single one. Because every time he plunged the blade in, he thought of you. Of your tears. Of your voice cracking when you tried to laugh through the pain. Of how small you looked when you thought no one was watching. And now… you’d never have to suffer because of them again. Now, he was cleaning the slate. One body at a time. And when it was over—when the world was quiet, and every hand that ever touched you wrong was rotting in the dirt— then, finally, he’d come for you.

Not to hurt you. But to give you the love no one else ever could.

Watching the news on a rainy evening about the latest murder had started to feel… routine. You sat on the couch, legs curled under you, fingers cold around the steaming mug you’d forgotten to drink from.

Another body found late last night... police have yet to connect the murders, though the brutality and frequency are causing rising panic across the city...

This was the fourth murder in the last 48 hours. That alone was terrifying. Unusual, sure. But it was more than just the numbers that started to bother you. What made your stomach twist with something colder than fear was that… you knew them. All of them.

Every single victim was someone who had wronged you. An ex. A former classmate. Someone who’d said something cruel behind your back. Someone who’d touched you without asking. At first, it had been easy to brush off. A coincidence. Maybe your mind just latched onto familiar names, making patterns where there were none. But now?

You stared at the screen as the reporter listed off graphic details from the latest crime scene—the wounds, the lack of mercy, the chaos and something inside you started to go very, very still. You weren’t listening anymore. You were somewhere else. The room faded out, replaced by memories. Faces. Conversations. Fights. That one night you cried in your car after another argument. The time you flinched when someone raised their voice. All those moments when someone should’ve protected you and no one did. And now they were gone. Your chest tightened. Not with grief. But confusion. Dread.

You blinked. Realized the rain tapping against the window had grown louder. Realized the room was dark except for the flicker of the television. Then your phone buzzed.

Unknown Number. No message. Just a missed call.

A shiver crept up your spine. Who would call you at this late hour? You stared at the screen, trying to breathe evenly as your mind raced for a logical explanation. A wrong number, maybe. A scam call. Something innocent. Your thumb hovered over the screen, debating whether to lock your phone and forget it, but then, the screen lit up again.

Unknown Number. Incoming Call.

It rang once. Twice. You swallowed. The apartment suddenly felt too quiet—like the walls were listening. Like something was holding its breath with you. Your finger trembled as it hovered above the “decline” button. But something stopped you. Curiosity? Fear? That twisted voice in your head whispering What if it’s not random?

You answered. The silence on the other end was immediate. No static. No breathing. Just... quiet. “Hello?” you said, your voice more unsure than you wanted it to be.

Still nothing.

And then—softly, like velvet soaked in something darker—a voice responded. “What number is this?” he asked.

“Ehm, who are you trying to reach?” you replied, trying to keep your tone steady.

“I don’t remember,” he answered, voice low, teasing.

You bit your lip, fighting the flutter his voice was causing deep in your chest. You didn’t want to admit it, but there was something… magnetic about the way he spoke. “If you don’t remember, maybe try calling them when you do,” you said quickly, trying to sound casual.

“Oh? Really?” he purred, amusement clear beneath the words.

“Yeah, bye,” you said firmly, and hung up.

Wrong number.

But then your phone lit up again. The same unknown number, calling you once more. You groaned, frustration and unease bubbling beneath your skin as you answered again. "What?"

A low chuckle rumbled through the speaker, slow and deliberate. "Now, now. Don’t do that tone with me." His voice wasn’t any louder, but it curled around your spine like smoke, thick and teasing.

You gulped. There was something about the way he said it—so familiar, so confident, like he knew you. Like he had every right to speak to you like that. You shifted slightly on the couch, glancing toward your window even though the blinds were shut tight. You suddenly felt watched. “I… I really think you have the wrong number,” you said quietly, voice tighter now, smaller.

He didn’t respond immediately. Then, slowly, like he was smiling behind every word. "Mmm. No. I think I’ve got exactly the right one."

Your grip on the phone tightened. "Who are you?" you asked, trying to keep the tremble out of your voice.

A pause.

Then, in that same velvet voice, low and dangerous. "Someone… wanting."

You blinked, confused. “Wanting? What do you mean—what do you want?” But he didn’t answer. Not directly. Instead, his voice shifted—just slightly. A little more playful. Mocking. "What’s your favorite scary movie?"

Your heart stopped for half a second. “Excuse me?” you asked, voice barely above a whisper now.

Another pause. You could hear the faintest breath, the kind someone lets out when they’re smiling just a little too wide. Like they’re enjoying every second of your confusion. “C’mon. Everyone has one.” The tone was lighter now, taunting, like he was trying to make this feel like a game. “Or do you only like romance?”

Your blood ran cold. That wasn’t just teasing. That was knowing.

He knew you liked romance. He knew you never talked about horror, how you instead cried at the end of movies where the love wasn’t strong enough. And that voice— God, that voice—it was ruining you.

You hated the way your skin prickled, the way your stomach dipped at the sound of it, the way your body betrayed your brain. It wasn’t fear, it was something darker. Something that twisted low in your gut and pulsed with heat beneath the chill. You didn’t know him. You couldn’t. And yet… he spoke like someone who memorized you.

Your silence seemed to thrill him. “I like scary movies,” he continued softly. “But only the ones with a pretty girl who doesn’t run fast enough.”

You jolted up from the couch, heart in your throat, instinctively checking the locks on your front door, the windows, the corners of your apartment. Your phone was still pressed to your ear.

“Don’t bother,” he said, voice dipping lower. “If I wanted to be inside, I would be.”

You froze mid-step, hand hovering above the kitchen window latch. Your heart was racing now, thudding so loud you swore he could hear it through the line. You swallowed hard and reached out anyway, checking the lock on the window with shaking fingers.

Then came his voice again—closer this time, somehow softer and more intimate. “Does that scare you, baby?”

Your breath hitched as you backed away from the window, phone still clutched in your hand, knuckles white. He sounded like he was right there. Like he was behind the glass, watching you fumble in the dark.

“It should.” He didn’t wait for you to respond. “You’re so easy to read. You get this little crease between your eyebrows when you’re panicking. You’re doing it now, aren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your throat was too tight.

“Cute.” The word dripped through the receiver like poison disguised as honey. “Do you want me to stop?” Another pause, heavy and expectant. “Say the word. Tell me to stop.”

You wanted to. God, you wanted to. But your mouth wouldn’t move. Because a part of you—some dark, traitorous part—wasn’t sure you wanted him to.

The line stayed quiet. Waiting.

“That’s what I thought.” The call ended suddenly. And all you could hear now was your own breathing and the rain, still tapping gently against the glass.

Heeseung leaned back in his chair, the soft creak barely audible over the quiet hum of his equipment. His eyes were locked on the monitor in front of him, the glow from the screen casting sharp shadows across his face.

There you were. Right there, in the center feed—framed in soft light, trembling slightly as you backed away from your kitchen window. He groaned, low and breathless, as he watched your expression twist in fear. You looked so small. So vulnerable. So perfect. Every little flinch, every shaky breath, every frantic glance to the door—he watched it all unfold through the tiny cameras he’d installed the night before.

He had been careful. Waited until you were asleep, crept in through the second-story window like a ghost, moving in total silence. The cameras were hidden—blended into vents, the back of your bookshelf, nestled above your kitchen cabinets. Nothing invasive… Just enough to see you. To know you. And God, he did. He knew everything.

Heeseung ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly, eyes still glued to your screen. He had to admit, you were holding out better than he expected. He liked that about you. He leaned forward again, resting his elbows on the desk, his mouth curving into a soft smile as he watched you sit down slowly, phone still in your hand, eyes darting toward the hallway like you half-expected a shadow to crawl from it.

God, you were beautiful like this. Stripped down to your bare instincts—paranoia sharpening your every move.

Heeseung tilted his head slightly, watching as your hands trembled just enough to give you away. You were trying to hold it together. Trying not to look scared. Trying to convince yourself this was nothing. That it was just a prank call. That the world wasn’t closing in around you. But he knew, because he’d studied you—memorized every microexpression, every nervous habit, every subtle crack in your voice. And right now, you were falling apart so prettily. He let out a soft breath, tapping his fingers against his thigh. He could almost feel your fear like a pulse in the air and it thrilled him.

He knew a part of you didn’t hate the sudden attention. He saw the way you looked at the phone even after the call ended. How long your eyes lingered on the window, like a part of you was hoping to see someone out there. Someone you couldn’t name. Someone who already knew everything about you.

Heeseung bit his lip, dragging his gaze across the screen to watch the way you leaned forward, slowly, hesitantly, like your body couldn’t decide whether to run or stay rooted in place. “You’re already mine,” he whispered to the screen, voice soft. He reached toward the keyboard, fingers ghosting over the button that would turn the camera feed off… but paused. Instead, he opened a drawer beside him, pulling out a small velvet box. He turned it over in his hands, then opened it to reveal what lay inside. A single, perfect white lily. Your favorite. The same one you mentioned offhandedly two years ago at a party, when no one was listening—but he was. He always was. His eyes flicked back to the screen. Maybe it was time you started seeing just how much he cared. Really seeing it.

Tomorrow, he decided.

Tomorrow, you'd get a gift.

You hadn’t meant to sleep in, but when you finally opened your eyes, the sun was already at the highest point, and the blinking numbers on your alarm clock told you it was late—well past anything productive. So you didn’t move. Not for a while. Because… what was the point? You felt drained. Like something invisible had pressed its hands against your shoulders and kept you pinned to the mattress, stealing the motivation to do anything. Even the thought of eating or showering felt too big to reach. So you stayed. Wrapped in your blanket, eyes half-focused on the cracks in the ceiling, letting the world outside spin without you. You kept thinking about the call. The voice. The way he spoke like he knew you—like he’d been watching you for longer than you could guess.

You told yourself it had to be a joke. Some sick prank. Someone with too much time on their hands and a voice changer. But it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt real. Too real.

You hadn’t checked your phone again. You didn’t want to. Just the thought of seeing that same number pop up made your skin crawl, your heart pound. You turned your head toward the window, half-expecting to see nothing but the usual blue sky but your gaze snagged on something. A velvet box sat on the windowsill. Perfectly placed, as if it had been waiting for you to notice.

It hadn’t been there a few minutes ago. It couldn’t have been. You hesitated for a moment, heart beginning to race, then slowly pushed the blanket off your legs and stood. Each step toward the window felt too loud in the stillness of your room. Your hand trembled as you reached for the latch, eyes flicking across the yard, the sidewalk, the trees beyond.

Nothing. No one. Just the quiet hum of wind and your own breath. You slid the window open with a reluctant creak, then reached out and carefully pulled the box inside. You opened it, and gasped.

Inside lay a single, perfect white lily.

That night, you barely moved after finding the box. You left it on your nightstand, wrapped shut in a towel, as if that could somehow make it less real.

By the time evening crept in, your body was running on autopilot. You went through the motions—washing your face, tying your hair back, standing under the harsh glow of the bathroom light like it might protect you from the dark pressing against your windows. You refused to look in the mirror for too long. You didn’t like the expression on your own face. You were reaching for your toothbrush when your phone, resting on the counter, lit up.

Your heart dropped.

Unknown Number. Again.

Your hand hovered over it, frozen, the dread curling tighter in your chest like a rope being pulled. It rang once. Twice. You should’ve ignored it. You should’ve thrown it across the room. But your finger moved before your brain caught up, and suddenly—

Click.

You pressed it to your ear. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.

Then came the voice. That same voice, smooth and low, laced with something too soft to be safe. “Did you like the flower?”

You gripped the sink with your free hand, knuckles white. “Who the fuck are you?” you hissed, voice shaking. “What do you want from me?”

A short, amused breath. “That’s not a thank you.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. You could hear your own breath now, loud.

“You looked beautiful this morning, by the way.”

Your entire body went cold. “I didn’t leave the house,” you whispered.

He laughed—soft, delighted, fond. Like you’d said something endearing. Like he loved watching you piece it together. “I know.” A pause. “I always know.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your throat was tight, heart hammering so loud you thought it might drown out his voice. But it didn’t. You heard everything. The sound of his breath. The low hum of satisfaction in his tone. Like this wasn’t fear to him. It was foreplay.

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited for this,” he murmured. “To hear your voice. To talk to you without pretending anymore.”

You braced yourself against the sink, your hand shaking as it hovered near the phone. “You’re sick.”

Another soft laugh. “I’m devoted. There’s a difference.”

You felt something twist in your gut. A mix of fear and something worse crawling under your skin like poison. Because it wasn’t just his words. It was the way he sounded when he said them. Like he believed it. Like he worshipped you.

“You’ve let so many of them touch you,” he said next, voice quiet, dangerous. “People who didn’t even know your favorite flower. People who didn’t care when you cried.”

You went still.

“But I did,” he added. “I always cared. I see you. I’ve always seen you.”

Your mouth opened—no words came.

“Don’t be afraid of me, baby,” he whispered, almost gentle now. “I’d never hurt you.” His voice dripped with sincerity, as if that made everything he’d said before… less terrifying. As if breaking into your life, watching you, leaving flowers on your window—all of it—was some kind of act of love.

You couldn’t speak. Your throat was dry, your pulse thundered in your ears, and yet—your body refused to move. Rooted to the bathroom floor, still clutching the phone, still listening to him like he had you under a spell.

And maybe he did.

“They didn’t deserve you,” he continued, voice low and firm, like he needed you to believe him. “None of them saw you the way I do. They only wanted to break you.”

Your knees nearly buckled. You reached for the counter for support, but your hand slipped—your palm knocking your toothbrush to the floor with a soft clatter. The noise startled you back into the moment, just long enough to feel a sharp pang of clarity cut through the fog.

This wasn’t romantic. It wasn’t sweet. It was wrong. It was dangerous.

“I don’t know you,” you whispered finally, your voice barely audible.

There was a breath of silence. “Oh, not fully,” he replied, tone smooth, unbothered. “But that’s okay. Because I know everything about you.”

Your stomach flipped.

“Like how you forgot to lock your bedroom window…”

Your breath hitched violently, body going rigid. The phone trembled in your hand now.

No. No, you hadn’t. You’d checked it. Twice. You always checked. You were sure—weren’t you? Slowly, eyes wide with disbelief, you turned your head toward the hallway, where your bedroom door sat half-open in the dim light. The shadows beyond it suddenly felt too thick.

“Or how you sleep with one leg out of the blanket when you’re too warm,” he continued, voice softer now, as if he were reminiscing. “You hum to yourself in the shower. You talk in your sleep when you’re anxious. You said your favorite scent was rain on pavement once. You don’t even remember saying it, do you?”

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes. You backed up slowly, retreating from the hallway like the shadows might reach out and grab you. “Stop,” you whispered, barely holding your voice together. “Please stop.”

He ignored you. “You tilt your head when you read something sad. You chew your straw when you're lost in thought. You cried three nights ago.”

The phone slipped from your hand, clattering to the tile floor with a sharp, echoing sound. Your chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid breaths as the silence pressed down around you like a second skin. Every creak of the floorboards. Every distant car outside. You stared at the phone lying on the tile floor where it had fallen, but you didn’t pick it up. You couldn’t. Your fingers were too numb, too shaky. Instead, your eyes flicked around the room, searching, until they landed on the only thing within reach.

A hairdryer.

It wasn’t much. It wasn’t anything, really. But in your trembling grip, it felt like something. Like you were trying. You inched toward the bathroom door, barefoot and tense, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and throat. The hallway beyond was quiet, lit only by the dull glow of your bedroom lamp down the hall. Shadows stretched long across the walls, dancing every time your body shifted.

You hesitated at the threshold, hand clutching the hairdryer so tight your knuckles ached. Then, slowly you peeked out.

No one. Not in the hall. Not in the corners. Not in the bedroom. But that didn’t mean you were alone. You stepped out, your heartbeat thudding in your ears louder than your own footsteps. You moved slowly, glancing over your shoulder every few seconds, sure you’d catch someone disappearing just out of frame.

Heeseung didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

He was tucked into the shadows like he belonged there—silent, still, a shadow in the shape of a man. The mask wasn’t on yet. Not for this part. This moment was his. And he wanted to see you clearly.

You moved so slowly, so carefully, your bare feet padding along the hardwood floor like you expected the house to turn on you at any second. You were gripping a hairdryer in your hand, knuckles white, body trembling—holding it like it was a weapon. Like it could save you from whatever monster you thought might be lurking.

Heeseung nearly smiled.

God, you were adorable. Clutching that little thing like it was a sword, trying to be brave in the middle of your fear.

Your fear that he gave you. That he fed from.

You were trembling, vulnerable, beautiful in the way only you could be when you thought you were alone—when your instincts were screaming that something was wrong, but you still pressed forward anyway.

So brave. So stupid. So perfect.

Slowly, with a quiet reverence like he was performing a ritual, Heeseung reached into the shadows beside him and picked it up.

The white mask. Simple, smooth, emotionless.

He had found it in a Halloween store years ago, half off and hanging beside plastic axes and fake vampire teeth. It had looked ridiculous on the shelf. Just a cheap costume piece, nothing special.

But in his hands… it became something else.

It became his face. The one the town would fear. And more importantly—the one you wouldn’t recognize. Because as long as he wore it, he could be the monster that haunted your nights, and still be the boy who held the door for you at the coffee shop. The one who smiled quietly from across campus. The one you never looked at twice.

He could be both. And he was.

Heeseung slipped the mask over his face with practiced ease, the cool plastic fitting perfectly against his skin, hiding all the things he didn't want you to see. The world blurred behind the eye holes, but it didn’t matter. He didn’t need clarity to see you.

He watched you pace down the hall, your back turned to him now, completely unaware that just down the corridor, in the walls of your own home—he was there.

The corners of his mouth tugged upward behind the mask, invisible but real. You thought you were being careful. You thought you were alone. But he’d been here longer than you knew. Inside your home. Inside your routines. Inside your mind.

And tonight, watching wasn’t enough anymore.

You had just passed the living room.

The hallway behind you stretched long and dim, and the silence clung to your skin like static. You clutched the hairdryer tighter in your hand, your pulse pounding against your temple. Something still wasn’t right. The air was too still. You should’ve trusted your instincts the second the chill ran down your spine. But by the time you stopped—by the time you turned—

It was already too late.

There was a sound—soft, like the shift of weight on hardwood—and then he was there. A flash of white. A blank, faceless mask. The glint of dark eyes behind the holes, locked onto you like prey.

You barely had time to gasp before he lunged. "No!" you cried out, stumbling back, trying to raise the hairdryer in defense—but it didn’t matter. He was fast. Too fast.

His body slammed into yours, knocking you clean off your feet. You hit the ground with a sharp thud, the air knocked from your lungs, the hairdryer clattering across the floor uselessly. His weight pinned you down, not crushing, but inescapable. Precise. Controlled.

You thrashed beneath him, heart hammering, limbs shaking, but he caught your wrists in one strong hand and held them above your head with terrifying ease.

Your eyes met the hollow black gaze of the mask hovering inches above your face. And you knew he was watching you. Drinking in every second. You could feel his breath through the thin voice modulator, warm against your cheek as he hovered too close.

“You’re even more beautiful up close,” he whispered, voice low and muffled. “Terrified. Shaking. Finally looking at me like I matter.”

You squeezed your eyes shut. “Let me go—please—” Your voice cracked. It sounded too desperate.

He groaned at the sound of your voice—quiet, trembling, raw. There was something about your desperation that broke him open from the inside, something he’d craved without fully realizing it until now. So soft. So real. So his.

His gloved hand moved with agonizing slowness, reaching toward your face like he meant to soothe you.

But your gaze snapped downward—Not to his hand. To the knife still gripped tightly.

The blade gleamed dully in the low light, and now it was inches from your face. Your breath caught violently, your body going rigid under him, the fear suddenly clawing its way to the surface in full. You whimpered before you could stop yourself, eyes wide as you tried to lean away—tried to pull your head back.

His eyes behind the mask didn’t miss it. He let out a low hum of satisfaction, fingers brushing along your jaw in a mockery of affection, while the knife hovered dangerously close, threatening, intimate. “Look at you,” he murmured. “So pretty when you’re scared.”

You clenched your jaw, trying to suppress the sob clawing at your throat. “I won’t scream,” you whispered. “I won’t… I won’t tell anyone. Just—please don’t hurt me.”

That earned a soft chuckle through the mask. “Hurt you?” he repeated, as if the very idea offended him. “No, no, no, baby. You still don’t get it.” He brought the knife a little closer—just enough for the cold metal to kiss your cheek, resting lightly against your skin. “This?” he whispered. “This isn’t for you. This is for them.” He tilted his head, mask brushing against your hair as he leaned in further. “The ones who made you cry. The ones who left you. The ones who used you like you were nothing.” His voice dropped to a near growl. “I made sure they’d never touch you again.”

Your blood ran cold as the blade drifted slowly along your skin. From your cheek, down the line of your jaw, and then… to your throat. He wasn’t applying pressure. But you could feel the threat beneath every movement. Like he was savoring the moment.

You didn’t dare breathe.

Then it moved lower—down the center of your chest, ghosting over the thin fabric of your top. You tensed, your fists still trapped above your head, nails digging into your own palms, breath trembling through your lips.

And then he said it. Calm. Casual. Like you were discussing fashion. “This top doesn’t look good on you…” He tilted his head. “Let’s get rid of it, shall we?”

Before you could scream, move, beg—The knife slashed.

A quick flick of his wrist, and the fabric split cleanly from collar to hem with a quiet tearing sound. You gasped, instinctively twisting beneath him, but he only pressed a little closer, still holding your wrists firm, still watching. The ruined fabric fluttered open slightly, exposing bare skin to the cold air of the room—and to him.

He let out a low hum of satisfaction behind the mask. “Much better…” He brought the knife back—not the edge, but the blunt side—and pressed it gently against your bare skin.

You flinched. Not from pain, but from the cold. From the weight of his stare behind that blank mask. From the way he watched every reaction. Every shaky breath. Every involuntary shiver. Every whispered, broken “please…”

He dragged the back of the blade slowly down the center of your chest, past your ribs, following the rise and fall of your breathing like a line only he was allowed to trace. “So soft now,” he murmured, almost mockingly. “Where’d all that attitude go, hm?”

You clenched your jaw.

“You were so mouthy on the phone. So brave.” His voice dipped, cruel now. “And now look at you.” The blade drifted lower, slow enough to keep you shaking, but never cutting. Never quite crossing that line. “Begging. Squirming. Needy little thing.” He leaned closer, his breath fanning hot across your cheek. “Is this what you wanted all along?”

You shook your head. “No,” you whispered, though even you could hear how weak it sounded.

“Liar.” His tone turned sharp, cold. “You liked pretending to be scared when we both know you’ve never had this kind of attention in your life.”

Your face burned with humiliation—and something else. Because the worst part wasn’t what he was saying. It was that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

You would never admit it out loud. Not to him. Not even to yourself.

Something deep inside—buried beneath years of being overlooked, unloved, untouched something was stirring. Something you had locked away, stuffed into the furthest corner of your mind like a shameful secret. It was preening under the weight of his obsession. Sick with need. Starving for affection in any form it came. And for the first time… it was clawing at the bars of the mental prison you built for it.

You hated it. You hated him. You hated how your body reacted.

You stared up at him—at the hollow, unmoving face of the mask as his voice dripped like poison into your ears.

"Pathetic little thing," he murmured, dragging the blunt side of the knife along your stomach, just enough pressure to make you shiver again. "Is this all it takes to make you fall apart?"

Your lips parted, breath catching, but you bit down hard on the inside of your cheek. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. You wouldn’t let him see the way your body responded. You couldn’t. “No,” you said, forcing your voice to come out even. But it didn’t. It cracked. And he heard it.

He laughed softly—so quietly—like you’d confirmed something for him. "Liar," he whispered. "You say no, but you're shaking like you want me to keep going. Like your body already made the choice your mouth won't admit."

You turned your face away from him, shame burning deep in your chest. Your wrists still pinned. The ruined fabric of your top spread open beneath you like an invitation you never meant to give.

He moved the blade up again, slowly, deliberately trailing it up your side. His free hand ghosted over your hip, then your ribs, not quite touching. Hovering. Always watching. Always calculating how far he could go.

"You want someone to control you. To put you in your place. You act like you're better than that, but you’re not."

You shook your head. “Shut up.”

"You don't want a prince," he growled, the knife pressed flat against your sternum now, "You want a cage. You want to be owned."

“No, I don’t!” you snapped.

He stilled. Then, slowly, his head tilted, eyes behind the mask locked on your every twitch. "Then why aren’t you fighting harder?”

You had no answer. Because your voice kept denying him, and still—your skin was on fire beneath every word. Your muscles ached from holding back every reaction. Your body and your mind were at war, and you didn’t know which one was losing faster.

You were unraveling. And he knew it. God, he knew it. And that was what he wanted. To take you apart. To make you question where fear ended and surrender began.

It took everything in you to stay still. To not recoil. To not lean into it.

The knife slid higher again—not sharp enough to cut, but cold enough to make you feel every inch of the movement. A line of pressure. A silent threat. And you hated yourself for noticing how steady his hand was. How controlled. How he handled you like he already knew every reaction you’d try to hide.

He laughed softly—low, cruel, and devastatingly satisfied. “Your mouth lies,” he whispered. “But your body loves me.”

You shook your head, voice cracking before the words even formed. “No—”

But he was already answering you, voice dropping into that mocking warmth that made your skin crawl. “Sweetheart, you’re dripping desperation... Even now. Even when you’re terrified. Isn’t that sick?”

You wanted to scream. To cry. To vanish from under his gaze, from under the weight of his words. Because they stuck to you like oil—foul and heavy and impossible to wipe off. It made that part of you whisper.

Please. Don’t stop.

You clenched your jaw, as if that alone could silence it. As if willpower could erase the ache of being seen.

He watched your silence with the patience of a predator that had already won. “You don’t have to pretend,” he murmured. “Not with me. I know what you look like when you’re lying. And I know what you look like when you want to be caught.”

You shook your head again, a little more forcefully this time. But the tears gathering in your eyes betrayed you. Your silence betrayed you. The tears gathering in your eyes betrayed you.

In one smooth motion, his gloved hand moved and wrapped gently but firmly around your throat.

Your breath caught. Not from the pressure, but from the sheer shock of it. The control it implied. Your eyes widened, your body going rigid beneath him, and you choked on a breath that barely made it past your lips.

His masked face tilted closer, close enough that you could hear every breath he took behind the plastic. “Why so quiet, puppet?” he asked softly. “What happened to all that fire?”

The nickname cut through you like a cold wind, mocking, possessive, knowing. You swallowed hard beneath his hand, the tension in your throat pressing against his palm. Still, you didn’t answer. You didn’t trust your voice. You didn’t trust what might come out if you opened your mouth.

He hummed, like your silence only amused him more. “You were so strong, weren’t you?” he murmured. “So sure you’d fight me off. Tell me I’m wrong. That you don’t feel anything when I touch you.”

You shook your head again, slower this time. Less defiant. More… confused. At him. At yourself.

His thumb moved slightly—tracing the line of your jaw now, not pushing, just resting there. “So why are you crying?” he asked, voice so low it could’ve been mistaken for concern. “Is it because you want me to stop… or because you’re afraid I might?”

You didn’t have an answer. Maybe there wasn’t one.

He watched you beneath him—still trembling and crying—and yet not fighting like you should have been. Like you could have been. “You should admit it,” he said softly, his voice taking on that familiar, dangerous sweetness that made your stomach turn. “You love this.”

You shook your head, lips trembling. “No… I don’t…”

He clicked his tongue. “You do. You love the idea of someone obsessing over you. Watching you. Following you. You love knowing you have me wrapped around your little finger this whole time.” His words cut deeper than his knife ever had.

Because part of you had wondered. Had sensed something off. Had ignored every red flag, every shadow where it didn’t belong, every chill down your spine—because something in you liked being wanted.

He leaned down again, his voice now right beside your ear. “You want control, but you also want to be seen. To be needed. Worshipped. Owned.”

Your eyes squeezed shut. “Shut up.”

“Make me.” The words were a taunt but his tone was tender. “Say you hate it. Say you hate me.”

You forced the words out, voice shaking, catching in your throat like glass splinters. “I… I hate it. I hate you.” But it didn’t come out the way you wanted it to. It wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t angry. It was small. Weak. Almost pleading.

He giggled. A soft, breathy sound—mocking and delighted. “Say it like you mean it, baby,” he murmured. “Or else I won’t believe it…” His hand didn’t squeeze, not enough to hurt, But it pressed. Enough to make your breath hitch. Enough to remind you that he was still holding all the power, and you were still pretending not to want it. “Go on,” he whispered, his voice curling around you like smoke. “Try again.”

You blinked up at the ceiling, tears spilling freely now, teeth clenched as your chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm. The panic, the shame, the betrayal your own body felt toward you, they all crashed together in a tide too thick to swim through. You didn’t repeat yourself. And that was all the answer he needed.

He’s masked face tilted, his thumb brushing away a tear that had slipped down your temple. “Stop lying to me, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I already know what you’re too scared to admit.”

Your chest heaved, trying desperately to suck in enough air—but it wasn’t enough. The pressure wasn’t brutal, but it was constant, just enough to tip the scale. Just enough to steal the oxygen from your lungs, second by second. You struggled for a while longer—your legs twitching weakly beneath him, hands still trembling where they had no strength left to fight.

And then. Everything started to fade.

The room tilted, colors bleeding at the edges of your vision. The heaviness behind your eyes swelled, swallowing the light. Your limbs slackened. Your breathing slowed. And then you went still.

Heeseung felt it the moment you lost consciousness. The exact second your body gave out—limp, soft, breath shallow beneath him. He froze, hovering over you, staring. Then, after a heartbeat of silence, he slowly pulled his hand back from your throat. Just looked down at you. Silent. Calm. Like a painting he’d finally finished. His gloved fingers brushed gently down your cheek before he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone.

Click.

One picture. Just one.

You—quiet, breath barely rising beneath your torn shirt, tears still drying on your cheeks. He slipped the phone away and exhaled softly. Not rushed. Not guilty. Just… satisfied. Then, with surprising care, he leaned forward and slid one arm under your legs, the other beneath your back—lifting you as if you were something delicate.

His.

He carried you to your bed, moving through your space like he belonged there and lowered you gently onto the mattress, arranging you like he had rehearsed it in his head a thousand times before.

And then, he reached up. Fingers curled around the bottom of the white mask. And slowly, he lifted it just enough to reveal his mouth, his jaw, the sharp line of a smile that was real this time—not hidden behind the plastic.

He leaned in. Softly—almost lovingly—he pressed a kiss to your forehead. Just one. Then he straightened, tugged the mask back down over his face, and turned toward your window.

Silent. Swift. And gone.

By the time the night air drifted in and your curtains swayed again, you were still asleep. Alone in your bed.

You woke up in your bed, groggy and disoriented. For a long, slow moment, you thought it had been a dream. But your shirt was still torn. Your throat still ached. And your phone was still on the bathroom floor.

Reality settled in like a weight on your chest. You sat up slowly, arms wrapped around yourself, scanning the room for any sign that he might still be there. But it was quiet. And cold.

It took everything in you to find your voice—just enough of it to make the call. Hands shaking, you dialed.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

You stumbled through the explanation. You only left out the parts you couldn’t say out loud. Not because they weren’t real, but because saying them might make you sound unhinged.

The dispatcher was calm. Professional. Asked for a description. Took your name. Filed a report.

But when you asked what else could be done—what protection they could offer, how soon someone could come, their answer was a practiced kind of politeness that chilled you more than the silence in your room had. “Unless there’s an active threat on-site, we can’t dispatch an officer without cause.”

You paused. “But—he was here. I w—”

“Yes, and we have that in the report. If you call again and say you’re in danger, we’ll send someone immediately. I promise. But right now… there’s nothing else we can do.”

You were silent, lips parted, throat dry.

Then the dispatcher added, a little too casually. “But for now, we’ll dispatch a police officer to your house to run some investigations around the area. Ask a few neighbors. Just to cover protocol.”

That’s all.

Your fingers tightened around the phone. “Right,” you said quietly. “That’s… helpful.”

It wasn’t. You knew it. They knew it. A single officer showing up after the fact to ask a few questions wouldn’t stop anything—not someone like him. But it was something. And right now, something was better than nothing.

After hanging up, you sat in the silence of your apartment, still wrapped in the same clothes from last night. The air felt heavy. Your skin felt wrong. You hadn’t even dared to look in the mirror. You moved to your front window and looked out through the blinds, half-expecting him to be standing there.

He wasn’t. But that didn’t calm you.

Because if he was watching... He wouldn’t be where you could see him.

The knock on the door came an hour later.

You hesitated before answering, fingers curled tightly around the doorknob as you peered through the peephole. A uniform. A badge. A clipboard. You opened the door slowly.

“Miss Y/N?” the officer asked, glancing down at his notes. “Officer Han. Just here to follow up on the report you filed this morning.”

You stepped aside and let him in, your voice still hoarse. “Yeah. Thanks for coming.”

He entered with casual ease, taking a slow look around your apartment. No urgency. No tension. Just a faint smirk as he glanced at you again—and lingered a second too long. “I’ve had a lot of strange calls,” he said, chuckling under his breath. “But this one’s new.”

You bristled, but didn’t say anything.

He circled through your living room, checked the locks, the windows, even glanced at your bedroom door before shrugging. “No signs of forced entry. No footprints, no prints at all, actually. Window’s closed. Frame’s clean.” He turned to you and raised an eyebrow. “You sure you didn’t just have a bad dream?”

Your stomach twisted. “It wasn’t a dream.”

He nodded like he was humoring you, not believing you. “Right.” He made a few notes on his clipboard and then, with a glance at your bare legs beneath your oversized hoodie, added, “Well, it’s a good thing nothing happened to you. Would’ve been a shame.”

You didn’t answer.

He gave you a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “You got anyone staying with you? A boyfriend maybe?”

You blinked. “Why does that matter?”

“Just thinking it might be safer. You’re pretty. Wouldn’t want someone creeping around again.”

You wanted to scream. Instead, you folded your arms. “Are you going to file your report?”

He raised his hands. “Alright, alright. Don’t bite.” He handed you a thin card. “Here’s my number. If anything happens again… or if you just need someone to keep an eye on the place tonight, I’m off-duty after six.”

You didn’t take it.

He set it on your counter anyway and left without looking back.

The second the door shut, you stood there, frozen. No answers. No protection. Just another man who didn’t take you seriously—who looked at you and saw an opportunity instead of a person.

The next morning, you were barely awake when the television in your living room crackled with breaking news.

You blinked at the screen from the couch, blanket wrapped around you, mind still clouded with anxiety and sleeplessness. Your ears caught only pieces at first.

“…body discovered this morning at a local motel…”

You sat up slowly.

The anchor’s voice was grim, serious now.

“The victim has been identified as Officer Han, who was reported missing last night after failing to return from a routine follow-up investigation.”

You leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen. The image shifted to grainy motel security footage. A figure entering alone. The camera timestamp was from last night.

“Police were dispatched after the motel’s cleaning staff found the body early this morning. Authorities are calling the scene gruesome and disturbing, with signs of overkill and personal rage.”

Overkill.

Personal.

You barely breathed as the reporter continued.

“No suspects have been identified. Investigators declined to comment on whether this is connected to the recent string of local murders.”

But you already knew.

Your heart pounded in your chest, ice curling through your veins. It wasn’t just a coincidence. It wasn’t random. He had been watching.

And now, the man who didn’t believe you—who dismissed your fear and left you with a smirk—was dead. Killed for touching your space. But then—the dread sank deeper.

How would he know? You hadn’t told anyone. No one else was there. You hadn’t even said anything out loud. Your blood turned to ice.

No.No, no, no.

You stood abruptly, heart racing. Panic poured into your limbs like fire. You tore through your apartment, yanking open drawers, crawling under furniture, pulling books and photo frames off shelves.

Every corner. Every surface.

The chaos grew—piles of clothes tossed across the floor, cushions ripped from the couch, your closet emptied in seconds flat.

And then you saw it.

Tucked just behind one of the vents. Too small to notice unless you were looking for it. A black dot. A tiny lens. A blinking red light.

A camera.

Recording. Watching.

Your breath caught in your throat as you stared at it—this quiet little parasite hidden in your wall, this thing that had seen everything. You took a step back, grabbing a chair with shaking hands, your mind racing with thoughts of smashing it until it stopped blinking—

Your phone rang.

The shrill sound cut through the silence like a blade, making you jump. Your heart already knew before your eyes confirmed it. You looked down at the screen.

Unknown Number.

Your fingers froze. The world felt smaller. Tighter. Like it was caving in.

The ringing kept going.

You didn’t want to answer. But you couldn’t ignore it. With trembling hands, you lifted the phone to your ear, breath shallow. “…Hello?” There was silence—just for a second. Then his voice slipped through, smooth and sickeningly condescending.

“You really should just leave it alone, sweetheart.”

Your spine stiffened. “Like hell I will,” you snapped, louder than you meant to. “I’m going to smash it. I’ll crush it so hard there won’t be anything left—”

He tsked softly, cutting you off with a mocking sigh. “There it is,” he said, voice lilting. “The tantrum. The mouth.” Then his tone changed—sharper now, lower. The way someone might speak to a child acting out. “You love pretending you have control. But you never do, baby. Not really.”

You froze in place, knuckles white as your hand tightened around the phone.

“Putting on such a brave little face over the phone… But when you're underneath me…” His voice dipped—quiet, dangerous. “You turn into a pathetic, needy little mess. Don’t you?”

You clenched your jaw, trying to hold in the shaky breath that wanted to escape—trying so hard not to react. Not to show weakness. Not to let him win. But you knew he could feel it. Through your silence. Through the way your breath hitched. Through the way your gaze drifted back toward the camera.

“There she is…” he murmured, like he was smiling again. “Poor baby. Is it getting hard for you to think?”

You stared into the blinking red light, your body locked in place. He was turning your fear into something else—twisting it, warping it until even you couldn’t tell what was real. Every breath felt too loud. Every inch of your skin felt watched. Violated. But worst of all… you couldn’t move.

The silence stretched on the line for a second too long. Then his voice returned, laced with something dark and cold underneath. “That officer…” he said, almost like he was thinking aloud. “He deserved it.”

Your heart dropped.

“He looked at you like you were a thing. Like you were for anyone.”

He exhaled slowly through the speaker—something more controlled than anger. Possession. “He had no right. No one does. No one should ever see you like that except me.” His voice sharpened. “Only me.”

Your throat tightened. Your breath came faster, uneven now, like your body didn’t know what it was supposed to feel anymore.

“He thought he could touch what isn’t his.” His tone dropped, almost a growl now. “So I made sure he’ll never look at you again.”

The whimper slipped from you before you could stop it. Quiet. Shameful. Your hand flew up to your mouth—but it was too late.

He heard it. And he laughed. “Oh��” he purred, “you liked that, didn’t you?”

Your chest stung with the effort to keep still, to fight the heat crawling up your neck, the betrayal of your own body leaning into the sound of his voice.

“You like knowing what I’d do for you.” A pause. Then softer—“What I have done.”

He continued, voice like velvet over a blade. “You pretend you’re afraid of me. But deep down, you’re afraid of what it means that you’re not running.”

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Because he wasn’t wrong. You hadn’t moved from the spot where you found the camera. You hadn’t screamed or smashed it yet. Your phone was still pressed to your ear like it anchored you—like his voice had a hold you couldn’t break, no matter how badly you wanted to. And it terrified you. Not just that he was watching. Not just that he’d killed. But that a part of you—small and broken and starved—was listening too closely. Breathing too hard. And not looking away. You hated that. You hated you.

“See?” he whispered, sweet like poison. “You don’t need to say it. I already know.”

Your fingers curled tighter around the phone, knuckles aching, heart thudding painfully against your ribs.

“It’s okay to stop pretending, baby.” There was a beat of silence. “Be scared of what you’d become without me.”

Your knees felt weak. The room spun. Your breath hitched and stuttered in your chest. You hadn’t even realized you were crying until the tears blurred your vision completely. The phone slipped from your hand and hit the floor with a soft clatter.

You ran. Shoeless, directionless—your only thought was out. Out of the walls that had betrayed you. Out of the air that felt too heavy to breathe. The front door slammed behind you. Cool air rushed over your skin like a slap, but it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough. You weren’t even sure where you were going. You just needed space. Distance. Something real. You didn’t realize your eyes were squeezed shut until your shoulder collided hard with someone’s chest. You stumbled back, startled. Hands gently caught your arms to steady you.

“Whoa, hey—are you okay?” The voice was soft. Familiar. Concerned.

Your eyes blinked open, vision still swimming, and then your breath caught again.

Heeseung.

Heeseung from school. From class. From quiet afternoons and passing conversations you remembered.

He looked down at you, brows knit, gaze sweeping over your tear-streaked face and shaking hands. “Y/N?” he said gently. “What happened?”

You stared at him, mind racing. He looked… normal. Kind. Steady. Just Heeseung. Safe. Right?

You couldn’t answer him. Your mouth wouldn’t move. Your voice was lost somewhere behind the panic and exhaustion twisting through your chest. So instead you stepped forward and collapsed into him. Your fingers curled tightly into his sweater like it was the only thing anchoring you to the earth, and your face buried itself against his shoulder. The sobs came next—choked and raw, your whole body trembling from the weight of everything you’d tried so hard to hold together.

He didn’t flinch. He didn’t ask questions. Heeseung simply wrapped his arms around you and held you. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other resting firmly between your shoulder blades—like he’d done this before, like he’d always known how to hold you. His voice was soft in your ear. “Shh… you’re okay. You’re safe now.”

The words should’ve comforted you. But a sliver of doubt lodged itself somewhere deep inside your ribs. Because part of you still didn’t know why his embrace felt so familiar.

You don’t know how long you cried. Minutes, maybe more. But eventually, the sobs softened, your breathing steadied, and the tremble in your hands began to fade.

Heeseung didn’t rush you. He just held you, his hand moving in slow, steady circles against your back, his chin resting lightly on the top of your head like he’d done it a hundred times before.

When you finally pulled away, his eyes met yours gently. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you inside, yeah?”

You nodded numbly.

He simply kept one arm around you as he gently steered you back toward the complex, keeping his touch light but steady.

When you reached your door, your legs wavered slightly, and without a word, he slipped his hand around your wrist to help guide you inside. The place looked the same. Still messy from your frantic search. Still silent. Still watched. You didn’t look at the vent again. You couldn’t.

And you didn’t mention the camera.

Heeseung closed the door quietly behind you, eyes sweeping across the room just once before they returned to you—soft, unreadable. “You should sit,” he said gently, nodding toward the couch.

You let him lead you there, your limbs slow and heavy. The moment you sank into the cushions, you felt his arm around your shoulders again—wrapping you up in quiet warmth like he’d been waiting for this exact moment. You didn’t see the flicker of a smile tug at the corner of his lips. It was subtle. Brief. Gone before you could lift your eyes. But it was there.

And as you leaned against him, his hand moved carefully over your arm, soothing, familiar—too familiar.

“It’s okay,” he murmured, resting his chin lightly atop your head.

You let your eyes close. Because in that moment, even with the storm still raging quietly beneath your skin…

He felt like the only person in the world who hadn’t left you.

And that’s exactly what he wanted.

With Heeseung, you felt safe.

You didn’t know when it started, when the panic in your chest began to ease the moment he stepped into the room, or when his voice became the one sound that could cut through the noise in your head.

He felt like your rock. The one steady thing in a world that kept tilting.

When you broke down, he didn’t flinch. He stayed. Listened. Held you when you couldn’t hold yourself together. He never made you feel like a burden, never treated your pain like it was inconvenient or dramatic. He treated you like you were more than a body to use and discard. Like you were worth something. Like you mattered.

There was dignity in the way he spoke to you. In the way he looked at you. Like he saw the parts of you no one else had bothered to slow down for. And maybe that’s why—despite everything, you stayed close to him. Because Heeseung was comfort. He was quiet safety in the storm. He was the only one who made you feel like you didn’t have to survive everything alone. And more than anything… You trusted him.

He never said it outright. Never told you to rely on him. He didn’t need to. Because whenever the world tried to pull you back into the dark—he caught you.

The first time a toxic ex showed up, it was sudden. You’d gone out to get air. Coffee. Something. And he was just there, leaning against a wall like he’d never broken you, like he deserved a second chance just because he decided he was bored again.

His words were sweet, poisonous. All charm and empty promises. You were frozen. Until Heeseung appeared.

He didn’t say a word at first. Just stepped up beside you, his body a wall between you and the past. His expression unreadable—but his presence said everything.

Back off.

When the ex didn’t take the hint—when his hand brushed your arm like he still had a right to—you flinched.

And Heeseung moved.

A single punch. Fast. Brutal. The guy stumbled back, clutching his face, cursing, scrambling like the coward he was.

Heeseung didn’t look at him. He looked at you. “You okay?”

And that—that—was when something inside you started to shift. Because it wasn’t just that he protected you. It was the way he didn’t ask permission to. The way he made it feel like he should be the only one standing by your side. Because no one had ever fought for you like that. No one had ever looked at you like they’d burn the world for daring to hurt you. And in that quiet, terrifying way—He became the safest place you knew.

It happened slowly.

At first, you just leaned on him when things were hard. Then you leaned on him when they weren’t. He answered every call. Showed up without you asking. Knew when you hadn’t eaten, when you hadn’t slept, when you were about to spiral—before you even did.

And you didn’t notice, at first, how the others began to drift away. Your friends stopped texting as often. One of them called once—just once—to ask why you never came out anymore. Why you never replied. Heeseung had been beside you when your phone rang.

He watched your screen light up. And he said nothing. He didn’t have to.

You silenced the call.

It became easier to stay in. Easier to say, “I’m tired.” Easier to believe no one understood you like Heeseung did anyway. Because he got it.

When you were anxious, he pulled you closer. When the nightmares came back, he held you until you fell asleep. When you doubted yourself, he reminded you how they were the problem. How he was the only one who saw you clearly. Who never left. Who never lied.

“You don’t need them,” he said once, brushing your hair behind your ear. “They don’t know how to take care of you.”

And you believed it. Because somewhere between all the sleepless nights and whispered reassurances, you’d forgotten what it felt like to stand on your own.

You stopped reaching out. Stopped checking your messages. Stopped answering your door.

The only voice that mattered was his.

And when you were with him, when he wrapped his arms around you and murmured, “I’ve got you,” into your hair you felt like maybe that was enough. It didn’t feel like control. Not at first.

He never yelled. Never threatened. Never even raised his voice. Everything he did came wrapped in affection—warmth so convincing it made you question why you’d ever trusted anyone else.

When you forgot to respond to a message from a former classmate, he smiled gently. “It’s better that way.” He brushed his thumb over your knuckles. “They never showed up when it counted. Why give them your energy now?”

When you mentioned your job stress, the way your boss ignored your ideas, Heeseung tilted his head, eyes soft and full of concern. “You don’t need to stay somewhere that doesn’t value you.”

You left the job two weeks later. He was proud. He always was.

“See?” he whispered in your ear one night, arms coiled around your waist. “It’s better when it’s just us.”

The more things you let go of—people, routines, independence—the more he filled the space they left behind. He started handling things for you. Picking up your groceries before you asked. Changing your locks for “safety.” Memorizing your schedule better than you did.

And when you forgot something—your meds, a meal, an appointment—he’d kiss your forehead and murmur. “That’s why you need me, baby. The world’s too much. But I’ve got you.”

You smiled, nodded. Felt warm and taken care of. Even as the walls in your apartment felt closer. Even as your phone stayed off more often than on. Even as your name started to feel like it only existed in his mouth. You didn’t leave the apartment for days at a time now. Sometimes, it felt easier not to.

Because when you did, people looked at you like a stranger. But Heeseung looked at you like you were the center of the universe.

“You were never meant to belong to them,” he said one night, pressing his lips to your temple. “You were made for me.”

The day had been normal. Heeseung had made you breakfast, kissed your forehead, reminded you to drink water and take your vitamins. You had even gone outside, just for a short walk. Heeseung said it was good for you, and with him just a block behind, you’d felt… okay.

But that illusion shattered the moment you turned a corner and nearly walked straight into her.

Your ex-friend.

She didn’t smile. Didn’t look surprised to see you. She looked… hungry—like she’d been waiting for this. “Wow,” she said, her eyes flicking up and down your form with a sneer. “Didn’t think you were still alive.”

You froze.

Her voice, so familiar and venom-laced, instantly pulled up old wounds. The gossip. The backstabbing. The way she’d spun lies about you with a smile and laughed behind your back like your pain was entertainment.

“I thought you disappeared,” she continued, crossing her arms. Her words were barbed, digging straight into the softest parts of you. The parts you’d tried to bury. The parts Heeseung had promised to protect. Your mouth opened, but no sound came out. Instead, your eyes darted—instinctively, desperately—searching the sidewalk, the street, the edges of every moving shadow.

And then..

He was there.

Like he had stepped out of thin air.

Heeseung appeared behind you, silent as a ghost. His arms slid around your waist with ease, grounding you, pulling you back against his chest in a gesture so certain, that your ex-friend’s expression flickered—first with confusion, then discomfort.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood there. Chest pressed firmly to your back. Hands resting over your stomach. And then his eyes met hers.

Glacial. Dangerous. Possessive.

Your ex-friend took a tiny step back.

“Is there a reason you’re talking to her?” he asked, quiet but cold.

She blinked, visibly thrown. “I—what?”

Heeseung’s arms didn’t loosen. If anything, they tightened. Protective. Possessive.

“Because from where I’m standing,” he said, his tone still calm, “it sounds like you’ve forgotten your place.”

You watched her stumble for a response, caught between outrage and unease.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” he said, voice laced with quiet venom. “Not anymore.”

Your ex-friend scoffed, eyes flicking from him to you. “Seriously? You letting him speak for you now?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Because his fingers gently threaded through yours, grounding you. Reminding you that you didn’t have to speak. Not when he could protect you better than anyone ever had.

Heeseung looked down at you, brushing your hair gently behind your ear. “Let’s go,” he whispered, not even sparing the other girl another glance. “You don’t need to listen to people who never deserved you.”

And just like that, he led you away—arms wrapped around you, eyes scanning everything like a sentry. Because in his world, no one could hurt you. Not without consequences.

It didn’t happen all at once.

The illusion didn’t shatter like glass. It cracked like ice underfoot. Quiet. Slow. Barely noticeable… until you felt yourself slipping.

It started with the keys.

You were reaching for your spare set to grab something from the mailbox one morning, only to find the small bowl near the door empty. Confused, you checked the drawer. Then your bag. Nowhere. “Hey,” you asked gently, as Heeseung walked into the room, drying his hands on a towel, “Have you seen my keys?”

He didn’t look up right away. “You don’t need them,” he said easily, “I already got the mail.”

You hesitated. It wasn’t the first time. But now you were noticing. You didn’t press it.

Then came the phone.

You’d left it charging in the kitchen overnight, something you’d always done but one morning, you found it powered off, moved to a different table, and your passcode no longer worked. “Strange,” you muttered, trying again.

Heeseung’s voice came from the hallway. “Oh, the battery was acting weird. I reset it.”

“But my passcode—”

“I fixed that too. It’s the same as mine now. Easier to remember.” He smiled. “See? I’m just trying to help.”

You smiled back. Because it was Heeseung. Because he always helped. But something in your stomach twisted.

Then, there were the mirrors.

You hadn’t noticed right away, but you started to realize… there weren’t many left in the apartment. Your bedroom mirror had been removed. He claimed it cracked—bad luck. He hadn’t replaced it yet. The bathroom mirror had a towel draped over it “for cleaning.” The hallway mirror? Gone. You mentioned it once, half-laughing, “It’s like I barely see myself anymore.”

Heeseung had only smiled from the kitchen, voice light. “That’s okay. I see you enough for both of us.”

And then there was the voice in your head. The whisper that asked When was the last time you were alone?

When was the last time you left the apartment without him? Without checking in? Without that gentle, smiling permission?

You sat on the couch one evening, hands in your lap, heart beating a little too fast for no reason you could name. Heeseung sat beside you, arm around your shoulders, watching something on TV.

His thumb moved slowly over your upper arm. Back and forth. Reassuring.

But you didn’t feel settled.

It was just supposed to be a quick note.

Heeseung had left for work only twenty minutes earlier, humming something soft as he kissed your cheek and told you he wouldn’t be long. You'd smiled, waved, locked the door behind him.

Now, you stood in the quiet apartment, rummaging through a drawer by the bookshelf in search of a pen. Your fingers brushed against something cold and unfamiliar. You paused. Reached in deeper.

A small, black external hard drive.

Not yours.

You turned it over in your hand, frowning. No label. No marks. Just a single red sticker near the port.

Heeseung’s? Maybe. But why was it in the drawer you never used?

Your curiosity prickled. Sitting at the desk, you plugged it into your laptop. The screen flickered briefly and the drive loaded.

No folders. Just one labeled in lowercase: “x”

Your stomach turned, but you double-clicked.

And then the screen filled with photos.

All of you.

You sleeping on the couch. You sitting on the balcony, reading. You cooking in the kitchen. Slightly grainy, like they'd been taken from a distance. Some were dated from weeks and months ago.

You closed the folder. Then opened it again. As if maybe the pictures would be different this time. As if maybe you’d see something innocent in them—some justification.

But they were still the same.

You—caught in private moments. You—unaware. And he had them saved. Labeled. Hidden.

Your stomach twisted, your skin crawling beneath your clothes.

But still… You didn’t move to delete them. You didn’t scream. Instead, you quietly dragged the folder closed and unplugged it.

You walked back to the drawer. And slowly, carefully—like it might explode if you breathed too hard—you put the hard drive exactly where you found it. Nestled between pens and rubber bands. The drawer slid closed with a soft click. Your hand hovered over it for a moment longer, frozen.

There had to be a reason. Right?

Heeseung wasn’t like those other people. He listened. He stayed. He never made you feel small. Maybe—maybe the pictures were just his way of feeling close. Maybe he started taking them before you were this close and didn’t know how to stop. Maybe he was just scared of losing you and—

You’re making excuses.

Your own thoughts cut through the haze like a blade. Sharp. Merciless.

But you shoved them down—deep, deep down—into that same quiet place where you’d buried every red flag, every whispered instinct you didn’t want to hear. Because it had to be okay. It had to be.

So when Heeseung walked through the door, you were already standing. The lights were warm. A soft song played from your phone like nothing had ever happened.

He looked up and smiled the second he saw you. “Hey, baby.”

That voice. That warmth. That easy calm that wrapped around you like a favorite blanket—so familiar, so practiced, so comforting. You smiled back. Too wide. Too still. But he didn’t seem to notice.

Or maybe he did. And pretended not to.

He stepped forward, pressing a kiss to your temple as he wrapped his arms around you. “Miss me?” he asked, nuzzling into your hair.

You let out a breathy laugh that didn’t quite reach your eyes. “Of course.” You tucked your arms around his waist like nothing had changed. Like you hadn’t just seen your entire life through the lens of someone else’s control. Like you hadn’t realized the warmth you clung to was built on silent watching and twisted love.

Because if it wasn’t okay— If all of this was wrong—

Then you’d have to leave. And you didn’t know who you’d be without him.

He held you tighter, and for a moment, the silence between you stretched. Just long enough to feel like he was listening for something in your breath. In your heartbeat.

Did he know?

Had he always known?

But he only kissed your cheek again. “Go sit down,” he said softly. “I’ll make you some tea.”

And you went. Because that was what you did now. What you were supposed to do.

Everything was fine. It had to be fine.

You sat quietly, legs curled beneath you on the couch, hands resting in your lap like you were waiting for direction—like you couldn’t move until he was back in the room.

Heeseung didn’t take long. He handed you the tea with both hands, his gaze never leaving your face.

No questions. No suspicion. Just that same gentle smile. That same calm presence.

As if nothing had changed.

You took the mug, fingers wrapped around the warmth like it was something solid to hold onto—like it could keep you grounded. “Thank you,” you murmured, voice even.

Heeseung didn’t answer. He just sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder pressed into yours, his thigh brushing yours—every point of contact anchoring. Controlling, without seeming like it.

Then, without a word, his hand came up. He brushed your hair back from your face, eyes scanning your features with something close to reverence. His fingers traced the curve of your cheek. Your jaw.

Like he was memorizing you all over again.

You forced a smile. A small one. And in return, he leaned in—pressing a soft kiss to your temple. Then another to your cheek. Another just beside your eye. “You’re so quiet tonight,” he murmured between kisses, but his tone was gentle. Not prying. Not accusatory.

Just warm. Intimate.

You nodded faintly, managing a quiet, “Just tired.”

His lips brushed against your skin again—this time near the corner of your mouth. “That’s okay,” he said, his hand now on your thigh. “Just stay with me.”

So you did. You let him pull you into his arms. Let your head rest against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

And you told yourself—again and again—

It was okay. It had to be okay. Because if it wasn’t…

You didn’t know what you’d do.

For once, you were alone.

Heeseung had left just after sunset, brushing a kiss to your forehead and murmuring something about “important business” with a tone that promised he’d explain later. He didn’t offer details—and you didn’t ask.

He said he’d be home late.

The silence he left behind pressed in from all corners of the apartment. At first, it felt like freedom. But after a few minutes… it didn’t. You paced. Flipped through shows without watching any of them. Scrolled on your phone, but everything felt dull, muted, meaningless without him sitting beside you—without his quiet commentary, without the casual touch of his hand resting on your leg like it belonged there. You hated the emptiness. The stillness. You hadn’t realized how completely you’d grown used to him filling the space.

Then—the craving hit.

Something sweet. Something salty. Something that would feel like comfort in your hands, on your tongue. A distraction. So, without thinking it through, you grabbed a hoodie and slipped on your shoes. No note. No message. Just air in your lungs and a late-night itch for something that reminded you of normalcy.

The 24-hour market was only a ten-minute walk away.

The streets were quiet. Empty, except for the soft hum of neon lights and the occasional car passing by. It felt strange being outside alone. Stranger still to realize how long it had been since you’d done it.

You kept your head down. One hand in your pocket, the other curled tightly around your phone—just in case.

When you reached the shop you grabbed chips, a drink, some candy. Something warm from the heater tray even though you weren’t sure if you were hungry or just… lonely.

You paid at the register with a faint smile, murmured a soft “thank you,” and tucked the snacks into your hoodie pouch and the small bag they handed you. The cashier didn’t look twice—just another late-night customer, just another quiet face passing through.

For once, everything felt… peaceful.

No tension pulling at your spine. No eyes following your every movement. No pressure to speak, to be still, to be watched. You stepped out into the quiet street, the warmth of the market replaced by the cool breeze of midnight air.

You were halfway home—barely two blocks from the apartment—when the first drop hit your cheek.

You looked up.

The clouds were heavy now, painted silver-blue under the streetlights. Another drop hit your shoulder. Then another.

Rain.

You gasped, pulling your hood up as you laughed softly to yourself, feet picking up pace. You hadn’t realized how much you’d missed the sensation of rain on your face.

You clutched your snack bag tighter and kept walking, hair dampening beneath your hood, shoes slipping just slightly on the slick sidewalk.

And for that one small moment. You felt like yourself again.

But just as your building came into view, lit by the soft glow of your porch light—

You paused.

Because through the misting rain, someone was limping toward you—unsteady, staggering, like their body was seconds from giving out.

At first, you couldn’t recognize them. Their hair clung to their face, and their clothes were torn, stained dark and slick with rain. Then they looked up. And screamed. A broken, hoarse sound, gurgled with panic and pain. They collapsed just a few feet from you, falling hard onto the sidewalk. You gasped and stumbled forward. “Wait—oh my God—” Your eyes widened in horror as you saw their face, barely visible through smeared blood but recognizable enough.

Her. Your ex-friend. The one who’d cornered you days ago. The one Heeseung had wrapped his arms around you in front of, like a shield made of silk and warning. She was barely conscious now, her lips trembling, trying to say something. Her hand reached for you. Clutching at your ankle. Blood pulsed from a wound at her side, soaking into the concrete, swirling red in the pooling rain. And that’s when you looked up and saw him.

The mask.

White. Expressionless. Flecked with blood.

Standing still at the end of the block like a ghost pulled out of memory, the very shape of your nightmares. The figure that had held you down, whispered to you, touched your skin like it was his to own.

Ghostface.

Your body locked in place, breath stolen from your lungs. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The sight of him alone rooted you to the spot—like a nightmare dragged into reality. Your breath fogged in the cold air as you slowly looked down again, heart hammering in your chest.

Your ex-friend’s hand had fallen limp against the sidewalk. Her eyes were half-lidded, staring at nothing. Her chest, once heaving with effort, had stilled. And then—just like that—she was gone.

You let out a choked gasp, stumbling back from her body.

No. No, no, no—

A scream ripped from your throat before you could stop it, raw and instinctive. The bag of snacks hit the ground with a splash as you turned and ran.

Rain soaked your hoodie. Your hair stuck to your face. Your lungs burned. But none of it mattered.

You just ran.

Down the street. Around the corner. Away from the body. Away from him.

Your mind raced faster than your feet, every thought loud and tangled.

She’s dead. He was there. He saw you. He watched you. He let you see him—

You didn’t look back. You couldn’t. Because something inside you whispered that if you did… you’d see him chasing after you.

Your feet pounded the pavement, soaked shoes slipping slightly on the rain-slicked ground. The cold air burned your lungs, but panic pushed you forward, faster, faster—until your legs ached and your vision blurred from more than just the downpour. You turned sharply into a side street, hoping—praying—for a place to hide. Something. Anything.

The alleyway was narrow, walled in with brick and stacked crates. Dimly lit. Empty. A dead end. Your heart dropped.

No fire escape. No open doors. No shadows deep enough to disappear into.

You spun on your heel, breath catching in your throat and froze.

He was there.

Standing silently at the entrance. Blocking the only way out. The white mask was soaked, stained, glinting faintly beneath the flickering alley light. His figure was still. Composed. And so very real.

You stumbled back, hitting the damp wall behind you, your hands searching wildly for something to grab, something to defend yourself—but there was nothing. Nothing but empty crates and rain pooling around your feet. “Stay away!” you shouted, voice cracking. “Don’t—please—just stay back!”

But he didn’t. Instead, he began walking toward you, slowly. Like he already knew there was nowhere for you to run.

You pressed further against the wall, your eyes wide, breath caught painfully in your throat. You followed his every movement, the slick black boots splashing through shallow puddles, the gloved hand still gripping the knife.

And then... He stopped. Right in front of you. Before you could scream or run or even think he dropped to his knees.

You froze. Your heart thundered, every nerve screaming that this wasn’t real—this didn’t make sense.

But then he reached up, slowly, and pulled the blood-streaked mask from his face.

Heeseung.

Your breath hitched as your vision spun for a moment.

No. No, it couldn’t be—

But it was.

There he was, kneeling in the rain like a man praying at an altar. His eyes locked on yours, wide. Raw. Desperate.

“Please…” he whispered, barely audible over the downpour. His hands reached out and grabbed the front of your hoodie, gripping it like it was the only thing anchoring him to the earth. “I didn’t want to scare you,” he said, his voice cracking. “I just—You don’t understand… You never saw what they did to you. You never saw how they looked at you. I was trying to protect you.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Because everything inside you had suddenly gone quiet. Shocked still. You stared down at him, rain falling in heavy drops between you, soaking your clothes, your hair.

And Heeseung? He looked like he was about to break apart right there on the concrete. “Please don’t be afraid of me,” he whispered again. “I did it all for you.”

You opened your mouth to speak, but the words felt wrong. Like your voice didn’t belong to you. Like your thoughts couldn’t form fast enough to make sense of anything at all.

Heeseung’s grip on your hoodie tightened, knuckles white, rain dripping from his hair, from his lashes. His eyes never left your face, searching, pleading, trying to read something in you he could hold onto. “I had to,” he whispered, his voice hoarse, broken at the edges. “They hurt you. Every single one of them. Again and again.”

Your lips trembled, but still nothing came out.

“I watched you cry yourself to sleep more nights than I can count.” His eyes dropped to the ground for a breath, then rose again, brighter now, almost fevered. “They used you. Left you. Forgot you. But I never did. I never could.”

You took a shaky step back, but his hands didn’t let go—he followed the movement, still on his knees like a man in prayer. Desperate. Bound. “You’re the only good thing I’ve ever wanted,” he said, the rain making his voice rasp. “Don’t you get it? I didn’t take anything from you. I gave you peace. Safety. I made sure no one could ever hurt you again.”

The words slammed into you like cold water. Heavy. Smothering.

“You don’t have to be scared anymore,” he breathed. “You don’t have to fight for scraps. I’ll give you all of me. Everything you want.” His fingers loosened slightly, but only to slide down your sleeves, clutching your hands now instead, almost trembling. “I did it for you,” he said again, firmer now. “For love.”

And you just stood there. Soaking wet. Frozen. Held in the hands of someone who swear they love you enough to destroy everything else.

Snapping out of whatever trance you were stuck in, your hands pulled back from his like they burned. “No—” you breathed, finally forcing sound out of your throat. “I—I can’t—” Your voice cracked. The words stumbled over themselves. “I can’t think—I can’t—” You shook your head violently, backing up, stumbling over your own feet. “This isn’t love—this isn’t right!”

Heeseung’s face flickered—just for a second—like the sky itself cracked. But he didn’t move.

You decided then and there to run. You sprinted out of the alley like your body finally remembered how to run again, your breath ragged, your legs shaky beneath you. The rain slapped against your skin, but you barely felt it. You didn’t look back. You didn’t have to. Because he didn’t chase you.

Behind you, the street echoed with silence… until it didn’t.

A sound broke through the rain. Not footsteps. Not a shout.

Laughter.

Low at first. Then rising. A hollow, broken sound spilling from the alleyway like something unnatural.

Back there—on his knees, in the rain, face to the sky—Heeseung laughed. Like something inside him had finally snapped.

He crouched lower, curling in on himself, still laughing softly as the mask lay forgotten beside him. “I did it for you…” He whispered to the empty space where you’d once stood. To the shadows, to the night, to the part of you he still believed was his.

“All for you.”

You didn’t stop running until your apartment door slammed shut behind you.

Your fingers shook as you locked it—once, twice, three times—like the extra seconds would keep you safe. Like metal and bolts could hold back everything that had already gotten inside.

You collapsed to the floor, rainwater pooling beneath you. Tears blurred your vision. But for the first time in too long, your mind was clear.

You had to tell someone. And this time—you did.

Your voice trembled as you gave the report, but you didn’t stop. You told the dispatcher everything, the alleyway, the mask, the murders, the name.

“Heeseung. Lee Heeseung.”

They were quiet for only a second on the other end. Then came the response. “We’re dispatching a unit now.”

You didn’t sleep that night. You couldn’t. You sat curled on your couch, wrapped in a blanket you couldn’t feel, waiting for the phone to ring. For the sound of boots in the hallway. For something. But nothing came until the next morning.

You didn’t even mean to turn on the TV, your hands moved on autopilot.

And there he was.

Heeseung.

On the screen. Broadcast to the world. Surrounded by armed officers in heavy black gear. His wrists cuffed. Ankles chained. Expression unreadable as he was led down the courthouse steps in slow, measured steps.

The headline blared across the bottom of the screen in bold white text.

“LOCAL MAN CHARGED IN SERIES OF GRUESOME MURDERS — SUSPECT IDENTIFIED AS LEE HEESEUNG.”

Your breath caught when the camera zoomed in—closer, closer—until his face filled the frame. And then… he looked directly into the lens. Not by accident. His eyes found it like a target. And he stared. Dead. Unblinking. As if he were staring through the screen. At you. You froze. The mug in your hands slipped slightly, fingertips growing numb. It hit the table with a dull thunk, but you barely registered it.

The television screen shifted to inside the courtroom—clean, clinical, cold. Cameras weren’t allowed for the full trial, but now the final moments were being broadcast, the judge's voice calm but resolute as he read the sentence.

“Lee Heeseung. You have been found guilty on all counts—fifteen charges of premeditated murder, obstruction of justice, and illegal surveillance.”

You bit your thumbnail hard—so hard it hurt—but you couldn’t stop. Your legs curled tighter beneath you on the couch, the blanket long forgotten.

Fifteen. Fifteen victims. Fifteen names, fifteen lives.

The judge’s voice continued, steady and unwavering. “You are hereby sentenced to life in prison, without the possibility of parole.”

The camera cut to Heeseung being lifted from his chair. He didn’t resist. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. He just stared ahead. Emotionless. As if the weight of the sentence meant nothing. As if he expected it.

You leaned forward without realizing it, one hand still at your lips, eyes glued to the screen. You watched him being escorted out—four officers surrounding him, their grips tight on his arms, the heavy courtroom doors swinging open as he disappeared through them.

Just like that.

Gone.

Your heart thudded wildly in your chest, but you didn’t know if it was from relief or dread. Because while the world had just seen a monster locked away, you had seen the man who’d held your hand. Tucked you in. Whispered things that felt like comfort and turned out to be chains.

The room was suddenly so quiet, you could hear the blood rushing in your ears. And even as the broadcast faded into commentary and speculation, your gaze stayed on the now-empty frame.

You should’ve felt safe. Free.

But all you could think about was how he hadn’t looked angry. Or surprised. He’d looked calm. Like he still had something left to say.

It took years.

Years of therapy. Of waking up in a cold sweat and reminding yourself he wasn’t there. Of flinching at shadows and double-checking every locked door. Of trying to silence the voice that whispered maybe he meant it when he said he loved you. So unlearning what he planted in you took time.

Heeseung had stripped away your independence like it was his right. Isolated you. Softened you into dependence, control masked as care. It had taken everything in you to crawl out of that. But you did.

You started small.

A new job. A new apartment that didn’t creak the same way at night. Learning how to walk home alone again.

You found people. Real people. Ones who asked how you were because they cared, not because they wanted something. Ones who didn’t push when you went quiet. Who stayed, without smothering you.

You made friends—actual friends.

And one day, you realized you’d gone a whole week without checking over your shoulder. Then a month. Then longer.

The panic didn’t disappear overnight, but it dulled. The scars didn’t vanish, but they stopped bleeding.

And eventually, you had something. A life. A future. Yourself. You were learning what it meant to be whole again. Life had finally started to feel normal again.

Your mornings were filled with soft sunlight through kitchen windows, the smell of coffee in the air, and music humming quietly from your phone while you got ready for the day. You didn’t jump at every sound anymore. You smiled more freely, laughed more often. You were blissful.

Until that morning.

You moved through your usual routine with ease—coffee in hand, toast in the other, a blanket draped over your shoulders as you flipped on the television.

Just background noise. Just something to fill the silence. But the silence didn’t stay silent for long.

Your breath hitched when the red headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

“BREAKING: Convicted serial killer Lee Heeseung, also known by his alias ‘Ghostface,’ has escaped from federal prison.”

Your mug slipped from your fingers and shattered on the kitchen floor. You didn’t even look down.You just stared.

The news anchor’s voice droned on above the rising heartbeat in your ears. “Authorities are currently investigating the circumstances of the escape. Lee Heeseung was serving a life sentence for the murders of fifteen confirmed victims. He is considered extremely dangerous. If seen, do not approach—immediately contact law enforcement.”

They showed a still image of him. An old one. One that had haunted your dreams. Blank expression. Dark eyes. Looking right through the camera—through the screen—at you.

Your chest tightened. Your throat went dry.

It couldn’t be real.

It couldn’t be.

But the image didn’t fade. The headline stayed.

And all at once, the warmth of the morning, the peace, the healing, vanished.

You took a deep breath. Then another.

It was fine.

He wouldn’t find you. You had moved across the country—changed your phone number, your address, everything. You kept your social media locked down, erased traces of the past like your life depended on it. Because once, it did.

He’d be caught again.

Right?

That was the thought you clung to as you swept up the broken mug in silence, tossed the shards in the trash, and changed into something clean for work.

You didn’t tell anyone. You never had. No one at your job knew your history. Not the late-night horrors. Not the way Heeseung once made you feel like his world was built around you—only to reveal you were in a cage he’d designed.

The less they knew, the safer they were. And you… you were a private person.

You walked into work like everything was normal. You smiled at the front desk. Clocked in. Answered emails. Laughed quietly at a coworker’s joke in the break room.

No one knew your hands were trembling beneath the desk. No one saw the way your eyes flicked to the door every time it opened.

You told yourself over and over. He won’t find me. He can’t. He’s not here.

But still, even surrounded by people, even in the middle of the day, you felt it. Like a shadow clinging to your spine. Like breath on the back of your neck. That faint, familiar dread that came before everything once went wrong. It settled in your chest like a weight.

You didn’t want to be here. Not this late. Not with the sky already graying, the thick clouds overhead promising rain. You wanted to be home, door locked, curtains drawn. Safe.

But your supervisor had been frantic—overworked, apologetic, but firm. “Please—just a few more files. I’ll owe you one, seriously.”

And like the reliable employee you were, you offered a small, tense smile and nodded. “Sure. I’ll take care of it.”

Because maybe, if you worked faster, got through it all without distraction, you could leave before the worst of the storm rolled in.

You kept glancing at the clock. Every ten minutes. Then every five.

The office slowly emptied. Chairs pushed in. Lights flicked off. Quiet goodbyes hummed around you.

And eventually, you were alone.

You forced your eyes to stay on the screen. Pushed through the work as quickly as you could. Every so often, the lights flickered slightly—old wiring, probably. The kind that always seemed louder when the room was empty.

The clock read 10:12 p.m. You were almost done. Just a little more, and you could finally leave. You rubbed your eyes, blinking away the blur from staring too long at the screen. The office was silent except for the tapping of your keyboard and the low, steady whir of the building’s old HVAC system.

Buzz.

Your phone vibrated against the desk, the sudden noise slicing through the quiet like a knife. You jumped slightly, a chill crawling up your spine as you reached for it.

One new message.

Unknown Number.

And your heart stopped as you read the words.

“Did you miss me, baby?”

Your hand trembled as you slowly lowered the phone.

No. No, no, no—this couldn’t be real. It was a trick. A coincidence. A cruel joke. It had to be.

You hadn’t told anyone. You’d erased everything. You’d buried that part of your life so deep even you barely looked at it anymore. But those words.. Even in text, they pulled something old and cold from the pit of your stomach. Like a door creaking open in the back of your mind that you'd nailed shut years ago. The part of you that still remembered how he used to speak to you. How easily his voice could sound like a promise and a threat at once.

Buzz.

Another message. You didn’t want to look—but your hand moved on its own.

“Ready to come back to me, baby?” “You were so naughty to get me tattle.” “But it’s okay. I’ll pay you back… for all those years I spent behind those bars.”

Your throat tightened. You could barely swallow. The lights in the office flickered again. A hum in the vents above you, like the building itself was holding its breath.

No.

You shook your head, fingers clutching the edge of the desk. This wasn’t happening. It couldn’t be happening. He was taunting you. He wanted you to panic. And you were not going to fall apart.

But your vision blurred, and your chest felt like it was collapsing inward. That familiar feeling, the one where the room feels too small, and every shadow feels like it’s watching you.

You stood up too fast. Your chair scraped loudly against the tile, echoing down the empty corridor, you felt sick, your stomach twisted violently. You didn’t know if it was fear or nausea or both, but suddenly the only thing you could think about was the bathroom.

Somewhere to breathe. To get away. To throw up, anything to feel in control again.

You stumbled down the hall, shoes slipping slightly on the polished floor. The world felt off-kilter, tilting around you with every step. Your breath was too loud in your ears. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

You pushed the door to the bathroom open with trembling fingers.

And stopped.

Cold.

Right there, on the mirror above the sinks..

Red. Dripping. Smeared with clear, deliberate strokes.

“No one can love you like I.”

The room tilted and for a second, you didn’t know if your knees would hold, and they didnt, you stumbled back a step, your shoulder hitting the doorframe.

It wasn’t paint. You didn’t need to be close to know that. You knew the color. The thickness. The faint, coppery scent already hanging in the air. And worst of all, you knew the handwriting.

You turned on your heel and bolted from the bathroom, shoes slipping slightly on the tile, breath tight in your throat. You ran through the quiet halls, through the glass doors, and into the storm.

The rain hit your skin like needles, soaking you within seconds—but you didn’t stop. You sprinted across the empty lot, and yanked open the driver’s side door of your car. You threw yourself inside, heart pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to escape your chest.

Your hands fumbled blindly for your keys. Panic made your vision blur. Come on, come on—where were they?

Knock.

Right by your head.

Your breath caught mid-gasp as your gaze snapped to the window beside you.

A man. Standing still. Soaked hood pulled low over his face, water dripping from his sleeves.

You were already paranoid. Already spiraling. Maybe it was just a stranger. Someone needing help. Someone lost. You told yourself it was fine. Just some random guy.

But then he lifted a hand. Pressed it to the fogged glass.

And slowly...

He breathed out.

The condensation spread across the window. And with one finger, he began to write.

"XO"

Your body froze.

No.No, no, no—

Your fingers went numb.

And then, he slowly pulled back the hood.

It was Heeseung.

Soaked in rain. Hair plastered to his forehead. That same, unreadable look in his eyes.

Like he never left. Like he never would.

And through the glass, he smiled.

Your scream tore through the storm as the car door suddenly yanked open.

You barely had time to react before he was inside, soaked from head to toe, eyes wild even in the dark. “Oh, baby…” he said, his voice low, like he was seeing a ghost he’d missed for years. “I’ve missed you so much.”

You scrambled back across the seat, trying to put space between you, but the car wasn’t big enough. Nowhere near far enough.

He climbed in after you slowly, like he had all the time in the world. “You don’t know how awful prison was,” he murmured, closing the door behind him. “All those days… nights… and not a single one with you.” His presence filled the car. The scent of rain and metal clung to him. Your breath hitched as your back hit the opposite door.

He reached out, not fast, not forceful but like it was natural. Like this was how it was always supposed to be.

You jerked your leg away as his hand grazed your ankle. “Don’t—” you gasped, shaking.

But he tilted his head, eyes soft and strange. “Why are you scared?” he whispered. “I’m here now. Everything’s okay.”

You could feel the panic bubbling in your throat. “You’re not supposed to be here,” you said, voice cracking. “You’re not supposed to find me again.”

Heeseung blinked, as if confused by the very idea. And then he smiled, gently, like he was somewhere else entirely. “But I did find you again.”

You swallowed hard, every part of you tense as you tried not to show how your fingers had slowly moved behind your back, toward the door handle. Just a flick. That’s all you needed. Just a second to slip out.

But Heeseung kept talking, eyes locked on you like you were the center of his world. “You can never escape me,” he whispered. “Not my love. Not what we are.” His voice was soft, like a lullaby laced with something beneath. “Every day in there, I thought about you. You made me strong.” He leaned closer, his voice lowering even more. “Strong enough to take over everything. Strong enough to come back to you.”

Your fingers reached the lock. Quiet. Careful.

Click.

Too loud.

Heeseung’s eyes darted to the sound in an instant. And he giggled. Soft, amused. Like a secret had just been told. Then he reached out and, without force, just pulled you closer. As if it were a dance you’d both already agreed to. “I learned so many fun things in prison, baby,” he whispered, nose brushing too close. “I can’t wait to try them all with you.”

You froze.

“But not here.” He looked out the rain-streaked window, expression calm, almost dreamy. “First, we need to go somewhere quiet. Somewhere no one will disturb us.... Just you and me again. Like it was always supposed to be.” Heeseung turned his gaze back to you, eyes unreadable but locked in place like a magnet. “But first…” he murmured, voice dropping lower. “I need a taste.”

Your breath hitched, confusion and panic colliding in your chest as his hand snapped forward, fingers gripping the back of your neck.

Too fast. Too close.

And suddenly, his face was inches from yours, his lips pressed against yours in a way that wasn't tender, it was possessive. Heavy. Wrong.

Your whole body went stiff, frozen in shock. It didn’t feel like affection. It felt like control. You pulled back instinctively, your hands pushing at his chest as your voice cracked, “Stop—don’t!”

Heeseung paused. His grip loosened only slightly as he stared at you, his expression flickering between hurt and obsession. “You always fight it at first,” he said quietly, like it was a memory instead of a moment. “But you’ll remember that you always come back to me in the end.”

The rain beat down harder outside, the storm muffling the sound of your heartbeat as it thundered in your ears. You twisted in your seat, eyes searching the street through the fogged-up windows.

You needed to run. You needed help. Now.

Your mind was racing with how to get out, what to do, what to say but then you felt it. Something cold. Pressed gently, barely touching the base of your throat. Every inch of your body went rigid as your breath caught in your chest.

Heeseung’s expression changed. Gone was the soft smile, replaced by something colder. Disappointed. Almost… tired. “Seems like all the progress we made’s gone,” he muttered under his breath, shaking his head slightly. “Years away, and you’ve forgotten everything.” His eyes flicked up to yours, unreadable. “But that’s okay, baby,” he added, voice lighter. “Breaking you down again? That’ll be easy.”

You stared at him, barely blinking, barely breathing. Before you could say anything—before you could even flinch—he leaned forward again. His hands were firm, his presence overwhelming as his lips pressed against yours in a way that was too familiar. You froze, body stiff, mind racing. You didn’t kiss him back—but you didn’t fight him, either. Because of the cold press of metal still hovered at your throat. And in that moment, any resistance felt like a risk you couldn’t afford.

Your eyes squeezed shut as tears slipped down your cheeks—silent, hot. Your fingers trembled at your sides. But it wasn’t just fear rushing through you. It was everything.

The memories. The manipulation. The twisted safety he’d once wrapped you in like a blanket. And underneath it all, something you hated—something deep, buried, long ignored—whispered.

He’s back. He came back for you. He always meant it when he said you were his.

You swallowed down the sob rising in your throat.

He pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand remained hovering near your face, steady, like he still had control—like he always would. “Always so beautiful…” he whispered. “Baby, you are everything to me. And I’ll ruin everyone else who tries to take you away.”

The words twisted something deep inside you. Not just fear. Not just revulsion. But heartbreak. Because no matter how far you’d run, your past had caught up to you. All the trauma you’d buried, the emotions you bottled up, the twisted sense of comfort you once felt in his presence.

It all returned.

You didn’t even realize you were gripping his hoodie until your knuckles turned white. Holding onto him—not because you wanted to, but because you didn’t know what else to do. You were frozen. Trapped in the gravity of something that once felt like safety. “You’re f—fucking insane, Heeseung,” you choked out, your voice shaking.

But he just smiled, like you’d said something sweet. “Ah, ah,” he tutted gently, pressing a finger under your chin. “I’m insane for you, baby. Always have been.”

And then he kissed you again.

Quick. Possessive. Like he believed that if he reminded you of the past, it would pull you back into his orbit.

You didn’t kiss him back.

But for a second, he believed you might.

a/n: yeah no, i hate it. This sucks ass

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