yongilityreposts

[yongilityreposts]

ATZ TV # the bloom beneath the frost ꗃ╭╯ park seonghwa.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / detective!seonghwa / figure skating au / f!reader insert.

𒄬 summary: a professional ice skater’s life is shattered when an anonymous admirer’s innocent gestures turn into an all-consuming obsession. With the help of detective Seonghwa, she must fight to reclaim her life—before the darkness consumes her for good. 𒄬 word count: 25k.

𒄬 warnings: stalking and obssesive behavior / invasion of privacy / psychological manipulation / anxiety / implied violence / emotional distress / mentions of crying, panic and fear of safety / harassament / police involvement / mentions of knife/blade and guns — not a warning but it's mentioned that it's winter season, also a lot of rainy scenes. — english it's not my first language, poor proofread tbh.

The ice rink was empty, and the sound of your blades was the only thing accompanying the silence.

The light was dim, bluish, as if the dawn still hesitated to peek through the tall windows of the arena. It was cold—not the kind of cold that cuts to the bone, but the kind that feels familiar, almost cozy, when the ice is the closest thing to home.

Because, in truth, it is home.

You adjusted your gloves, exhaled slowly. The steam from your breath dissolved in front of you. You closed your eyes for a moment, letting the sound of the ice beneath your skates surround you.

An imaginary beat began in your mind. One, two, three... And then you glided.

Each turn, each jump, each invisible line you drew in the ice told a story only you knew.

Being a professional figure skater was something you'd dreamed of since you could remember.

Or at least, that's what you thought.

But in that moment, when your blades glided over the ice and your body moved almost automatically, you could almost swear that it all had started that cold afternoon when your grandfather, with his big hands rough from years of hard work, took you by the hand to an ice rink for the first time. You were five. You had been walking through town after buying freshly baked bread, and just before crossing the street, he stopped in front of a billboard with bright letters: "Free ice skating class, this Saturday only."

You didn't say anything. You didn't need to. You just saw his eyes light up with that mischievous spark that used to appear when you were about to do something your grandfather disapproved of.

But the following Saturday, there you were. With used skates that were a bit too big, a hat that covered your eyebrows, and your knees already full of band-aids before even stepping onto the ice. The first step was a disaster. The second, worse. And the third ended with you face down, palms burned by the ice and your breath cut off by the fall. But you remember everything clearly: the cold smell, the crunching of the ice under the skates of other kids, your grandfather's soft voice saying: "Falling is not failing."

And then it happened. Between one fall and another, there was a moment—brief, magical—when you glided without losing balance. The wind brushed your cheeks, and you felt as if the whole world had stopped just to watch you float.

That's when you knew. This was your place.

The ice learned your name, and you learned its.

And since then, you never stopped.

Your grandfather didn't either. He, being the tireless doting he was, became your first fan, your chauffeur, your cheerleader in the stands. When, weeks later, he saw a poster about open registrations for formal classes at the local rink, he didn't hesitate for a second to sign you up. He bought your first second-hand leotard, fixed your skates with duct tape more times than you could count, and learned how to use his cellphone's camera just to film your pirouettes.

It all started months ago, with a bouquet of peonies.

After a morning practice that had been as exhausting as always, the fatigue accumulated in your legs, but the satisfaction of having reached the goal for that particular morning kept you on your feet.

You entered the locker room, ready to shower and prepare for the rest of the day. It was there, on your bench, where you found it: a bouquet of peonies, fresh and perfectly arranged in a small vase.

It didn't surprise you. Nor did you think too much of it. You knew it wasn't the first gift you'd received. Being a recognized skater, gifts from admirers were common. Flowers, letters, a stuffed animal... small gestures of affection, ways to express the admiration that surrounded you. None of it bothered you. You accepted them with a smile and left them in your locker, amidst the competition and practice, without thinking too much about them.

This bouquet of peonies, in particular, was pretty, but nothing out of the ordinary. You thought, like all the others, that it was just another show of admiration from some fan. You didn't even bother to look at the envelope or search for a signature to indicate who had sent it.

You left the bouquet there, on the table, and took off your skates. With a tired smile, you continued with your routine, unaware that this simple bouquet of flowers would be the beginning of something much bigger, darker. Something that, as time went on, would make you question how many other "admirers" you truly knew... and how many others hid behind the appearance of a simple flower.

Time passes in the blink of an eye, the practices are no longer just routine, now you're preparing for the nationals that will take place in a couple of months.

This year was supposed to be different from the others, because despite finishing with a good ranking in previous years, this year the main goal was to go to the internationals.

You had prepared your whole life for this. The internationals were the dream you still needed to fulfill, and you wouldn't rest until you brought that trophy to your grandfather. No matter the tears, sweat, or blood you had to shed to achieve it. That accomplishment wouldn't be just yours, but also your grandfather's.

Your first and number one fan.

Time passes in the blink of an eye, but to you, it feels like everything is out of place.

You didn't exactly know what it was, nor how to name it, but there was something in your daily routine that had started to unsettle you. At first, you thought it was just fatigue or stress—after all, you were giving your all to succeed in the nationals, and that was taking a toll on your body. But it felt like more than just discomfort from the pressure of the competitions. You couldn't shake the feeling that something was building up in the air, like an invisible pressure weighing on your chest. There was no exact description for it.

The flowers kept coming.

Peonies, daisies, orchids. Almost always from the same mysterious hand. You placed them in your dressing room and left them there, giving them no more thought, as if they were part of the decoration. But something changed each time. The first time you found them, you simply thought it was a fan who left a bouquet just because. It wasn't the first nor the last time someone had recognized your talent this way, and although you appreciated the gifts from your fans, there was something about this particular admirer that made something stir inside you.

At first, it was just flowers, with no signs or markings to indicate who was sending them, but then the letters started arriving.

At first, they were brief—sweet even. Written with neat, almost perfect handwriting. The person writing them put a lot of care into it, as if it was the most important thing in their life. "You have great talent," they said. "I've seen you skate in several competitions. Your gift is admirable. Keep working hard," "You're so beautiful when you're on the ice."

You could read them without much concern. After all, it was just another fan. Nothing you hadn't experienced before. However, as time passed, there was something about them that didn't sit right, a feeling that made you doubt, something that began to take shape.

You decided to ignore it. You wanted to think that you were just imagining things and there was nothing to worry about. After all, fans are part of the deal. That's what you thought at first. But then, the letters grew longer, and the flowers became more frequent.

The first of those letters came one morning, right after a long practice. You found it in your dressing room, next to a bouquet of lilies. The envelope was sealed with a wax you hadn't seen before. You opened it indifferently until you read the first paragraph.

"Please, never stop skating. The beauty with which you do it and the way you look on the ice makes me feel like you belong to me. It's strange, because the time I spend watching you skate is the only thing that makes me feel complete. I can't wait for our paths to cross."

A chill ran down your spine. It wasn't exactly fear. It was a discomfort that grew slowly. The letter continued, describing in detail your way of skating, mentioning your subtle movements, as if it were a meticulous observer. But what disturbed you the most was how they seemed to know every one of your moves, your gestures, your pauses. There was something in their words that made you feel watched, as if they were right there in front of you, staring.

"I know you're looking for me, even though you can't see me. I'll be waiting until you realize that we're meant for each other."

Far from comforting you, those words planted doubt in your mind. You looked at the letter in your hands again, then at the bouquet of lilies. The admirer seemed to know more about you than anyone else.

And you didn't know what to think about that.

That thought stayed with you all afternoon. Even when you sat down to dinner that night, you couldn't stop wondering if all of this was real. If you weren't exaggerating. Maybe it was just a fan too passionate. But the feeling of being watched didn't go away.

Not even for a moment.

In the following weeks, the letters arrived more frequently. Each one is more personal, more direct. The same elegant, well-marked handwriting—almost perfect—showed up in every one of them. One mentioned the way you spent your mornings, detailing your morning routine in a way you wouldn't have even thought of. Describing moments and aspects that only those closest to you could know. Suddenly, you felt like there was something in your life that was no longer yours, something someone else knew better than you did.

The next bouquet of flowers appeared at your house on a rainy night. A large bouquet of tulips. You hadn't gone to the rink that afternoon. So, it was unsettling to think that someone had been there, near your house, leaving that gift on your doorstep, especially when you asked the receptionist if they had seen anyone leaving the bouquet for you and their answer was no.

That only heightened the feeling of invasion in your mind.

A brief letter accompanied the tulips:

"You don't have to worry. Everything will be fine. I need you. Do you feel it too? When you finally get that, there will be no turning back."

You read those words over and over with your heart racing. You felt trapped, but you didn't know in what. The feeling of being stuck between who you were and who you were forcing yourself to be intensified with each letter, with each bouquet of flowers.

And even though the growing discomfort was forming, something inside you told you that you couldn't do anything. It was paralyzing. You didn't know who would believe you that an admirer could become a potential threat. You didn't want people to think you were turning into a paranoid person. But deep down, you knew something wasn't right.

So the practice the next afternoon wasn't the same as the others. For the first time in weeks, the ice rink didn't seem big enough, nor the air cold enough.

You felt distant.

Your movements became more mechanical and less fluid. When you attempted a double Axel jump, something went wrong. You landed badly on one foot, losing your balance and falling awkwardly. The sound of the ice cracking under your weight was louder than it should have been.

You couldn't remember the last time that had happened to you.

"Are you okay?" Your coach's voice snapped you back to reality. He looked at you sideways, frowning as he noticed your absent expression.

"Yeah..." you replied, but even you noticed you sounded empty. You didn't feel the same connection with the ice, as if you were separating from it, from yourself. You hurriedly took off your skates, letting the silence take over the rink. But as you took your first step off the rink, you felt the weight of the others' stares. One of the guys on the team, Wooyoung, was watching you with a frown, exchanging glances with his training partner.

Your mind wasn't there. It was occupied with the letters, the flowers, and that damned feeling of being watched. But the discomfort, the one you had tried to ignore for so long, was starting to show in the little gestures. In the practice, where you couldn't stop looking over your shoulder, as if you expected to see something or someone. The noises in the locker room were different now, pulling you out of your thoughts, making you feel like there was someone behind you.

When you were getting dressed to go home, a knock at the door made you jump in place. It wasn't a normal knock; it was insistent. You slowly approached, a knot of worry in your throat, opening the door cautiously and with fear, but on the other side, there was no one. Just a small package.

Another bouquet. A bouquet of small lilies and a letter. But the words it contained froze your blood.

"Every time you fall, I'll be there for you. I'm always there for you."

Your hands trembled, the paper creased between your fingers as you read it, and that cold sensation intensified.

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you, and even if you don't understand it yet, everything I do for you has a reason. I want to see you, feel you, be part of you. We will meet soon."

Panic began to form in your chest, the letter slipped from your fingers and fell to the floor. You scanned the room, expecting to find something, something that would give a clue. You couldn't put a name, much less a face, to the person sending those letters, but it was someone intelligent. Someone who could have access to the practices and locker rooms without raising suspicion, because you no longer believed it was a joke, and if it was, it was going too far.

But before you could process it, the locker room door opened and after jumping, you tried to relax when you saw your grandfather enter with a cup of coffee in his hands.

"Everything okay, sweetheart?" His gaze didn't go unnoticed. You could distinguish the reflection of unconditional support and a slight concern that flickered in his eyes. "I've seen you distracted lately. Have you been getting enough rest? You haven't told me how things are going on the rink."

You tried to smile, but for your grandfather, who knew you better than anyone, he could notice something was different in your face. "Nothing important, Grandpa. Just tired."

He looked at you closely, not buying the excuse. His eyes scanned the room until they landed on the package on the floor, but he didn't say anything. A silence between you two became awkward.

"Are you sure?" he asked, and for a second, you felt like you couldn't hide anything from him. But before you could respond, he turned around, giving you the space you needed to calm down.

"I want to see you, feel you, be part of you."

With nationals just a few months away and performance down in the latest practices, the pressure seemed about to crush you. There was so much at stake, and it had been a while since you'd felt that suffocating frustration, that feeling that none of your moves were being executed the way they should, that you weren't achieving what you set out to do. It made you feel distant from your goal, but even further from yourself.

The ice rink, which had always been your safe place, no longer felt like that. Today, the soft music echoed through the speakers, but it didn't calm you, let alone help you focus. Even though you were alone on the rink, a thick emptiness surrounded you, but it wasn't loneliness you felt. It was something much more unsettling. Each glide of your skates on the ice seemed to echo louder in your ears, as if the sound was amplified by the growing anxiety invading your mind. The cold air wrapped around you, but it wasn't the cold of the ice, it was the cold of being watched, as if someone were there, and you couldn't see who.

The reflection of your face in the glass of the window looked strange, as if a shadow was lurking from the other side. The tension in your muscles grew with every spin you made, but you couldn't stop. Training had always been an escape, but this time, it wasn't. Each breath felt heavier, more tense.

Suddenly, a faint crack made you stop abruptly. The sound was so subtle you could have ignored it, but you didn't. A chill ran down your spine. Your heart beat faster, and the feeling of being watched intensified. You looked quickly around, but the rink was empty. Nothing unusual. The crack could have been the ice, it could have been the wind. Or maybe, something else.

You tried to keep skating, but another crack sounded closer. Something, or someone, seemed to be following you. Your mind began to spin, questioning every little detail. Was there someone there after all? It wasn't paranoia if it was really happening.

Each spin you took on the ice seemed to amplify the growing pressure in your chest. Your breath quickened, and you felt the urge to look over your shoulder, but you restrained yourself. The shadows seemed to move with each step you took, as if you were trapped in a spiral of thoughts and fears.

This wasn't normal.

The next practice came, and although the company of your teammates should have been a relief, you felt more uneasy than ever. Taking a brief break and sliding to the edge of the rink, you let out a sigh of exasperation, trying to relax your tense shoulders, but the heaviness in your chest wouldn't disappear. That's when Wooyoung, one of your closest teammates, approached with his usual smile, but there was something different in his expression. His gaze was more curious, almost worried.

"Is everything okay?" he asked, leaning toward you. His tone, slightly concerned, didn't match the usual lightness of his words. "I saw you were a little distracted on the rink."

You forced a smile, though it wasn't a genuine one.

"Just tired. Nothing to worry about."

Wooyoung seemed to hesitate, but then shrugged and changed the subject.

"Well... it looks like you've got a secret admirer, huh?" His tone was lighter, almost joking, but his gaze didn't stop watching you closely. "I saw you leave the caf�� this morning, and a note was right on your backpack."

The air left your lungs. You couldn't remember where you had left your backpack that morning, much less seeing a note on it. Your heart raced, and a lump formed in your throat.

"What kind of note?" you asked, trying to stay calm, though your voice trembled.

Wooyoung smiled again, but he didn't seem as amused as usual.

"I don't know, I couldn't see it clearly, but it looked like a letter. I thought maybe another admirer..."

His playful tone didn't ease you. A flash of alertness ignited in your mind, making your whole body tense. What if Wooyoung was right? What if the admirer was closer than you thought, following you every step of the way without you realizing it? The feeling of being watched grew stronger, more persistent, like a shadow over your shoulders.

That night, you couldn't shake the feeling that someone was stalking you. The letters and messages you had received didn't seem so innocent now. The idea that someone was in your personal space, watching you, touching your things... filled you with growing anxiety.

"I don't like being possessive. But I also don't like someone else seeing you the way I see you. Your teammates seem very close. I don't know how to feel about it. The way they smile at you... it does something to me. No one deserves to breathe the same air as you. You're unique. You're incredible. I know you're made for me. And you'll know it soon."

The pain from the fall took you by surprise, but the anguish in your mind was even worse. As you fell, the blade on your right skate slid with more force than usual, and before you could stop yourself, the ice struck your wrist with a sharp pain. Breathing became difficult as the pain spread quickly through your arm, but the worst part came when you looked at the damage on your skate.

The blade was visibly damaged, as if someone had deliberately tampered with it. An accident? No, it couldn't be. You knew your skates, took care of them, kept them perfect. Someone had sabotaged your equipment. Fear and shock overwhelmed you. There was no way this was random. Someone had been following you—close enough to damage your skates without you noticing.

Terror settled in your chest, and you grabbed your aching wrist with your other hand, as blood rushed to your face. The sensation of being watched was so intense, you could almost feel eyes fixed on you.

"Every time you fall, I'll be there for you. I'm always here for you."

The feeling in your wrist didn't go away. Every time you tried to move it, the sharp pain reminded you of what had just happened—the fall that not only left a mark on your body but had also left much deeper scars. 

The ice, once your refuge, now felt foreign, dangerous. You had come to the conclusion that something wasn't right, but you couldn't keep ignoring the growing need for answers.

You had found your life on the ice, but now you feared it might end there.

You had bandaged your wrist quickly, without paying much attention to how clumsy the job was. The bandage covered the pain, but not the doubts piling up in your head. The admirer's letter kept spinning in your mind, and Wooyoung's words—though they had seemed innocent at the time—now echoed loudly.

There was something else. A real danger, something you couldn't just ignore.

Your teammates looked at you with curiosity—some concerned about your wrist, others unsure how to handle your growing distance. Somehow, that made you feel even more vulnerable, like everyone could see what was really happening, even if they didn't fully understand it. You felt fragile, exposed. The paranoia had gotten to you, but the warning signs were as clear as the damage to your wrist.

The dull noise of your own thoughts intensified as you walked through the ice rink's lobby, your breathing slightly more agitated than usual. You couldn't stop looking toward the shadows stretching in the corners—the feeling of being watched had never been stronger. The echoes of those messages seemed to follow you everywhere, like they could pierce every thought you tried to keep steady.

As you left the rink, you realized the sun was beginning to set, darkening the world around you. A familiar place, but with an atmosphere that no longer felt safe. A couple of times while walking, you turned quickly, feeling like something moved behind you. But there was nothing. Or at least, that's what you thought.

You came to a sudden stop. You felt the urge to talk to someone, to share your fears, but with who? You didn't want to overwhelm your grandfather, let alone worry him. He had already done so much for you over the years, and you didn't want to add another burden—and even if you tried, your words would get stuck in your throat. You needed more than comfort. You needed answers. You needed to know if you were just being paranoid, or if what you felt was actually happening.

You wanted to put a face to the author of your nightmares.

With a sigh and all the strength you could muster, you pulled out your phone and searched for the police number. Your fingers hovered over the screen.. You had to do it, but the mere idea of facing reality paralyzed you.

You decided to go through with it.

The phone rang several times before a deep, calm voice answered on the other end. "Seoul Police, how may I help you?"

You took a deep breath, your heart pounding in your chest. "I'd... I'd like to report something. Someone is stalking me, but I don't know what to do."

There was a brief silence on the line, as if the officer was assessing the seriousness of your words. "I understand. I'll need you to give me more details."

The police station smelled like stale coffee, dusty paperwork, and anxiety. The perfect blend to make you feel even more out of place. The air was thick with that uncomfortable silence that only blooms between white walls and eyes that don't linger long enough. You felt like you didn't belong the moment you walked through the door, arms crossed over your chest as if you could protect yourself just by pressing your elbows tighter against your ribs.

You were sitting on one of the hallway chairs, too straight, your back stiff like holding onto perfect posture might keep you from falling apart inside. You clutched a cloth bag against your chest, tight like a shield. Inside, neatly folded, were the letters. The small gifts. Each one was proof that what haunted you was real. Each one a piece of the invisible presence that had crept into your life.

If someone had asked you at the start of the year what your expectations were, you never would've imagined it would come to this.

Your leg wouldn't stop shaking. You breathed through your mouth in shallow attempts to keep a composure that no longer felt like your own. Around you, the low voices of officers, the occasional slamming of doors, the sound of phones and keyboards being tapped in a hurry—everything felt too present. As if the world outside had kept spinning without you. No one seemed to notice you. And paradoxically, that made you feel even more exposed. Like a whisper in the middle of a storm—ignored but precariously there.

"Kong (Y/N)." The voice came from your right, and as you looked up, your breath caught for a moment.

Two men approached. The first had a serious face, neutral but resolute expression, and a black folder in his hands. The second... had the most intense eyes you'd seen in a long time. He was tall, firmly built, with a straight posture and a quiet presence—like he moved cautiously even within chaos.  His face held a cold, precise beauty, but not a distant one. He looked at you directly—not with pity, not with judgment—but with attention. As if he was already trying to understand you.

"I'm Detective Kim Hongjoong, the one who took your call yesterday, and this is Detective Park Seonghwa," said the shorter one gently, while they both showed their badges out of habit. "We're in charge of your case."

You nodded with a barely perceptible motion, clutching the bag even tighter. You wanted to say something, but your voice stayed trapped in your throat.

"Can we speak in private?" Seonghwa asked, respectfully, without moving too fast—as if he knew you needed space to process each word. He didn't pressure you, didn't try to touch you or rush you. He just waited.

You stood up clumsily, feeling like your legs still hadn't decided to follow you. You noticed how Seonghwa's eyes dropped for a second toward your bag before meeting yours again.

"I brought... everything I've received," you finally said, voice low, as if admitting it made you more vulnerable.

Seonghwa nodded slowly. He didn't interrupt.

"Perfect. We'll go over it together," he replied, guiding you with an open hand toward one of the more discreet rooms in the station. He didn't touch you but walked by your side, keeping a respectful distance—balanced between professionalism and protective presence.

Kim Hongjoong walked behind you both, flipping through the folder while muttering something about the timeline of the incidents. More practical. More direct. But all you could feel was Seonghwa's glance from the side—subtle but constant, as if he wanted to make sure you didn't fall apart on the way.

Park Seonghwa was tall, with a lean but defined build, like someone whose body had been sculpted with the precision of someone who always had to be ready. His posture was impeccable—straight back, slightly tense shoulders, neck stretched as if his whole body was on quiet alert. Each of his movements held a deliberate restraint, like he avoided taking up more space than necessary... and yet, he filled the room the moment he entered.

He wore the standard civilian uniform with a near-dangerous sobriety: dark pants, fitted shirt, the first button always fastened, and a black coat made of thick fabric that fell to his thighs like a shadow clinging to his frame. His boots echoed in steady rhythm against the concrete floors—unhurried, unshaken.

But the most striking part was his face.

Seonghwa had a severe beauty. His features were sharp, almost sculpted—high cheekbones, firm jaw, thin lips, and eyes as sharp as a scalpel. The kind of face you wouldn't forget, even if you'd only seen it once in the rain. His skin was pale, contrasting with the darkness of his clothes and the jet-black hair falling over his forehead in slightly messy strands, dampened by the evening mist.

His eyes were the most unsettling: dark, calm, but full of observation. He always seemed to be looking beyond the obvious, dissecting intentions, analyzing gestures, collecting information. The kind of gaze that made you feel bare even without a single touch.

Despite all that, there was nothing aggressive about him. His voice was low, soft, like a stream of water in winter. He spoke little, with well-measured phrases, and never raised his tone unnecessarily. When he addressed someone, he did so with a mix of respect and distance that was confusing. He listened attentively, but did not offer undeserved sympathy. His neutrality was his shield. And behind that shield, something else seemed to be hiding.

At the police department, some considered him an enigma. Others respected him without fully knowing him. Little was known about his personal life, and he never bothered to refute rumors. The only clear thing was that he had an impeccable record solving complex cases, especially those where the line between victim and perpetrator wasn't so clear.

Park Seonghwa was a man made of silence, of intuitions, of unspoken truths.

And now, he was in charge of your case.

"We'd like to hear your story, Miss Kong," the black-haired detective's voice pulled you out of your trance.

You slowly lifted your gaze from the floor, as if your eyes were heavy, and adjusted your body in the cold office chair. The icy metal seeped through the fabric of your coat, a sharp reminder that you were far from comfort and control. Detectives Park and Kim's eyes were fixed on you, attentive, patient... dangerously penetrating. They were waiting for you to speak. Waiting for you to say something, to untie the invisible knot clinging to your chest.

You were supposed to be safe here.

That's what you kept repeating. What you wanted to believe. Because you didn't want to be just another case. You didn't want your life to be reduced to a few pages in a file, a series of black ink notes among hundreds of others.

Seonghwa settled into the chair in front of you with a calm that seemed rehearsed, but not fake. There was something almost soothing in his posture, in the way he interlaced his fingers on the table without hurry, without pressuring you. Kim Hongjoong, on the other hand, remained standing by the door, flipping through the file with such well-executed indifference that it made you suspect how much he was really absorbing. Because you knew nothing escaped him. Every word, every gesture, every silence was being recorded in his mind.

"Start whenever you're ready," Seonghwa said. His hands rested folded on the table, no notebook, no recorder on yet. Just him. Just his voice. "Take your time."

You took a deep breath. The air tasted like metal and old paper. You closed your eyes for a second, as if that could help you organize your thoughts, jumbled together with sleepless days and that constant feeling of being watched.

"Umh— I'm a professional skater," you began with a trembling voice, barely a whisper breaking through your dry lips.

Seonghwa knew that. He had seen your face on TV once on one of his days off. He knew who you were and the fame you carried. But now, sitting in the office chair, you looked nothing like the girl who moved with confidence and poise on the ice rink. Now you looked like a life without a soul, with lost eyes and pale skin.

"When you're part of entertainment, it's normal to have a fanbase— some people find a kind of inspiration in you and we like that. We like knowing that our talent is appreciated, that our effort makes some kind of difference," you clutched your bag to your body and your voice cracked, drawing even more attention from the detectives. "Never, in all the years I've been in this sport, did I think something like this would happen to me. At first, I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, at first I didn't see anything abnormal, but now I'm scared," you declared.

"Detective Kim mentioned you've received a series of items that have made you feel unsafe," Seonghwa gently interrupted, waiting for you to continue.

"Yes," you said. Shifting your gaze from the floor to the two detectives. "It started with flowers, something innocent. That's why I didn't think much of it... then the letters started," you said, your fingers finally releasing the bag, as if a piece of your soul slipped away with that gesture, and you placed it on the desk. Both detectives put on gloves, the latex making a subtle sound as it adjusted over their hands. With meticulous care, they removed the contents of the bag.

"When they started, they were also innocent. They just praised my work and what I do on the ice. I wasn't alarmed by that. The letters were short— direct. They had no signature, no seal, not even an address that might tell me who they could be from, but like I said, it didn't seem like a threat. It wasn't the first time I'd received gifts from a fan, or letters of admiration."

"What was it that made you feel alarmed?" Seonghwa asked while Hongjoong began taking notes without lifting his eyes.

You swallowed with difficulty. The knot in your throat burned, and with it came all the memories. All the moments you turned around and no one was there, but you felt someone had been. All the days you questioned if you were paranoid. All the mornings you had wished you didn't have to leave home—

It was a nightmare.

"The first time I noticed something different was with a letter. It was longer than the others. It said something about not being able to wait for our paths to cross. That's when I started to feel uneasy, but even then, I chose to ignore it. Then the letters kept coming. The next one arrived at my apartment. That time... I hadn't even gone to practice. It made me feel vulnerable. They were already entering my private life and managed to do it without anyone at the front desk noticing. The following letters kept the same purpose; they said we were meant for each other, that even if I didn't know it, we were destined to be together."

Now the detectives weren't looking at you, but reading the letters laid out on their desk.

You decided to continue. "Since that moment, I haven't been able to live normally. The fear is always present. I feel watched. Like someone is always there, just behind me, but when I turn around, there's no one. In the last letters, they say they'll always be there for me. My training has been affected. My performance isn't the same. I make more mistakes now than I did when I was a rookie. At first, I didn't care, but now it's interfering with my life, with my work, and it's overwhelming."

The detectives remained silent, analyzing what you said and what was written in the letters. Although there was still nothing concrete, having taken that weight off your chest made you feel a little lighter. You moved your hands on your lap and let out a groan when the gesture tugged on your bandaged wrist.

It didn't go unnoticed by Seonghwa. He looked up quickly, his eyes fixed on your expression, on the reflexive gesture as you grabbed your aching wrist with the other hand, making a small pout without realizing it.

"How did you hurt your hand?" Seonghwa asked without preamble.

You stayed silent.

You had forgotten about that part.

"Yesterday... yesterday I had practice. I was alone. And I fell on the ice," you said.

"Well, I guess with everything on your mind, lack of concentration is enough to cause an accident," Hongjoong murmured without stopping his writing.

Seonghwa, however, didn't take his eyes off you.

You swallowed, feeling the vertigo of what you were about to say.

"I think— I think whoever's sending the letters caused me to fall," you blurted out, and both looked at you, waiting for you to continue. "My skates... the blade of my left skate was damaged, like someone had tampered with it. It couldn't be wear and tear— my skates are always taken care of, there's not a day I don't check them."

"Is this person capable of accessing your belongings?" Seonghwa asked.

"Unless they know the password to my locker... but they had sent a letter before, it's the one with red ink," you pointed out.

"I don't like being possessive. But I also don't like someone else looking at you the way I do. Your teammates seem very close. I don't know how to feel about that. The way they smile at you... it does something to me. No one deserves to breathe the same air as you. You are unique. You are incredible. I know you're made for me. And you'll know it soon." Seonghwa read aloud.

The air that followed that reading felt like a slab on your shoulders. You felt the air grow heavier, harder to swallow. Even the distant hum of the fan in the corner of the office seemed to stop for a second.

Seonghwa lowered the letter slowly. His eyes, which had shown professional calm before, had now hardened. There was something in his gaze you couldn't name... contained fury? Concern?

"The tone changed completely here," he said, without looking up. "This is no longer admiration. It's a declaration of control. Of possession."

Hongjoong nodded. "These kinds of phrases aren't just expressions of affection. They are signs of obsessive disorder. The language is controlling, invasive... and potentially dangerous."

You felt your skin crawl. As if the words had clung to your clothes, your skin, as if that 'admirer' could hear them from some hidden corner of the building.

"Have the letters continued arriving regularly?" Hongjoong asked, pen ready over his notebook.

"Yes," you replied in a low voice. "About one per week. But... the last one came three days ago. It wasn't in my locker or in my apartment's mailbox. It was inside my dressing room, at the private practice rink. No one else had access. That rink was closed for maintenance. Only I had the key."

That made both detectives look at each other. It wasn't just any look. It was one of those silent looks, filled with professional understanding. With alertness.

"Have you ever noticed someone out of place? Someone who seems to watch you too much? A constant figure in the audience or near your personal spaces?" Seonghwa inquired, lowering his voice slightly, as if afraid to push your memory too hard.

You thought for a moment. Part of you didn't want to relive those small moments you had chosen to ignore for the sake of your mental health. But now, each of them returned like a sharp knife:

"Recently... After one of my late-night practices, I felt like someone was following me to the parking lot. I didn't see anyone when I turned around, but I felt the gaze. Then, one night... I found my water bottle uncapped. I hadn't left it like that. I threw it away just in case."

"Did you report it?" asked Hongjoong.

You shook your head. "I didn't want to seem paranoid. In this world, when a woman raises her voice about something that might be a threat, she's sometimes labeled as dramatic. I was taught to endure, to keep going. But this..." you lowered your gaze, hands gripping the edge of the chair, "this is breaking me."

Seonghwa slowly stood up, walking toward a filing cabinet at the back of the room. He opened a drawer, pulled out a form, and returned to his seat. He slid the paper toward you.

"We're going to open a formal investigation," he said firmly, "and we're assigning you protection."

You looked up, confused. "Protection?"

"From now on, someone will be with you during your training, at least until we have more information. And we're going to review the facility's security cameras. All of them. I also want you to give us that key. We're going to check if it was duplicated without your consent. And we're keeping these letters. We'll have them analyzed. We'll try to see if we're lucky enough to find some DNA on them."

For the first time since you entered that office, something close to relief seeped into your chest. But it was a strange relief, twisted, mixed with an even greater fear: the fear that, despite everything, that man might already be closer than you imagined.

"And one last thing," Seonghwa said, stopping you before you could pick up the pen. "I want you to call us if anything out of the ordinary happens. Any shadow. Any note. Any unfamiliar face."

You nodded slowly.

His eyes found yours again, this time more human, warmer. "You're not alone, Ms Kong. I promise you that."

The white lights of the training center flickered as if they too felt the winter cold seeping through the cracks in the building. The rink was empty at that hour; only the distant murmur of an industrial dryer and the buzz of the fluorescents accompanied your steps.

The metallic echo of your blades on the ice rang through the vast space. It was a familiar sound, almost comforting... but today, it didn't sound the same. Something felt off. As if someone was breathing in the shadows, just beyond your line of sight. You took a deep breath. The vapor escaped your lips in a small cloud. You closed your eyes for a second, forcing yourself to remember the music, the choreography, the reason you were there.

"Focus. You're not alone. Detective Park is nearby."

You had asked for it. Not directly, of course. But in your statement at the station, your trembling voice said more than words. And he understood.

Seonghwa watched from the upper stands. He wasn't in plain clothes this time, but wearing a black jacket with no insignias, seated with legs crossed, his eyes following your every move as if he could read your mind through your body.

You spun. A simple one. Then a more complex figure. The ice responded to your commands as always... but you were no longer the same. Your movements were precise but lacked soul. Grace had been replaced by stiffness, fluidity by vigilance.

On the final jump, you landed poorly. The blade scraped an uneven groove on the rink and you lost balance for a few seconds. Your arms lifted to regain posture, but the imbalance felt deeper than a mere technical error.

You stopped in the center of the rink, hands on your knees, trying to catch your breath. Your eyes scanned the stands.

Seonghwa didn't move.

But he didn't look away either.

You slowly skated to the edge of the rink, right where you had left your water bottle and towel. But that's when you saw it. Your backpack, open. The zipper is halfway undone. You were sure you had closed it. You always did.

Your pulse quickened.

You looked around. No other skaters. No one else in the hallways. Only Seonghwa in the stands, who had now stood up, his brow just slightly furrowed.

You approached cautiously, breathing through your nose, trying not to give in to panic too quickly. You opened the main pocket.

It was there.

A white envelope. No sender. No markings.

A new one.

You couldn't move.

"(Y/N)?"

Seonghwa's voice broke the silence.

You felt the warmth of his presence at your side just seconds later. He had come down without you noticing. His eyes lowered to the envelope. He didn't take it from you. He waited.

You took it with trembling hands. You opened it.

"Don't be afraid. I'll always be here to protect you. The rink is only for us."

The paper trembled in your hand.

You let go of it before your knees completely gave out.

Seonghwa didn't say anything as you shook. He just watched you.

The way your shoulders barely rose with each shaky breath. How your fingers didn't seem to know whether to cling to the envelope or let it fall. In the end, it fell.

Seonghwa picked it up without looking at you. He immediately pulled a plastic bag from the inner pocket of his jacket and stored the letter as if it were a fragile relic. The paper was still warm from your hands.

And that infuriated him.

So close.

The guy had been so close. Not just as a shadow in your mind, but physically, in your space, touching your things. He sealed the bag with surgical precision.

He looked up again.

You were still there, rigid, your eyes fixed on the ground. For a second, Seonghwa didn't see a professional skater or just another victim. He saw a woman exhausted from within, standing only out of sheer inertia.

"Let's go," he said softly. "There's nothing else to do here."

He didn't touch you. He offered the exit with a barely visible gesture, giving you time to gather yourself. He walked beside you to the locker room, silent. Only after you closed the door behind you did he take out his phone.

"Unit 03, this is Detective Park. I need a review of the training center's perimeter cameras from the last three hours. I want eyes on all entrances. And someone to check the list of employees with building access after closing time." He paused briefly, glancing at the closed door. His voice dropped, almost to a whisper. "This is no longer a game."

He hung up. Leaned against the wall, arms crossed, staring into nothing as if he could solve the case through sheer willpower.

Everything was too clean. The guy was careful, methodical. No prints, no mistakes.

And yet... Why leave a letter where he knew Seonghwa would be? Was it a provocation? A warning? The rink is only for us...

A shadow moved at the end of the hallway. It was you.

He met your eyes for a moment. Nothing was said, but you nodded, as if his presence alone was enough.

__________________________________________

The hallway lights flickered above your heads as they walked side by side. You had already changed clothes, the hood of your coat covering part of your face, arms crossed as if trying to protect yourself from the entire world. Your skates hung from one hand, hitting your leg with every step.

Seonghwa kept a respectful distance, but his eyes never stopped scanning the surroundings. Every shadow was a threat. Every corner, a possible hiding place.

Outside, the cold was dry and biting. The Seoul sky was overcast, with that urban glow that never allowed complete darkness. Seonghwa walked a few steps ahead to open the car door for you without saying anything.

You hesitated. Just for a second. The guy—the admirer, the stalker, whatever he was—had been there, in the same building, watching you, maybe closer than you could imagine. The night air suddenly tasted like confinement. Like invisible eyes.

You got into the car.

Seonghwa closed the door softly and then walked around the vehicle to take the driver's seat. When he started the engine, the silence became denser. Not uncomfortable. But heavy with everything that wasn't being said. During the first few minutes of the drive, neither of you spoke. The car moved smoothly down the nearly empty avenues, the low sound of the tires on the asphalt filling the space. You clutched at the sleeves of your coat, turning your face toward the window, but he could still see your reflection in the glass.

Seonghwa wasn't one to talk just to fill silence, but his eyes were thorough. He saw how your chest rose and fell faster than normal. How your jaw was clenched. How your hand trembled slightly when you adjusted the scarf under your chin.

He knew you were afraid. And that you were fighting not to show it.

"Do you want me to stay close tonight?" he asked suddenly, without looking at you.

You took a while to answer. The red traffic light cast flashes across your faces.

"I don't want to be alone," you finally whispered, also without looking at him.

That simple phrase—so vulnerable, so direct—hit him like a silent shot. He didn't say anything. Just nodded with a brief movement of his head.

"I'll secure the perimeter of your building," he added, as if he needed to justify his presence. As if protecting you was the only way to stay without crossing the line.

The rest of the drive was a silent truce. A truce between fear and vigilance. Between duty and something softer that didn't yet dare to be desire.

When you arrived, you didn't move right away. Your fingers played with the zipper of your coat, your gaze fixed on the building's entrance.

"Do you want to come up?" you said, without turning around.

It was a simple offer. Almost practical. But Seonghwa understood it was more than that. It was a crack in the wall. A door opened to something neither of you knew how to name.

"Yes."

The sound of the door closing seemed louder than usual. As if it sealed off the outside world and, with it, everything that had happened that night. The apartment was dim, barely lit by the city lights slipping through the living room window. Seonghwa stood by the door for a few seconds, quickly scanning the surroundings. A mechanical sweep, the usual. He did it every time he entered an unknown place: number of exits, blind spots, visibility angles. You dropped the skates by the entrance in silence. You took off your coat slowly, as if it were heavy. The space carried a faint smell of vanilla, mixed with lotion and something sweet. Something of yours. The space was small, tidy. But there were signs of presence: an open book on the table, a folded blanket on the couch, a used candle on the windowsill.

Seonghwa said nothing. He didn't ask if you lived alone, although he already knew the answer. He didn't comment on the place, didn't try to ease the tension. He walked toward the window and glanced out at the street, hands behind his back.

"The hallway lights were on, but there are no cameras in that area," he finally said, his tone low and firm. "He probably knows that."

You nodded from the kitchen, pouring a glass of water with careful movements. You wanted to keep your composure. But the phrase "he probably knows" echoed bitterly. That nameless "he" was already part of your everyday life. Already lived here, among your things, in your routines.

"Do you want anything?" you asked, just to break the silence. The glass of water trembled in your hand.

"No. Thank you."

He turned toward you. Watched you for a second longer than necessary. The shadow of the curtain danced across your face. The exhaustion was beginning to show in your eyes, even if you tried to stay strong. It wasn't fear that hurt the most in your expression... it was exhaustion.

"Do you always train this late?" he asked, not out of curiosity, but as part of his assessment.

"Sometimes. When I need to think," you drank. "Or to stop thinking, really."

Seonghwa nodded slightly, without responding. There was something about the way he listened that disarmed without demanding anything. He didn't intervene. He didn't fill the void. He just was there.

"I'm going to check the locks," he then said, direct, as if trying to divert attention from any vulnerability.

You let him do it. Followed him with your eyes as he moved through the place with that meticulous calm, checking each window, each latch, making sure everything was in place. When he finished, he stood again in front of the door.

"Everything is in order for now," a pause. "I'll leave you my personal number. If anything happens tonight, any unusual noise, call me. No matter the hour."

"Are you leaving?"

Seonghwa hesitated.

Just for a moment, but long enough for you to notice. It wasn't fear that held him back. It was... something else. Something he didn't even want to name.

"I can stay in the car," he finally replied, neutral. "I won't be far."

You lowered your gaze, fingers tightening around the empty glass. You didn't stop him. You didn't ask him to stay either. It wasn't that kind of bond. But the silence that followed weighed more than any plea.

"Thank you for being here tonight," you said, barely audible.

Seonghwa nodded, and when he opened the door to leave, he looked once more inside the apartment. Not out of suspicion. But because there was something about that space that seemed important.

And then he left.

The day hadn't quite begun.

The clock read 5:37 a.m., and the city still yawned under the orange glow of streetlights and the distant murmur of traffic just beginning to stir. The curtains barely moved with the cold dawn breeze, and in the room, the only sounds were the hum of the old radiator and the persistent throb in your temples.

You'd been awake for more than an hour. Body at rest, but mind in constant motion.

You slowly lowered your feet to the cold floor. The wood creaked under your weight, a minimal sound that startled you nonetheless. You walked barefoot to the window, wrapping yourself in a blanket as if that could protect you from something more than the cold.

And there it was. The black car.

Parked right out front, like a silent presence. Unmoving. Watchful.

You were grateful to see it. Seonghwa was meticulous, even more than he appeared. Cold, maybe. But never careless.

Your phone vibrated once on the table.

Park Seonghwa: All quiet for now. Let me know if you go out.

You said nothing, though your chest fluttered a little. You didn't know if it was from relief... or from the fact that someone was watching so closely. For the first time, it wasn't the admirer. It was someone who could give you back a sense of control. Even if it was with the same stillness he used to watch a case.

The station coffee was bitter and lukewarm, and Seonghwa didn't bother to hide his distaste at the first sip. He set it on the table without further interest, returning to the open folders in front of him.

Photographs. Letters. Schedules. Maps.

All perfectly organized, like a choreography only he seemed to understand. He had already read every word at least ten times, had reviewed the recordings one by one, and still... something was slipping through.

Too clean. Too controlled.

The envelope found in your backpack had no fingerprints. No DNA. No mistakes. Only words. And that was the most unsettling part. The admirer knew what he was doing. Played with confidence. And did it close. Very close.

He paused a recording on his laptop. A shadow crossing faintly in the background of the rink, just as the lights flickered. A blur. Not even a clear silhouette. But enough to confirm something: it wasn't imagination.

Seonghwa remained still a few seconds longer. Then he closed the folder with surgical precision, stood up, and grabbed his coat.

It was no longer the time to stay behind a desk.

The building rose in silence beneath the dull gray of an overcast morning, its tall, cold walls like mute witnesses to something yet to be discovered. The wind barely brushed against the windows, but the stillness had weight, as if the air were holding its breath.

Park Seonghwa crossed the glass doors without announcing himself. His badge rested in the inner pocket of his jacket, out of sight. For now, he wasn't a detective. He shouldn't look like one. His presence needed to blend in with that of any other visitor—someone ordinary, harmless, perhaps waiting for an elevator or visiting the rink.

The echo of his footsteps rang against the polished marble of the lobby, as though each movement fractured the silence. The place smelled of trapped moisture and cheap cleaning products. In the back, the reception desk was just starting its day. A young woman flipped through a logbook with her head down, distracted, not noticing his arrival.

"Excuse me," he said, in a calm voice, as if he didn't carry the weight of a looming threat on his back. "Is Mr. Lim from maintenance still here?"

She looked up, surprised more by the sound than by the question. She hesitated for just a second, then nodded slightly.

"He's in the boiler area, down the emergency door. Would you like me to call him?"

"No, thank you. I know him."

He lied naturally. He didn't know him, but he had read his name among the employees who signed the technical inspection reports.

The emergency door creaked like a rusted hinge. The sound dragged down the stairwell as Seonghwa descended, his footsteps muffled by bare concrete. The walls showed signs of neglect: peeling paint, dampness creeping like dirty veins. Old security cameras watched him from corners—some with blinking red lights, others dead, blind.

On the lower level, an electric hum and the metallic scent of hot copper led him to a narrow room. There, Lim was kneeling in front of a fuse panel, adjusting cables with trembling hands.

"Mr. Lim? I'm Park Seonghwa, from the police department."

The man jumped, accidentally hitting the panel with his knee.

"Did something happen? Is it the hot water again?"

"No," Seonghwa replied. "I came to ask you some questions about the building's access points. Specifically, the south changing room."

Lim blinked, clearly confused.

"What about that changing room?"

"Have you noticed anything out of place lately? Doors left open, someone entering after hours?"

The man frowned, trying to remember.

"Now that you mention it... about three nights ago, when I finished my shift, I could've sworn that door wasn't closed properly. I thought it was a slip-up from the cleaning girls, but..."

"Did you report it to anyone?"

"No. I locked it and left. Didn't think it was serious."

Seonghwa nodded. He made a mental note.

"Are there cameras covering that area?"

"Yes, two. But..." Lim scratched his head. "One hasn't been working properly for weeks. And the other is... well, kind of tilted."

He led him into a dark room that smelled of burnt plastic and stale coffee. A dozen dusty screens showed fragmented mosaics, blurry images, with no clear sync. Lim searched the system for the file from the previous week. The footage played for minutes without showing anything relevant, until—on Wednesday night—a figure appeared.

Hooded. Slim. Barely a shadow in the lower corner of the frame. It didn't look at the camera. In fact, it avoided it with almost choreographed precision. It stood still for a few seconds, watching something off-camera. Then it disappeared, as if it knew the exact moment to leave.

"Can you zoom in?"

Lim tried, but the quality was awful. Grainy. The outlines faded into static. Only a trace of movement could be made out, a shade of dark colors.

"I can't give you much more," he said, apologetically.

But Seonghwa didn't look away. There was something in that figure's posture, in the exact way it waited before moving, that wasn't random.

It was calculated.

He captured a screenshot of the frame.

"This will help. Thank you, Mr. Lim. If you remember anything else, no matter how small, call me."

He left him his card. Walked out into the hallway without another word, his pulse tight.

The subject had been there. And not far from where you used to change every night.

He cursed under his breath, jaw tightening as he headed upstairs. In the distance, he could barely hear the sound of blades gliding over the ice. Scattered voices and music trickling through the speakers created an almost unreal atmosphere. The contrast between the latent threat and the apparent normalcy of practice made him more alert.

He knew you hadn't come today. After what happened last night, you decided to stay home. A sensible decision. Just in time.

Park Seonghwa was a meticulous, methodical detective. There wasn't a case he couldn't close. For him, the victim was always the priority. But this case... this one felt different.

Too clean. Too calculated.

The sender wasn't seeking immediate attention. He didn't want to be seen—not yet. And that made him far more dangerous. The letters you received contained no fingerprints other than your own. The paper, the ink, the envelope: all handled with gloves. The cameras: evaded with surgical precision. Your routine: memorized in detail.

It was a silent game. A hunter studying every step before the strike.

And Seonghwa still didn't have a single solid lead on his identity.

Judging by the silhouette in the recording, the stalker was a young, slim man, between twenty-five and thirty-five years old. But that didn't help much. In your daily life, surrounded by fellow skaters, coaches, admirers... there were at least a dozen who fit that description.

"Sorry, today's practice isn't open to visitors," a voice pulled him from his thoughts as he neared the ice rink.

Seonghwa looked up. A young man approached him wearing skates, long tousled hair and a polite but curious expression.

About twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Approximately five feet eight inches. Slim.

"Jung Wooyoung, right?" the detective said, tilting his head to the side.

The boy frowned slightly and nodded, hesitant.

"Could we talk?" Seonghwa reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his badge. Wooyoung raised his eyebrows and motioned toward the rink.

"Coach!" he called. "I'm taking a break!"

He glided over to the bleachers and sat next to Seonghwa. The ice in front of them stretched like a vast shining surface, barely marked by the lines of skates. The laughter and background music contrasted with the growing tension between the two men.

"Is this about (Y/N)?" the question came bluntly.

The detective didn't respond immediately. He watched the rink, recalling the last time he saw you practice. Your movements were precise, but that night they were filled with anxiety, as if your thoughts were skating faster than your feet.

"Why do you think this is about Ms Kong?"

Wooyoung sighed. "(Y/N) is one of our top skaters. She's always in competitions and no one's more dedicated to this sport than her... She doesn't skip practice, she's always here. In morning sessions and night ones if necessary. The world could be ending, and she wouldn't stop skating."

Seonghwa made a face that almost resembled a crooked smile.

"You know her well, it seems."

The boy shrugged. "I've known her for five years."

"Mr. Jung, have you noticed any strange behavior during your practices? Anything or anyone that seems out of place?" the detective asked.

Wooyoung shook his head. "I train four days a week, sometimes double sessions. The rest of the week I'm at the gym or home," he replied firmly. "The only thing I've noticed is how distant (Y/N) has become. For months now, she always seems distracted or looking over her shoulder. That's why I figured this was about her."

"Anyone in particular who seems out of place?"

"The training schedules are posted on the board at reception. Of the five service days, two are open to the public. People can come in and watch us practice—some have been coming for a long time, others come and go. It's hard for me to be sure about that. I don't usually pay much attention to the stands."

Seonghwa nodded, but his gaze didn't leave the ice.

Every word, every detail, was building an invisible web.

And at the center of that web... was you.

That night, the rain beat insistently against the windows of your apartment. The glass vibrated softly with every gust of wind, as if the building were breathing with difficulty. Outside, the streets were almost empty, covered by the wet veil of the storm. The sound was constant, a muffled symphony that slipped between the walls, mixing with the faint hum of the refrigerator and the ticking of the clock in the kitchen.

You had forced yourself to stay busy. You had cleaned the counter three times, reorganized the cutlery drawers, and folded all your towels with almost military precision. But nothing worked. Every shadow on the wall looked like movement. Every creak in the floor, a footstep.

You were sitting on the couch, a blanket over your shoulders and a cup of tea cooling between your hands, when the doorbell rang. A single dry, abrupt chime. Your heart shrank instantly.

You stood up cautiously, without making a sound, as if the bell could hear you in return. You looked through the peephole and, on the other side, you recognized the figure. The relaxed posture. The unshaken expression, even under the rain. Park Seonghwa.

You breathed a sigh of relief, though you didn't know why.

You opened the door.

He wore a soaked jacket and his hair was slightly wet. Drops fell from his jaw down to the collar of his coat. But his gaze was the same: focused, serene.

"Sorry for coming without warning," he said, without even shaking off the water. "There's something I need to show you."

You let him in.

You were surprised by how easy it was to let him in.

Seonghwa walked slowly through the narrow hallway of your apartment, observing without judging, yet alert to every space. He pulled out his phone and showed you the image. The still frame. The hooded figure near your dressing room.

Your body tensed. It was small, barely a silhouette, but you knew—you knew—they had been there for you.

"This was three nights ago," he explained. "They came in through a back door. No locks were forced. They knew how to move."

You said nothing. You felt the air in the room grow denser, as if the pressure increased with each word. Your throat closed, but you forced yourself to speak.

"What now?"

"We don't let our guard down."

He sat across from you, without invading your space. He looked at you in that way of his that seemed to scan everything without saying much. But his eyes, this time, weren't cold. There was something else. Compassion? Maybe.

"You're not alone in this."

You stayed silent. It was the first time someone said those words out loud.

You're not alone anymore. The knot in your chest, the one you'd been dragging for weeks like a stone under your sternum, loosened just a little.

You stood up and offered him a towel. He accepted it with a slight nod, as if he weren't used to small gestures, to warmth without conditions.

After that, without saying anything, he stayed a while longer. He looked around, scanned the locks, the windows, even the kitchen.

"I'll change the locks in the morning. And I'm going to request a camera for the entrance."

"What if it doesn't work?"

"Then we'll install more. I'm not going to let this escalate."

That "I'm" was an unspoken pact. You didn't ask him to stay. You didn't invite him. But he had made a decision: he was now part of this.

There was a long silence, but not an uncomfortable one. A silence in which two people understand that safety can also come in the form of presence.

The rain kept hitting the window.

"Do you always work like this, Detective Park?" you asked, with a slightly ironic tone. "Do you usually soak your clients' carpets?"

He let out a soft laugh, almost mute, but genuine. It was the first time you truly saw him smile.

"No. Normally I'm much less charming."

"Lucky me, then."

Your fingers toyed with the blanket you had placed on your lap.

"Are you going to stay all night?"

He didn't answer immediately.

"Just until you stop looking out the window like something's about to break the glass."

That made you smile, even though it hurt.

That night, you didn't sleep together. He stayed in a chair near the door, keeping watch in silence. But his presence was enough for you to close your eyes for the first time in weeks... without fearing what would be on the other side.

"Today you were beautiful even when you didn't realize it. I like when you pretend not to be afraid. I like it more when I know you can't sleep. I'm no longer satisfied with only watching. Soon, you'll know how it feels when I finally have you close. Very close. You look gorgeous when you check the locks twice."

One month later.

It was as if everything had slowed down, as if the echo of those intense days had gradually faded—like a song that didn't quite end, but no longer played as loud. The world moved around you in a strange rhythm, the harsh reality of the past giving way to a fragile peace.

Weeks had passed since the last time the admirer had sent a letter. No flowers. No signs. The cameras installed by Seonghwa caught only the comings and goings of pigeons and bored neighbors. Almost every day, Seonghwa checked them with a mix of skepticism and contained anger, his eyes scanning the footage with an intensity that seemed to question the quiet. As if his instincts refused to accept what his eyes confirmed: nothing.

But something wasn’t right.

For Seonghwa, silence was worse than the letters you used to receive. It wasn’t a sign of surrender. No, it was the calm before the storm. A storm that he couldn't predict, couldn't explain, but feared all the same.

His investigation continued, quiet and relentless. His report folder grew like an open wound, a testament to sleepless nights, endless contacts, and hours spent reviewing the footage again and again. His determination burned fiercely, but he never burdened you with it. Instead, he watched. As if, by simply watching, he could ensure everything would be okay.

And, for the most part, it was. Life went on. You went on.

Training resumed. Your schedule became organized once again, as if the chaos had never existed. The first time you put on your skates after everything, your legs felt tense, as if the ice might shatter beneath you, as if it could betray you. But it didn’t. The ice held you, steady and familiar, as it always had.

Slowly, the fluidity returned. Mistakes still happened, but they became less frequent. You were regaining yourself, inch by inch. Your teammates would occasionally ask if everything was okay. And you—well, you could only offer them a half-smile, a sigh, and a nod.

Seonghwa often accompanied you to practice. Not on the rink, of course, but you’d find him in the stands, watching you with that focused expression of his, a contrast to the white, clean expanse of the ice. At first, his constant presence felt wrong, out of place. But eventually, you began looking for him.

One day, while you were on the ice, you caught him watching you. It wasn’t invasive. Not the way someone would look at you with desire or longing. It was different—quiet, careful. He seemed to be studying something he didn’t fully understand: the way you moved, how you breathed, the way you glided across the ice.

You said nothing. You simply smiled at him.

He blinked, as if surprised by the exchange, and quickly looked away. But then, he smiled too. Small. Honest.

And that was how it began—small gestures. Small conversations. A coffee at dawn after training. A silent walk home. Sometimes, you'd talk about trivial things. Other times, about nothing at all. It wasn’t quite closeness—not yet. But it was something. Something real. Like the warmth in your hands when you rub them together on a cold winter day.

Seonghwa didn’t cross the line. Neither did you.

But there were moments when the line became blurry, and neither of you knew how to keep it clear.

All the while, the admirer wasn’t asleep.

He was watching. And when he watched, he saw everything.

He saw how Seonghwa accompanied you. He saw how you laughed. How you awkwardly offered him your gloves, joking. How Seonghwa dared to hold your wrist a second longer than necessary.

That was unforgivable.

The notes he had once left you were now torn to pieces, crumpled and thrown away in rage. The flowers he had carefully chosen now lay trampled beneath his feet, discarded in the trash. He had become a ghost of what he once was—obsessed, wounded, and consumed by a jealousy that boiled over with every passing moment.

He had seen you first. He had chosen you.

And seeing someone else take his place? That was a betrayal he could not—would not—tolerate.

The day had been cold, but not biting. But on the ice rink, your world had been something else. Getting back to training felt almost normal. The icy breeze as you spun, the crackling of the ice beneath your blades, your breathing in rhythm with a body used to effort... all of it gave you an illusion of control, as if you could slowly take the reins of your life again.

And he was there, as always.

Leaning against the rink's window, Seonghwa watched you in silence. Not watchful. Not inquisitive. Just present. His presence had become a constant—like a coat that doesn't weigh you down, but still keeps you warm. The coffee in his hands steamed faintly as his eyes followed your every movement with a focus that didn't seem purely professional.

That afternoon, when you finished your routine and came out with cheeks flushed from exertion, he smiled in a way so gentle it seemed to melt a little of his usual seriousness.

"How did you feel today?" he asked, handing you a water bottle.

"Like I could finally breathe," you answered, with a smile that came more easily now.

"I saw you fly a little."

You let out a laugh. It was strange to hear someone describe it like that. Fly. Not skate. Not perform. Not deliver.

Fly.

You looked at each other a second too long. Then, as if both of you sensed something invisible beginning to grow between you, you looked away at the same time.

"Do you want to get something to eat?" he asked suddenly, breaking the tension with a calm tone.

"Yes. But nothing fancy," you said with a shrug. "Just... something simple."

The place you went to wasn't in any tourist guide. A small shop hidden among the alleys, with hanging lanterns and worn wooden tables. You ate tteokbokki, mandu, and some hot soup. The heating was minimal, but the atmosphere was warm. Outside, the wind dragged dry leaves across the sidewalk. Inside, steam rose in swirls from the bowls.

"I never thought this would be my life," you said, staring at your soup without touching it. "Training, looking over my shoulder, sleeping a little... and having to be strong all the time. But with you... I don't know. Sometimes I forget to be afraid. Even if it's just for a while."

Seonghwa looked at you with that quiet intensity that defined him.

"You're not alone in this," he said. "Not while I'm around."

You looked up. There was something in the way he said it that didn't feel like duty. Something more human, more intimate.

"Sometimes I wonder..." your voice dropped, "if he's still out there. Watching."

Seonghwa took a few seconds to answer. Then he nodded, his eyes shadowed. "Profiles like his don't disappear. They just hide."

The answer was blunt, but you were grateful. You didn't want sweet words—you wanted the truth. But the weight of that truth was easier to bear with him at your side.

After paying, you walked for a while. The city had that deceptive calm of a Friday afternoon. The sky deepened into a rich blue while the orange lights of the streetlamps began to glow like urban fireflies.

You walked beside him, hands in your coat pockets, beanie covering your ears. Seonghwa said nothing, but his presence was steady, protective.

Passing a closed flower shop, you stopped.

"Do you like peonies?" you asked suddenly.

Seonghwa raised an eyebrow.

"The flowers?"

"Yes."

"I don't know. I've never thought about it," he said, looking at you curiously. "Why?"

You smiled, but there was a hint of melancholy in it.

"I just think it's strange how something so beautiful can end up having such a... terrible meaning."

He didn't say anything. But he looked at you a little longer than usual.

When you reached the building, something about the night felt heavier. It wasn't the cold, or the silence. It was a subtle vibration in the air, like a whisper hidden between the bricks. But you didn't notice. Or didn't want to.

Because you were thinking about how nice the walk home had been. How well you had eaten. How Seonghwa looked at you without pressure. About that safety that came from knowing you weren't alone.

As you climbed the stairs, you dared to joke:

"Are you staying for another cup of coffee in my kitchen again? Because you're wrecking my caffeine budget."

Seonghwa let out a short, low laugh—but it was genuine.

"If you let me, I'll bring my own coffee tomorrow."

You smiled. A simple moment. A warm moment.

And just before opening the door, you thought: maybe, just maybe... everything's going to be okay.

But you turned the key.

And then the air changed.

The door opened with a faint creak. The sound of the lock giving way didn't seem unusual, but something—a dull vibration, a tremor beneath the skin—made both of you freeze on the threshold.

The first sign was the silence.

Too absolute. Too heavy.

You stepped inside, and the creak of your boots on the wood was so loud it seemed to shatter something invisible in the air. Seonghwa, right behind you, tensed instantly. His hand brushed the belt where he usually kept his weapon, though he wasn't carrying it now.

The living room didn't look messy. At first glance, everything was in place. But it took you less than a second to notice. "Something's wrong," you whispered.

The couch cushions weren't how you'd left them. The vase of dried flowers on the coffee table was shifted slightly to the left. Just a few centimeters. The coat you'd hung that morning was on a different hook. And one of your mugs—your favorite one, the one you always left upside down in the sink—was face-up.

It was as if someone had been there. Walking through your home. Breathing your air. And then, carefully, had put everything back.

But not quite the same.

"Don't move," Seonghwa said, voice deep, his arm stretching out in front of you to stop you. His dark eyes scanned everything quickly and precisely.

He moved first. Every step, silent. He opened a door. Checked behind furniture. Looked at the window. Nothing.

You followed, heart starting to race. When you reached the shelf where you kept your trophies, you froze.

And there—emptiness.

Where your first regional trophy used to rest—that slightly tarnished silver figure with your name engraved—there was now only dust. A perfect outline where it had once stood. "He took it," you said, barely a whisper. "My first regional trophy. It's gone."

Something inside you twisted, a mix of nausea and adrenaline rushing through your body. Your lips trembled, your legs faltered—and you weren't ready for what came next, because when you turned slightly to the right and saw your bedroom door ajar, the knot in your stomach tightened.

You ran to your bedroom. The air inside smelled different. Of something disturbed. Of hands that weren't yours. And then you saw it.

The drawer with your underwear was slightly open. Not just open—items were in disarray, some unfolded as if they had been selected, touched, examined slowly. As if someone had taken their time. Your favorite set, the black one you always kept at the back, was on top. Missing a piece.

You stepped back, as if someone had punched you in the chest. The humiliation, the rage, the helplessness... all swirled into a storm.

"Seonghwa!" you cried out, your voice breaking. The first time calling him by his name shouldn’t be like this. Shouldn’t be this afraid.

He came immediately. And when he saw the scene, his expression changed completely.

It wasn't fear. It was fury.

The kind of fury born when someone you care about has been violated, touched, exposed.

"Son of a bitch..." he muttered.

And then something made him turn. A shadow. A fleeting movement past the bedroom window. Just a reflection. But enough.

"Stay here!" he ordered, pulling out his phone immediately to alert the unit. He didn't wait for a response. He ran to the door, taking the stairs two at a time.

And you stood frozen in the hallway, unsure whether to run after him or collapse onto the floor.

The night air slashed his face like icy blades, but he didn't feel it. All his focus was on the figure running into the darkness. Tall. Thin. Wearing a black hoodie that seemed to swallow the streetlights.

"Stop! Police!" Seonghwa shouted, his voice thundering through the streets.

But the figure only ran faster.

The chase began with violence. Asphalt underfoot, the flickering lights of the streetlamps, the echo of his own footsteps thudding like deafening heartbeats. The streets were nearly empty, but not silent—a dog barked in the distance, a car alarm blinked, the distant hum of the city never ceased.

Seonghwa turned a corner, his boots squealing against the damp pavement. He was gaining ground. He could feel it. The guy tripped on a stray garbage bag and nearly fell. Seonghwa didn't stop. He followed him into a narrow alley, flanked by tall walls covered in graffiti like scars.

The guy vaulted over a low gate, and Seonghwa followed without hesitation. He landed hard on the other side, muscles screaming from the effort. The guy was still running, never looking back—but something in his movement spoke volumes: he wasn't an amateur. He knew how to disappear. He knew how to become one with the night.

They ran past the backs of industrial buildings. Seonghwa was panting, but he didn't slow down. Rage kept him going. The memory of the violated room, the open drawer, the trembling in your hands—every image fed him.

They reached what looked like a dead end... or so he thought. But the guy seemed to know every hidden path. A broken fence let him slip between two warehouses.

"I've got you, bastard," Seonghwa muttered, leaping after him.

But then, the man veered into an underground pedestrian tunnel. Dark. Narrow. Seonghwa didn't hesitate. He entered the throat of shadows.

The world turned gray and black.

The sound of his footsteps warped along the damp walls. The other man was just a few meters ahead, but his hood moved quickly, ducking and weaving. Seonghwa tried to reach for his phone, but he couldn't take his eyes off the corridor.

The tunnel ended at a small exit to the street... and that's where he lost him.

The figure vanished among a cluster of containers. Seonghwa spun in circles, gasping, eyes scanning.

Nothing.

Only the night.

Only his own breathing—desperate and furious.

He struck the nearest wall with his clenched fist. Pain shot up his arm like an electric jolt. He didn't care. He closed his eyes for a second, frustrated, helpless. He'd escaped again. Again.

The guy was toying with them, like puppets dangling from an invisible string. Like he'd only been there to remind them that he'd never really left.

And now, he was closer than ever.

He came back empty-handed. And with a throat tight with rage. Not because he was tired—though his body felt like lead—but because everything inside him was burning.

Burning with anger, with helplessness, with the kind of fury that makes you want to break your knuckles against the nearest wall just to silence the scream inside.

He crossed the apartment threshold with controlled, almost mechanical steps. The sound of the door closing seemed louder than it was. And then he saw you.

Sitting there, on the floor of your room.

The lights were off, just a faint glow from the street filtering through the window. You looked like a shadow.

Your body was tense. Knees pulled to your chest and eyes fixed on some vague point in the void. Your cheeks were streaked with nearly dried tears, and for a moment, all he could do was stand there, watching you.

The world felt so fragile. Your space, your body, your memories... everything had been violated. And you were there, as if you'd stopped breathing altogether.

He moved closer, slowly, as if his movements might shatter you even more. His eyes took in every inch of the chaos. He didn't know what hurt more— the empty space on the shelf where the trophy used to be, something that wasn't just an object. It was your story. Your effort. What you meant.

Or the thought that those filthy hands had touched something so intimate. Seonghwa swallowed hard. He tasted the metallic tang of fury on his tongue.

"You're not safe here anymore," he said quietly, more to himself than to you.

You blinked. You hadn't noticed him until that moment. Your voice came out in a hoarse, fragile whisper:

"I know."

And you did know. Because the only place where you'd felt safe had been violated. And that hurt more than any threat ever could.

Seonghwa clenched his fists. He forced himself not to touch you—not yet—even though the impulse was overwhelming. He wanted to take you by the shoulders and pull you out of that corner. He wanted to see you breathe without fear. But he knew the only thing you had left was control over your personal space. And even that wasn't intact anymore.

Then your body trembled. You didn't sob loudly. It was a small, almost invisible sob. But Seonghwa felt it like a punch to the chest.

That guy wasn't just stalking you. He was unraveling you. Piece by piece.

"I can't take this anymore..." you said softly, like a confession you didn't want to admit aloud.

Seonghwa held his breath. Closed his eyes for a second.

"What if... I go to my grandfather's? He lives outside the city... in Yangpyeong."

He shook his head with a bitter grimace.

"No," he finally said, voice firm. "If he found a way in here, he'll know how to find you there too. I don't want him following you there. I don't want him hurting your grandfather. I don't want..."

He didn't finish the sentence.

I don't want him to take anything else from you.

A thick silence fell between you. Seonghwa slowly walked toward you. He crouched to your level, watching your trembling hands, your shattered gaze, your body curled in on itself like you were trying to disappear. You stayed quiet. Looking at him. And he saw your eyes begin to fill with tears again. It was the look of someone surrendering to the inevitable.

Then he saw your hands. They were shaking, even though you pressed them tightly to your body.

He took them. Gently. As if he were afraid of hurting you. As if you were made of glass. You felt his thumb brushing over your knuckles, his palm covering yours, tremble against tremble.

He didn't say a word. But he held them tightly. Warmly. With a silent promise he didn't yet know how to fulfill, but he wanted to. Because you weren't just another victim anymore. You weren't just a case.

You were you. And that changed everything.

"You can stay at my place," he said plainly. "At least until we figure something out. Until I find that bastard."

His lips were pressed tight. His breathing held back. His whole body tense, and the way his eyes wouldn't stop scanning your face, searching for signs of what you felt. And what he felt.

You nodded. Because you didn't have the strength to argue. Because you had nowhere else to go. Because, in the middle of all this... it was him who was holding you up.

The ride was silent.

Your world was dimmed. You clung to your backpack as if doing so could anchor you to some faint sense of safety. You carried the essentials: a change of clothes, your documents, your phone, and not much else. You didn't want to think about what you were leaving behind. You couldn't. It all hurt too much.

The streets passed by in blurred smudges, the orange glow of streetlights reflecting on the car window. You didn't speak. Neither did Seonghwa. But his silence wasn't indifference—it was restraint. And that, in some way, gave you room to breathe.

When you finally arrived, the building wasn't what you had expected. It wasn't elegant or modern, but it was clean, quiet... safe.

You rode the elevator in shared silence. And when the doors opened, he broke the calm with a low voice. "This floor is directly connected to the station," he glanced sideways at you. "There are cameras throughout the building, constant surveillance. I'm not the only detective living here."

The hallway was softly lit, white.

"Hongjoong— Detective Kim lives down the hall," he added while searching for the keys. "He's on double shift this week, so you won't see him much. He's... quiet." The door opened with a soft click.

It was the opposite of you. A silent space. No decorations. No photos. No colors. Gray walls, functional furniture. Everything neat, orderly... impersonal.

Seonghwa lived as if he were always about to leave.

You stood there for a few seconds, as if unsure whether you belonged. You felt out of place. Like the world had spun too fast and you didn't know where to fit anymore.

"I can sleep here," he said, nodding toward the couch. "It's not the first time I've done it. You can use my room. It's clean. It has a lock."

"You don't have to do that..."

"I want to." His voice was firm in a different way—not commanding, but resolute. "I'll be here, in the living room," he added. "I have to write tonight's report. Your apartment is now officially under investigation. We're going to comb through every corner in case he left something behind. We'll catch him. I promise."

You felt a knot form in your throat. You clutched the backpack to your chest and nodded silently. You didn't say "thank you." The word felt too small for everything he was doing for you.

You walked to his room with dragging steps, and when you closed the door behind you, you finally allowed yourself to breathe. The bed smelled like Seonghwa's cologne. The blanket was neatly spread. There was nothing personal in sight. Everything in that space spoke of someone who never let their guard down.

You sat on the edge of the bed, your backpack still packed, hands resting in your lap and your eyes fixed on the carpet.

You didn't want to think. You lay on your side. You didn't close your eyes.

And in the other room, you knew he was still there. That he wasn't going to sleep. That he was wrestling with his own helplessness.

That certainty was enough for one single tear to escape you.

Sleep was impossible.

You tossed and turned in the sheets, legs restless, your mind flooded with images and sensations you didn't know how to sort.

The apartment's silence was absolute, interrupted only by the occasional hum of the refrigerator or the soft creak of wood reacting to the temperature shift.

Your body was exhausted, but your mind stayed alert. Too alert.

It was as if the walls of the room were slowly closing in, as if that promised safety was only an illusion you couldn't quite grasp. You knew you were safe there. You knew. But you didn't feel it.

You got up quietly, barefoot. The blanket dropped to your feet.

The door opened without a sound, and when you peeked out, you saw him.

Seonghwa, on the couch, a folded blanket beside him that he hadn't touched. Sitting, slightly hunched forward, his laptop opened in front of him. There were papers scattered across the low table, and a steaming mug that must have gone cold by now.

The desk lamp cast light on his profile. Furrowed brow. Tense jaw. Dark circles under his eyes. He was so focused he didn't notice you were there.

You didn't want to interrupt him. But the silence... weighed on you.

"I can't sleep," you whispered.

He looked up immediately, not surprised, as if he'd been expecting you.

"I figured."

He gently closed the laptop and moved aside on the couch, inviting you to sit. You approached slowly, like someone stepping into sacred ground, and sank into the opposite end, hugging your knees.

There were a few seconds of silence.

"Are you okay?" he asked. It wasn't a superficial question.

"No," you whispered. "I'm not."

Seonghwa didn't respond right away. He just looked at you. And for the first time, he didn't try to fill the void with explanations or solutions. He was simply there.

"It all started on the ice," you murmured after a while, your voice breaking. "That's where he saw me for the first time. Where he chose me. And now... I can't be there without feeling like he's watching from some corner."

His gaze softened.

"We'll take that away from him," he said gently. "That power he has over you. We're going to break it."

His words hurt—because part of you wanted to believe them. And another... was shattered.

"Today, when I saw the drawer open... When I realized he touched my things. That he took something of mine... something that means so much... I felt like I have nothing left that's truly mine. Nothing. No privacy, no peace, no control. Like I'm just... a story to him."

Seonghwa looked at you, and for a moment, the pain in his eyes mirrored your own.

"I swear I won't stop until I find him."

You didn't say anything. You just looked at him. And it was there, in the middle of insomnia, in the midst of chaos, where something else began to take root.

Seonghwa turned on a warmer light, lowered the brightness of his laptop, and began telling you details about the case—not the worst ones, not the most painful, but enough to give your mind something else to hold on to.

And before you knew it, your head was resting on the arm of the couch. Your eyes drifted shut. And you fell asleep to the sound of his voice.

Seonghwa fell silent when he noticed. He gently laid a blanket over your shoulders without a sound, and stayed there, with you, without reopening his laptop.

Because that night, for the first time, fear wasn't the only thing that united you.

The days that followed felt strange.

Not exactly calm—there was still tension in the air, like the low hum of a warning siren you couldn’t switch off—but quieter, somehow. Easier to breathe. As if the storm had paused mid-rage, its thunder still echoing somewhere in the distance, but for the moment, the rain had stopped falling. You moved like someone underwater—every gesture a little heavier, a little slower. Your routine stripped itself down to the bare essentials: sleep, eat, exist. Nothing more, nothing less. The bag with your few belongings remained by Seonghwa’s bedroom door, untouched, a quiet reminder that part of you hadn’t fully arrived. Part of you was still holding on to the idea that at any moment, you might leave again.

Seonghwa worked long hours. Sometimes you woke up and he was already gone, the lingering scent of coffee and cologne in the kitchen the only proof he had been there at all. Other times, he’d come back late, footsteps soft, jacket damp with night air. Often you’d find him planted in the living room, brow furrowed, shoulders tense, going through reports or listening to audio files with his headphones on. He lived like a man trying to outpace something—chasing shadows or running from them, you couldn’t always tell.

And yet, even within that quiet chaos, you shared moments.

Moments so heartbreakingly ordinary that they made your chest ache with how badly you needed them. A silent breakfast, where he poured your coffee just the way you liked it and you made him toast, passing the butter without asking. A long, quiet afternoon where he helped you stretch on the living room floor, guiding your limbs with patience, never once mentioning skating. It wasn’t about routines or recovery—it was about reminding your body how it felt to simply move, to be touched without fear.

There was the way he always left the blanket neatly folded on the couch before heading to bed, though he never used it himself. Maybe because part of him hoped you would. Maybe because he wanted you to know you had a choice, a space that was yours without asking.

There was the sound of his voice drifting from the kitchen when he called Hongjoong, and you, standing just around the hallway corner, listened without meaning to. There was nothing special in the words exchanged—but in the tone, in the warmth of domesticity, you felt something you hadn’t felt in a long time. A home. Not a place of defense or preparation or paranoia—but a home.

There were no conversations about emotions. No confessions. No trembling declarations in the middle of the night.

But there were long glances from across the hallway, quiet pauses that filled entire rooms. There were dishes washed together in companionable silence. And there was one night—so trivial and so monumental—when you both reached for a fallen spoon at the same time. Your fingers brushed. You froze. So did he. And then the moment passed, suspended in the air like a held breath. Neither of you mentioned it.

Until one night, over two simple plates of rice and kimchi, you finally said it.

"I'm not going to Nationals this year."

The words shattered in the room like glass hitting the floor. No warning. No lead-up. Just impact.

Seonghwa didn’t react right away. He simply set his chopsticks down, gently, deliberately, as if afraid anything more abrupt might break something. But when he looked at you, you knew it wasn’t gentleness he felt.

"Is that what you want?" he asked.

You nodded, your throat tightening around the truth.

"The ice..." you began, voice so low it barely belonged to you, "it's not the same anymore. That’s where he saw me. Where he became obsessed. And now, every time I imagine stepping onto it, I feel his eyes on the back of my neck. I can't... I don’t want that sacred place to hurt too."

Seonghwa didn’t interrupt. He didn’t try to fix it. He just listened.

"My grandfather..." your voice cracked, and you paused to breathe through it, "he always dreamed of seeing me win the internationals. That’s the one I want to bring to him. That’s the dream I still hold. But I can’t do it now. Not with him out there. Not with everything so fragile, like it might collapse with one wrong step."

You looked down at your half-eaten food.

"Maybe next year. If things get better. Maybe..."

It wasn’t a decision. Not really. It was more like a temporary surrender, one that still felt like a wound. An open one, raw and unresolved.

Seonghwa didn’t try to reassure you. He didn’t offer empty promises or hollow encouragement. He just looked at you, steady and silent, as if trying to shoulder the weight of your heart through sheer presence alone.

The next day, it was public.

"The rising star of figure skating temporarily steps away from the road to Nationals." Through close sources, it’s been confirmed that the athlete has decided not to compete this year. Although it’s not a definitive retirement, her absence leaves a mark on the competition.

You read it together on the screen of his laptop. The cursor blinked at the bottom like it was waiting for a response neither of you would give.

You didn’t say anything. Neither did he.

But somewhere else, in the darkened quiet of a cluttered room, the stalker read it too.

And something in him broke.

Because ever since Seonghwa had entered your life, ever since he started building something steady where there used to be chaos, the perfect fantasy—the delusion he had nurtured—was falling apart. And he couldn’t let that continue.

“I told you not to stop skating. You can’t do that. You’re a star. My star. How can you leave me like this? That bastard... he’s pulling us apart, don’t you see? He doesn’t want you near me.”

The days with you were slipping through his fingers like fine grains of time—unnoticed in the moment, but mourned once lost. And though he never spoke it aloud, never dared let the weight of the words hang in the air between you, Seonghwa looked at you the way someone looks at something they’re afraid of losing. His gaze lingered too long sometimes, tracing the lines of your face, the gentle curve of your shoulder, the soft rhythm of your breath—memorizing. Holding on. As if your presence might dissolve with the morning light.

The tension in the apartment had shifted. It wasn’t gone. But it had taken on a new shape—no longer sharp, no longer fear laced with adrenaline and shadows. It was quieter now, threaded with something warmer, something unspoken that bloomed in the silence between moments. In the way he sought your eyes across a room. In the way your steps softened when you walked past him. In the hush that filled the space after laughter, neither of you quite knowing what to say next.

You both felt it. That stillness that didn’t come from fear. That warmth that didn’t demand anything. The strange comfort of safety that you were slowly learning to trust.

“Do you want to come with me today?” he asked one morning. The words felt casual, but something in his voice—gentle, almost hesitant—made you look up from where you were picking up your keys.

You nodded before you could think about it. You didn’t want to stay behind. Not in that quiet apartment where the walls whispered memories, where your thoughts could turn on you in seconds. And more than that—you didn’t want to feel far from him.

You didn’t ask where you were going.

You just got into the car, and let the hum of the engine and the city’s soft static be your lullaby. The buildings faded behind you, replaced by stretches of gray and green and road. The further you went, the more your body surrendered to the stillness, and your eyes—though they tried to stay open—gave in.

You slept. Without planning to. Without permission. And that, in itself, felt like a kind of trust.

When the car finally stopped, it was the sudden absence of motion that woke you. The silence wrapped around you gently, and you blinked slowly, the light pouring in through the windshield painting your skin in pale gold. You sat up, sleep still clinging to your bones, and turned your head.

And then you saw it.

An ice rink. Small. Secluded. Tucked into the edge of a quiet landscape like a forgotten memory.

You knew this place. Not exactly—but deeply. The kind of place that looked like a hundred others you had trained in. But it was more than recognition. It was the ache in your chest. The breath that caught. The sting behind your eyes.

“What...?” Your voice cracked as it left your throat. “What are we doing here?”

Seonghwa unfastened his seatbelt and turned toward you, calm and steady, as if he had carefully built every part of himself for this moment. His eyes were soft—no longer the sharp eyes of a detective. Just a man, looking at you with all the care in the world.

“I want you to feel free,” he said. “To be yourself. Even if just for a little while.”

You stared at him, words tangled behind your lips, caught in that place between gratitude and grief.

“What if he…?” you started to ask, the fear flickering back like a shadow.

“He won’t know,” Seonghwa said, firm but gentle. “We’re far. No one followed us. We have time. Just... trust me.”

And somehow, you did. Maybe because his voice held that same certainty it always did when you were scared. Maybe because his gaze held no doubt. Just quiet faith. Faith in you.

You stepped out of the car, the cold air biting at your skin. Your shoes crunched against the frozen ground, and the sight in front of you took your breath. The rink—empty, glowing under string lights like stars fallen from the sky—waited. As if time itself had been holding its breath.

“I didn’t bring my gear,” you murmured.

Seonghwa didn’t miss a beat. “It’s in the trunk.”

You turned, eyes wide, as he opened it. And there it was. Your skates. Your coat. Even your backpack, the one you always used for training. The knot in your throat tightened. He had planned this. Every detail. For you. Just to see you happy.

Your heart stuttered.

The inside of the rink was colder, but it was a cold you welcomed. A cold that belonged. The lights above made the ice gleam like glass, and you sat on the bench, breath shaky, hands trembling as they laced your skates with a muscle memory you thought you’d buried. The blades shimmered beneath your fingers.

And then, you stood.

One breath.

Another.

And stepped onto the ice.

At first, your legs protested. Your muscles tensed. But then—something clicked. The rhythm returned, slow and steady. The ice welcomed you back like an old friend.

You glided.

One turn. Another.

The air kissed your face.

Your arms moved without thought. Your hair caught the wind. Your body remembered the poetry—the language only you spoke. The one that didn’t need words.

And then you saw him.

Seonghwa. Skates on. Both hands clinging to the rail. A look of sheer uncertainty on his face. It was ridiculous. And precious.

“What are you doing?” you called, laughing as you approached him.

“I’m risking my physical integrity for you,” he replied, so serious you couldn’t help but laugh again—this time with your whole chest.

“Who made you do this?”

“Your smile.”

The air caught in your lungs. The words hit somewhere deep. You looked at him. Really looked.

“I wanted to be with you,” he said softly.

You offered him your hands. He hesitated. Then placed his in yours.

His fingers were cold. Yours curled around them anyway.

“Put your weight here,” you murmured, guiding his palms to your waist. “Let go. Trust the momentum.”

And he did.

He stumbled.

You steadied him.

You glided.

He followed.

Step by uncertain step, you led him. You were elegance. He was effort. But together... you were something else. Something balanced. Something honest.

You fell into laughter again. Into each other.

That rink—tucked in the middle of nowhere—became sacred. Not because of the ice. Not because of the movement.

But because, beside him, for the first time in what felt like forever, you felt like you belonged to yourself again.

You were alive.

And you were in love with Park Seonghwa.

The rain had deepened by nightfall. No longer the gentle tapping of earlier, but a steady, rhythmic pulse against the windows, like a second heartbeat echoing through the apartment. It blurred the outside world into watercolor—soft streaks of yellow and red lights bleeding into each other, distant car horns muffled by the glass. Inside, the stillness reigned. The lamps remained off. Only the dim spill of the city crept in, laying delicate shadows across the floor. The apartment smelled faintly of rain-dampened concrete and the trace of something warm from earlier—tea, maybe, or the scent of his cologne clinging to the cushions.

You sat together on the couch—too close to be casual, too far to be lovers. Your knee brushed his once, then again, as if by accident. But neither of you moved away. His hands were clasped, knuckles pale, gaze cast forward like he was trying to stop himself from looking at you. You had your legs tucked under, fingers gently fiddling with the hem of your sleeve. Every breath you took felt tethered to his, like the air itself had narrowed to fit only the space between you.

“Thank you for today,” you said, voice barely louder than the rain. You didn’t look at him when you said it, afraid that if you did, your chest would give away just how much it had meant. “It was…”

“Nice,” he finished, voice rough and low, like the words had scraped their way out of him. He tilted his head just slightly toward you. “With you, everything feels nice.”

You exhaled, caught off guard by the way your heart reacted—immediate, uncontrollable. A quiet laugh slipped from you, uncertain and breathy. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll believe them.”

And then—he looked at you. Really looked. The turn of his head felt like a tide shifting, and when his eyes met yours, they pulled you under. They weren’t sharp like a detective’s, not then. They were dark, yes—but warm. Soft. As if they'd already memorized the shape of your face and still wanted to keep tracing it, just to be sure.

“Believe them,” he said.

That’s when the world held its breath. The sound of rain dulled. The air thickened, electric with something unspoken. You didn’t realize how close you’d leaned until you felt the brush of his breath across your cheek. His hand came up slowly, reverently, like he was reaching for something sacred. The backs of his fingers skimmed your skin—featherlight, trembling—and your eyes fluttered closed as your throat tightened with everything you couldn't say.

“Can I…?” His whisper was fragile. Not a question of desire, but permission.

You didn’t answer with words. You just tilted your face up to his, and closed the space.

The kiss was barely a kiss at first—just the whisper of his lips against yours. It tasted of patience, of hesitation, of the unbearable weight of longing. He kissed you like you might disappear if he moved too fast. Like your mouth was a secret he’d waited years to learn.

You pressed closer, your fingers finding the fabric of his shirt, clutching it like an anchor. And he made a sound—soft and raw—as his other hand rose to cradle the back of your neck, threading into your hair. He deepened the kiss, slow and steady, with a hunger he tried to rein in and couldn’t. His lips moved against yours with the kind of intention that makes the world drop away. You forgot the rain. The room. Your own name.

When your lips parted, he didn’t pull back. His forehead leaned into yours, breath catching. “What are you doing to me…?” he whispered, eyes still closed like he didn’t trust them not to betray too much.

You smiled, real and a little shy, your heart hammering like a secret you’d just confessed. “The same thing you’re doing to me.”

And when you kissed again, it was no longer tentative. It was certain. A little desperate. The air around you buzzed with something electric. His mouth moved with more need, more trust. His tongue brushed yours, and the sound you made—soft, surprised—was met with a quiet groan from him. His hand gripped your waist. Your hands were in his hair now, feeling the damp strands between your fingers. He melted into you, as if this was the only place he’d ever wanted to be.

You were both breathless when you parted, your noses brushing. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. But your eyes said it all.

Then, quietly, you said it: “Sleep in the room tonight.”

His lips curved into a smile. No teasing, no hesitation—just softness. He nodded, and gently took your hand like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The walk to your bedroom was wordless, quiet save for the rain. Something sacred passed between you in that stillness. When he opened the door, you slipped beneath the covers, heart racing in your chest. He walked around the bed, pausing before slipping in on the other side. He faced you, eyes searching your face in the dark.

“Can I…?” he asked again, voice like a hush.

You moved toward him. That was your answer.

His arms came around you, one strong arm wrapping your waist, the other threading gently beneath your neck. He pulled you in, your back against his chest, your bodies slotting together like puzzle pieces meant to fit. You exhaled, and so did he. His breath tickled your neck.

“This is good,” he murmured. “This puts me at ease.”

His hand rested against your stomach, warm and grounding. And when he kissed your temple, it wasn’t just affection—it was gratitude. Worship. A promise, whispered without words.

“Good night, love.”

“Good night, Hwa.”

Outside, the rain kept falling. But inside that room, time slowed. The air wrapped around you like his arms had. There was no fear. No distance. Just breath syncing breath, heartbeat syncing heartbeat. You didn’t flinch when sleep came.

Because he was there. Because you weren’t afraid. Because for the first time in a long, long time— You were home.

Everything had changed since that night. Since the moment you and Seonghwa kissed under the dim light of the living room, with emotions running high and words trembling on your lips. After so many weeks of uncertainty, of loaded silences and glances overflowing with things left unsaid, you had finally surrendered to each other. And since then, life had been different.

Waking up with his arms wrapped around your waist, his warm breath on your neck, his fingers reaching for yours even in sleep... Every moment with him felt stolen from a parallel world where everything was softer, safer, more real. In the mornings, you shared coffee and lazy kisses. At night, you shared love in whispers and laughter, as if the rest of the world didn't exist. It was like living inside a protective bubble, built with caresses and unspoken promises.

Your side of the bed had a different blanket, a small scented candle on the nightstand, which Seonghwa said smelled like you. There were moments of passion, kisses that stole touches and touches that made you forget even your own name... but there was also love in the little things: in how he looked at you when you were focused on cooking, in how his fingers stroked your hair without saying a word, in how he seemed to read every one of your emotions without you having to speak.

But peace, as always, was fleeting.

That night, you had decided to stay home. The rain pounded against the windows persistently, as if the sky was trying to slip through some crack in the city to warn you that it was about to break. You wrapped yourself in Seonghwa's hoodie, the one you shamelessly stole and he didn't even bother to reclaim anymore. The scent of him—wood, bitter coffee, and something warm you couldn't name—kept you company as you leafed through a book you barely read, more attentive to the clock than to the words.

Before leaving, Seonghwa had leaned over you, one hand on your cheek.

"Don't stay up too late. I'm just a phone call away," he said, kissing your forehead like a promise.

At the station, the clock read 10:46 p.m. when the door to his office creaked open. Seonghwa looked up from his desk. In front of him, Hongjoong stood pale-faced, with an envelope in his hands.

"Hwa... this came. It has your name on it."

It was a white envelope. No sender. Sealed. Seonghwa felt a sharp sting shoot through the base of his neck. He took it without saying a word and opened it carefully. Inside: a USB drive and a handwritten note.

"I thought you might like to see this, detective. Since you're as interested in her as I am."

Seonghwa's heart skipped a beat, barely perceptible. He connected the device to the monitor without a word, his fingers suddenly cold on the keyboard. The file took a few seconds to open. A video, untitled. No sound. The image trembled slightly at first. It was a recording made from a distance, with a hidden camera. And there you were. Sitting on a bench in front of a café. Cloudy day. White scarf around your neck, the one he had given you on a winter afternoon when you were shivering and pretending not to.

The lens zoomed in. Then another cut. You walking. You buying something at a convenience store. Entering the subway. Entering your home. Recordings made in different places, on different days. Some recognizable. Others older. The video showed them one after another, unhurried, as if documenting a carefully observed routine.

And then, in the reflection of a store window, for just a second, Seonghwa saw a face. Not entirely clear, but enough to stir something icy in his chest.

The video changed. Another file. This time, there was audio. The voice that came through was male. Young. Unnervingly soft.

"She was so beautiful that day..." said a male voice, almost tender. Seonghwa felt his stomach tighten. "She skated like she was flying. You know what I thought when I saw her for the first time? That the gods were sending her to me. For me. So I could protect her. So I could love her. But you... you came to ruin it all, detective Park."

That voice...

He rewound the video. Paused. Enhanced. The face again. Brown hair. Glasses...

The assistant coach from your first nationals. The one who always seemed in the background. The one who congratulated you with a hug too long for his position. The one you said you had forgotten over the years.

"He was there... all this time..."

Seonghwa stood up abruptly. His chair fell back. He grabbed his coat. He didn't even ask for backup. "If he's nearby... if he's sent this... then she's probably in danger. Now."

A movie played in the background, but your eyes followed none of it. Sometimes love feels like peace, and other times, like a sweet knot in your chest that won't let you think of anything else. You were thinking of him—of Seonghwa—of the way he touched your face like you were made of glass, of how he kissed you with the care of someone who finally understood what it meant to belong to another heart.

You had felt broken for so long. But with him... the pieces were starting to take shape again.

You stood to turn off the television and the lights, leaving only the corner lamp on. Its warm light painted dancing shadows across the walls, moving with every gust of wind that slipped through the cracks.

Something changed.

It was a tiny sound. A creak. The kind of noise a house makes as it settles... except this one didn't come from the roof or the walls. It came from the hallway. From inside.

"Hwa?" you called, hesitantly, just in case. Because sometimes he came home unannounced. "Babe, did you forget your snacks again? I left them next to..." but you looked at the kitchen counter, and the snacks you had picked out for Seonghwa weren't there.

You turned slowly, as if your body knew something your mind still refused to accept. And when you saw him—when his figure emerged from the shadows—the world stopped spinning for a whole second.

He was standing by the doorway, as if he'd been there for hours. As if he'd been watching you since Seonghwa left the house. His face was almost exactly as you remembered. Minjae... the ex-assistant of your coach. The one who was always behind your trainer, harmless... almost invisible. The one who could disappear into any crowd... until he didn't. Years had passed since you last saw him, since your first nationals—the same ones from the trophy the stalker—Minjae had stolen. Your heart raced. Breathing became difficult. Your mind slipped in and out of denial. Because it couldn't be. Not him.

"It's been a long time," he said with a calm voice, too calm, laced with malice that made you immediately step back.

"What are you doing here?" you managed to say, your throat dry, hands shaking.

He took a step forward, unfazed by your tone. "You're asking the wrong question, love," he answered with a twisted smile. "You shouldn't ask what I'm doing here... but why it took me so long to come."

His voice was soft, almost affectionate, and that made it all the more horrifying. Like a lover returning from a long journey, instead of the man who had been hiding behind every one of your fears these past months. You tried to move, but your body wouldn't respond as quickly as you needed. Your skin bristled. Your stomach turned. Your instincts screamed at you to run, but fear had roots, and they had grown deep into your feet.

"No... I don't understand. How did you get in?" you asked, more to buy time than to get an answer.

"Did you really think this security system would stop me?" he laughed softly, humorless. "I've entered your world long before this. I entered when no one else saw you. When you cried in secret after failing to rank. When you trained until you bled. When your fingers cracked from the cold and you kept going anyway. I saw you. I was there. Always."

His devotion made you sick. His words were blades, growing sharper, more intimate. He didn't speak like a stranger, but like someone who had been secretly living with you for years.

"You're sick," you murmured, taking another step back. Your eyes scanned the room, searching for your phone. You had to call Seonghwa, had to ask for help.

"Don't say that, my love," he whispered. "True love isn't learned. It's revealed. And you revealed it to me, without even realizing. Every movement you made on the ice was a poem to me. Did you know that? Did you know the gods sent you to me? You are a miracle. An answer. My destiny."

"You have no right..." you started, but he interrupted you, his voice now tinged with restrained rage.

"And that damn detective does? He has the right to touch you, to kiss you, to sleep with you like he knows you?" his face twisted, fists clenched. "You don't get it, do you? He doesn't know you like I do. He hasn't seen everything I've seen in you. I love you like one loves the sacred. With faith. With sacrifice. I've waited. I've endured. I've watched you drift away... forget me– but I never stopped loving you!"

The air in the room was dense, as if every word filled your lungs with poison. Sweat ran down your back. The trembling wasn't just in your hands anymore, but in your legs, your lips, your voice. You wanted to run, but he lunged. He grabbed you by the wrist with a strength you didn't expect, his fingers digging into your skin with terrifying determination.

"Let me go!" you screamed, desperate.

"NO!" he shouted, eyes wild. "Not until you hear me. Not until you feel me. I love you!"

"You're crazy!" you struggled.

"I'm in love! And it hurts! You don't know what it's like to truly love! Because if you did, you wouldn't look at me with such disgust!"

"Because you scare me!" you managed to break free with a yank, stumbling backward. Your legs hit the dining table, knocking over a candle. The thud was sharp, and for a moment you thought that would be enough to make him back off. But no. He was still there, looking at you with sick, pleading eyes.

"You don't have to be afraid of me... I would never hurt you. Just..." his voice dropped, broken, "just let me stay. Just one night. Just look at me. Like you did when you were alone, when you had no one. I was that 'no one' for years. And still I loved you. I still did everything for you."

"Leave me alone."

"Don't throw me out!" he shouted, stepping toward you violently. "Don't throw me out again! I can't go back out there knowing you're here, in this house, with him!"

Your chest rose and fell rapidly. You felt like you were going to faint at any moment. Your hands groped blindly, and finally your fingers brushed your phone, lying between the couch cushions. You didn't make any sudden moves. You just kept looking at him, weighing each word.

He took a step. Then another. As if your fear didn't exist. As if it were part of the game. As if it excited him.

"Don't come any closer," you repeated, your voice now firmer, but also more frightened. "This isn't love!"

And his face... changed. It tensed. The smile disappeared, as if someone had switched off the light inside him. The muscles in his jaw clenched. The light in his eyes turned into something dark, threatening.

"It's not love?" he repeated in a low, hoarse voice. "It's not love to spend sleepless nights watching every one of your performances? To keep every ticket from where you competed? Isn't it love to carve your name into my skin because you're already etched into my soul?"

He rolled up his right sleeve, and there, with jagged lines and old scars... was your name.

Tattooed. With a knife or blade.

Your stomach churned. You wanted to vomit. You wanted to cry. You wanted to disappear.

"I love you so much it... hurts," he said, taking another step toward you. "And you're hurting me now. I don't understand why. You were mine... before him."

His eyes burned at the mention of Seonghwa.

"He stole you," he spat. "He contaminated you. But I can still clean you. You can still be mine again."

"I never was. Never." Your words came out between sobs, through the trembling of your jaw and the grip you had on your phone. "I never loved you! I never wanted this!"

That made him snap. He punched the wall with a closed fist, so hard the frame shook. You screamed, curling into the corner. Adrenaline boiled in your veins, but your body trembled like a leaf swept by the wind.

"Don't say that!" he roared, eyes filling with tears. "You don't know what you're saying. You don't know how much I've done for you!"

And suddenly, in a swift movement, he got too close. His hand clamped around your wrist with overwhelming force and the phone slipped from your grip. You screamed, struggling, and his hot breath hit your face.

You didn't know how, but the tears began to fall. It wasn't an outburst. It was that kind of crying that drips silently, like your body trying to warn you that everything inside you is breaking. The air was still poisoned. His closeness suffocating.

"Don't cry..." he murmured, wiping your cheek with terrifying tenderness. "I don't like seeing you like this. Not when I've given you so much. Everything. All you have to do is say you'll stay with me. Just that, (Y/N):"

Your voice came out torn.

"Never."

The silence that followed was thick, like a pause before collapse. His hand, which had been trembling before, hardened. The smile vanished. And in its place settled a blank expression. Dry. Lethal.

"Then you leave me no choice," he whispered, as if talking to himself.

He took a step back. Slowly. As if weighing a punishment. And then, with a calm that chilled more than any scream, he pulled something from his pocket that gleamed under the dim hallway light.

A small blade.

Light. Precise. Cold.

"You don't understand..." he said as he spun it between his fingers with sickening skill. "But if you can't be mine... you'll be no one's. And certainly not his."

Your legs wanted to move. Run. Scream. Something. But fear had already placed invisible chains around your ankles. It was like being trapped in a lucid nightmare: you could see every detail, but you couldn't wake up.

"Do you know what I thought, that time I saw you skating with him in the stands?" he continued, his voice dropping even lower, brushing a whisper. "I thought about how your hands would look covered in blood. Not from hate. No..." he shook his head gently. "From art. Because everything you touch is art. Even pain could be... if it's mine."

Then he raised the weapon and pressed it gently to his own cheek, barely cutting the skin. A thin red line appeared and began to slide down his face.

You wanted to vomit. You felt bile rise to your throat and your eyes kept spilling tears. You couldn't believe what you were seeing; you couldn't fully accept that the Minjae you had known years ago was the same sick man who seemed to have lost his mind.

"Look what I'm capable of doing for you. Look how far I'm willing to go. And if that's not love... then love is dead."

You backed up until you hit the doorframe. The wood creaked. Your fingers searched for something —anything— to defend yourself with. He noticed. His gaze changed.

"Don't run. Don't make me hurt you. I don't want to. But I can. You know that, right?" he took another step toward you. "Because if you don't come with me now, (Y/N)... he'll be the first. I'll kill him. I'll make him suffer. And then I'll take you far away. No one will know anything. You'll be mine. Like it was meant to be from the start."

Your heart pounded like a drum on the verge of breaking. Everything was too fast, too slow at the same time. And then...

A bang.

Not on your body. On the door.

A dry crack. The sound of a lock being forced.

And then a voice. Deep. Sharp. Full of fury.

The door burst open with a violence that shook the walls. The sound was like a gunshot, tearing through the dense air, shattering the sickening bubble you were trapped in.

"(Y/N)!"

Seonghwa's voice. Firm, furious. Alive. Your head turned toward the sound and, for a moment, it was as if time had stopped. He was there, soaked by the rain, eyes ablaze, chest heaving. In his eyes, the promise that it was all over. That you had been found. But it wasn't that simple. Minjae took a step back, startled, but not defeated. His knife gleamed between his fingers. His breathing quickened. And then, something changed in his face. Like a mask falling. Fear melted into rage. Into jealousy. Into madness. "You..." he spat. "You're the problem. You always have been." "Drop the weapon!" Seonghwa ordered, aiming straight at his chest. "You're not going to touch her. Not now, not ever again." "You don't understand anything, do you? She's mine! MINE!" he shouted, his voice cracking, almost childish, like a kid losing his favorite toy. "She doesn't belong to anyone. Least of all someone sick like you." "She chose me first!" he yelled, throwing the knife forcefully to the side. It hit the wall with a metallic clang, but he was already charging at Seonghwa, fists clenched, with animal fury. You screamed. It was like watching two opposing forces collide at the center of a ruined world. Seonghwa didn't hesitate and landed a direct punch to the stomach that made Minjae double over for a second. But he writhed like a cornered beast and hit Seonghwa's jaw with a dry punch. The force pushed him back. Blood. From Seonghwa's lip. From Minjae's brow. "YOU CORRUPTED HER!" Minjae shouted as he threw another punch. "You put ideas in her head! She loved me before you!" "You don't know what love is!" Seonghwa roared, grabbing him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The plaster cracked. "You suffocated her! You stole her peace, her safety, her dreams!" "I saved her! I protected her! No one else saw her like I did..." "You followed her! You stalked her! YOU TORTURED HER!" You could only watch. Legs trembling, body pressed against the wall, wanting to scream but voiceless. It was too much. Watching them fight. Watching Seonghwa bleed for you. The silence lasted only a second. But it was a long second, dense, like a bottomless pit where your senses sank. Seonghwa and Minjae wrestled in the center of the apartment—the same one where you'd slept last night, where you'd cooked, where you'd tried to reclaim some normalcy—and now it looked like a battlefield. Papers, picture frames, shards of glass. A lamp on the floor. Blood beginning to stain the wood. Your ears rang. Your heart pounded against your ribs in a frantic rhythm. "LET ME GO!" Minjae screamed, desperate, scratching Seonghwa's face with his nails, as if that could give him an advantage. Seonghwa growled, but didn't loosen his grip. He had him pinned against the wall, fingers digging into his wet jacket. "I won't let you touch her ever again!" "You don't get to decide that!" Minjae spat. "YOU don't know what we shared! She was happy before you! HAPPY!" "You don't know what happiness is! What you did wasn't love, it was obsession, it was control!" Minjae laughed. A broken, coarse, sinister laugh. "If you hadn't shown up in our lives... we'd still be together." Your legs gave out. "No..." you murmured, barely audible. "That's not true..."

"SAY IT!" Minjae shouted, turning his face toward you, panting, soaked, pupils dilated.

"Say it! Tell me you didn't think of me when you skated. Of your admirer... Tell me you didn't read my words over and over. TELL ME YOU DIDN'T KEEP THEM!"

Your lips parted, but no sound came.

Only tears.

And that vacant look that gave you away: you were broken.

"LOOK AT HER!" Seonghwa roared. "LOOK AT HER AND SEE WHAT YOU'VE DONE!"

But Minjae wasn't listening. He wasn't reasoning. He was a swarm of twisted emotions: nostalgia, rage, jealousy, delusion. And in that moment, you felt it. He wasn't a person.

He was a loose threat.

Then, the unexpected.

Minjae let out a very low laugh. Something changed. Not his face—that was still contorted—but his energy. As if a terrible idea had just crossed his mind.

"You know..." he murmured, looking around, "if she can't be mine, she won't be yours either."

Seonghwa pushed him, but Minjae staggered toward the kitchen, limping. Something flickered in his eyes. Something... dangerous.

You could barely process it.

But when you saw him open a drawer quickly, you knew it wasn't just an attempt to escape.

"No!" you shouted. "No, please!"

Seonghwa ran after him, but it was already too late. Minjae had grabbed something. Not a knife… A lighter.

And a shattered bottle with alcohol spilled on the floor.

"You're not thinking..." Seonghwa froze. "Don't you dare."

"You think I'm going alone?" Minjae hissed, with terrifying calm. "This place... this damn place you built together... I'm going to watch it burn. And you with it."

The smell of alcohol was already in the air.

Your vision blurred. Fear became something absolute, almost unreal. Everything seemed distant, as if you were watching your own end from outside your body.

"Minjae," you stammered. "Stop. You don't have to do this. We can... we can talk."

"Talk?! Too late for that! You ignored me. You replaced me. And you..." he pointed at Seonghwa, with a deranged smile. "You ruined everything."

Then, he raised the lighter. The dry click of the mechanism echoed like a gunshot.

Once, twice, three times.

And the flame appeared.

It was a second. Just one second.

But Seonghwa couldn't allow it.

With lightning speed, he ducked, rolled across the floor, grabbed his gun—the one he'd dropped earlier for safety—and aimed.

"NO!" you screamed, but it was already too late.

Bang.

The shot echoed endlessly in your ears. The flame died before it touched the floor. The lighter fell, bouncing against the tiles.

And Minjae…

Dropped to his knees.

Then backward.

A dark flower bloomed on his chest.

Silence.

A murderous silence.

A silence like a grave.

Your knees buckled. You collapsed to the floor, not feeling the impact. Eyes locked on his lifeless body. You didn't cry. Didn't scream. You couldn't.

You just wanted it all to end. For someone to turn the world off.

Seonghwa lowered the weapon slowly. His hands trembled. His face was drenched in sweat and blood.

He didn't move for long seconds. And then, he took a step toward you. Then another.

The gun still hung from his hand, but his gaze was no longer on Minjae, only on you. Just you.

"(Y/N)... baby" his voice was barely a whisper, broken by the effort, by the rage still burning in his chest, by the fear that hadn't left his skin. "Are you hurt? Are you okay?"

You didn't know how to respond. The words had hidden somewhere deep in your body. Everything hurt. Everything shook. The air was heavy, like you had to swallow the past just to breathe.

Seonghwa approached slowly, as if afraid of scaring you more, as if aware that any sudden movement could break you.

He knelt in front of you.

"I'm here," he said softly, locking eyes with yours. "It's over. I swear, it's over."

His hands hesitated for a second before touching you. But you—before even thinking—threw yourself at him.

You held him with a strength you didn't know you had left. Clung to his chest, to the warmth of his body, to the restless drum of his heart. Your face buried in his neck, in his shoulder, in any part of him that proved you were alive.

And he held you. Held you like you were home.

"I'm here, love," he murmured. "I'm here. You don't have to run anymore. You're not alone anymore."

The crying came without warning. Not a soft sob, but a total breakdown. A tremor that started in your abdomen and shook every part of you. You screamed. You cried. You fell apart.

"I couldn't breathe..." you managed to say through tears. "Seonghwa... I... couldn't take it anymore..."

"I know," he answered, his lips against your temple. "I know, sweetheart. But it's over. No one's going to hurt you again."

The stomping of boots on the stairs was the only thing that broke that moment. Voices. Orders.

And then, Hongjoong's silhouette appeared in the doorway, with two armed agents behind him.

"Seonghwa!" he shouted, gun at the ready, but when he saw the body on the floor, the blood, and the way you trembled in his partner's arms, he lowered the weapon immediately. "God... Are you okay?"

Seonghwa did not respond immediately. He just tightened his embrace, as if afraid you would fade away if he let go.

"We need an ambulance," he said at last, without looking at them. "Not for us. For him. Make sure he's really... done."

One of the officers approached Minjae's body. He checked it. Nodded.

"He's dead."

That word floated in the air. Dead.

It should have relieved you. But it only brought more tears.

Not for him. For you. For what he had stolen from you. For what would never come back.

For the lost innocence. For the months of paranoia, of insomnia, of constant fear.

For the silences that screamed inside you.

Hongjoong approached cautiously, looking at Seonghwa and then at you.

"We have everything under control," he said firmly. "I'll talk to headquarters. You two... stay here for a moment."

Seonghwa barely nodded. He couldn't, he didn't want to let you go.

And you weren't going to let him.

"I've got you," he whispered, slowly caressing your back. "I'm with you. I'm staying. Can you hear me?"

You nodded, your forehead against his neck.

"I'm so scared..."

"You don't have to be strong now. You just have to be here. With me."

His words were like threads sewing your torn soul. They didn't promise a perfect future, but they offered the closest thing: presence. Real love. A refuge.

And for the first time in a long time, amid the pain, the broken glass, the blood and the screams, you felt something like peace.

Not because everything was fine. But because you weren't alone.

And in that embrace—desperate, dirty, hurting—there was a silent promise: life would go on.

And you were going to fight for it.

A knot tightened in your throat.

"But no more." His forehead rested against yours, his eyes closed, as if he needed to feel your existence to calm his pulse. "You don't have to hide anymore. Not with me."

Your lower lip trembled. You wanted to speak. Tell him you were broken. That maybe you would never be whole again. But he had read you before. As always.

"Listen to me." His hands gently took your face, guiding you to look at him. "You're not weak. You're not fragile. You survived. You're still here. You're still fighting. And there's nothing braver than that."

The sincerity in his eyes pierced you like a sweet stake. It hurt, but not like before. Not like the fear. It was a different pain. One that came with relief. With the possibility of healing.

"I swear that as long as I'm with you, no one is going to hurt you again. No one is going to touch you, silence you, make you doubt yourself."

Your breath hitched. The tremor in your body turned into a muffled sob. And he didn't pull away. He held you tighter. As if with just his arms, he could keep you whole.

"You're everything he could never understand," he whispered against your hair. "Everything he wanted to control, because he couldn't stand you shining without him."

One more silence. Loaded. Emotional.

"And I..." His voice dropped. More intimate. More vulnerable. "I just want to see you free. I want to see you laugh. I want to see how your eyes light up when you talk about something you love. I want to see you live without fear."

Tears fell on their own. Not for Minjae. Not for the wound. But for what you had just heard. For everything they had never told you.

"What he did to you doesn't define who you are," he said with strength. "What defines you is that, after everything, you're still here. And I—I'm so fucking proud of you."

Your fingers sought his. You intertwined them. Like a silent promise. Like an anchor.

He stayed there with you. Without hurry. Without demands. Accepting your silences. Accepting your crying. Accepting you whole, even in your fragments.

And in the middle of the chaos, the crime, the storm, the dark story that had just closed, there was a corner of peace.

Just you and him.

Just the warmth of his chest, his voice in your ear, his fingers tangled in yours.

A promise: that winter, finally was starting to melt.

It all started two years ago, with a call to the police station.

No one could have imagined that night — with the phone trembling between your fingers, your breath stuck somewhere between your ribs and your throat, fear sinking into your bones like ice water — would be the beginning of something bigger than justice. Because that night, although you were looking for help, what you found was him. Park Seonghwa. The detective who didn’t just answer the call — he heard you. Who followed every lead with an almost reverent devotion, who believed you without needing proof, who never looked at you with pity or fragility, but with the steadiness of someone who saw past your fear and into your strength. As if he already knew that your story wasn’t ending there. That, in fact, it was just beginning.

And it was.

Because if the ice had once been your first love — sharp, demanding, all-consuming — then Seonghwa became the second. A quieter, warmer love. One that didn’t ask you to be perfect, but simply to breathe. A love that taught you how to fall asleep again without needing every light on. That helped you reclaim the silence. That whispered safety into the spaces where panic used to live. That held you, night after night, until your own body stopped flinching at the sound of footsteps in the hallway. That waited for you — patient and whole — as you learned to trust the world again. Learned to trust yourself.

Coming back to skating wasn’t instant. It was slow, like thawing after a long winter. A daily ritual of placing one foot in front of the other, while fear still clung to your shadow like static. The ice didn’t feel like home at first — it felt foreign, fragile, like it might crack beneath your weight at any moment. But you had changed too. You were no longer the girl who danced between crystals for applause and gold. You were the woman who had survived. Who had crawled through darkness and decided to return. Not because it was easy, but because it mattered. One fall at a time, one trembling glide at a time, you took the ice back. And slowly, like healing, it accepted you.

And now you’re here.

Not in practice. Not in secrecy. But in the grand final of the International Championships — the summit of the dream you once buried beneath trauma, now resurrected in full bloom. The stadium around you is thunder and light. The rink beneath you glows like a frozen lake kissed by the stars. The crowd is roaring, but your gaze seeks only two faces: your grandfather, the root that never let go, the soul who once sold candy just to buy you skates. And beside him, Seonghwa — your fiancé. Your future. The man who taught you that love can be a shelter and a promise.

They’re both standing. Applauding. Crying without shame.

The music begins — a haunting, rising melody — and you move.

But not for medals. Not for revenge. Not for anyone else’s redemption. You skate for the girl who once locked herself in a bathroom, unsure if she'd ever feel whole again. You skate for the hands that shook opening threatening letters. For the nights when your breath would vanish for no reason. You skate for every moment Seonghwa held you close, saying nothing, simply being there — constant, calm, present. You skate for your freedom.

And you skate like you’ve never skated before.

Not just graceful — transcendent. Each spin carves out pieces of your past and sets them free. Each jump is a defiance, a declaration: I am still here. You become something more than a performer. You are poetry in motion. A flame on ice. A survivor wrapped in sequins, dancing in her own rebirth.

When the final note fades into silence, the applause shatters the sky.

The score flashes. It’s impossible — record-breaking. The kind of score that silences even the loudest doubts. You’ve won. The championship, yes. But more than that. You’ve won your right to exist in the light again. You’ve reclaimed your life.

You drop your hands over your mouth as the tears come — heavy, endless, necessary. You cry for everything it took to get here. For everything you lost and everything you reclaimed. You cry because you’re still standing, still skating, still alive.

In the crowd, you hear it — your grandfather’s raspy voice echoing above the rest: "THAT’S MY GRANDDAUGHTER!"

He’s waving a crumpled handkerchief, cheeks damp, eyes bright. He looks like the man who once lifted you up after every fall — and he is. He always has been.

And then — him.

Seonghwa.

No longer the stoic detective, no badge or suit to hide behind. Just him, in a long black coat, his hands in his pockets, his eyes locked onto you as if you are his entire world. When your eyes meet, his lips curve into the softest, surest smile. The kind of smile that says: we made it. He places a hand over his heart, and then points at you.

Always with you. Always for you.

And you smile — broken, breathless, whole — because you know. Because now, you can believe it.

The medal glints against your collarbone. The trophy weighs golden in your hands. But nothing is heavier — or more sacred — than the love inside your chest. The love that survived the darkness. The love that healed beside you.

Later, backstage, he finds you.

No barriers. No cameras. Just you, and him, and the moment you both fought for.

He walks straight past the restricted zone as if nothing could stop him. And when he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you and pulls you in, burying his face in your shoulder. “You did it,” he breathes, his voice cracking. “God, you really did it.”

You hold onto him, trembling. “I came back,” you whisper, “And you were there. Always.”

He leans back, just enough to look at you. His fingers trail down your cheek, brushing away a tear. The engagement ring glints on your finger — delicate, silver, chosen without fanfare but worn with quiet pride. A promise already made. A future already unfolding. His thumb brushes just beneath it, lingering there like he’s reminding himself that this is real — you are real — and not just a dream he kept chasing through case files and sleepless nights. And then he kisses you.

It isn’t rushed. It isn’t frantic.

It’s everything.

A kiss that says thank you and I’m here and we survived. A kiss that tastes like tears and hope and home. A kiss that rewrites the story of what you thought love could be.

You kiss him back. Fully. Fiercely. Without fear. With everything you have left in you — all your fight, all your grace, all your light. Your hands clutch at his coat like a lifeline, because he is. And you know it now: you will never run again. You don’t need to.

This is the end of a dark chapter. And the beginning of something entirely new.

When you finally part, your foreheads rest together, your breaths tangled. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispers, voice thick. “So fucking proud. And not because you won. Not because of the score. But because you learned to love the ice again... without forgetting to love yourself too.”

You smile through your tears. “I love you,” you whisper back, because there’s nothing else truer than that.

And when he says it in return — low, fierce, full — your grandfather arrives, eyes swollen, heart wide open. He wraps you both in his arms like he’s holding onto a dream that finally came true.

And it’s in that exact moment that you understand it — all of it.

The fear. The fight. The pain. The recovery. The love.

It was all to get here. To this.

Your life didn’t end in fear. It began when you faced it.

And the ice? It’s no longer just a stage. It’s your voice. Your sanctuary. Your freedom. Your home.

Because the ice may still be cold — But it will never, ever freeze you again.

taglist: @hwasflower @queenofdumbfuckery

a/n: well, here we go with the first fic of the new atz section on the blog. i hope you liked, if you did — repost, comments and likes are always welcome.

you can leave asks here. go back to navigation.

[yongilityreposts]

ATZ TV # the bloom beneath the frost ꗃ╭╯ park seonghwa. ──────── ⵌ TEASER. release date: tba

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / detective!seonghwa / figure skating au / f!reader insert. 𒄬 prologue:

It began almost a year ago, with a bouquet of peonies—delicate, pale, left at your dressing room. No card. No name. Just a whisper in the form of petals, soft and subtle. At first, it felt harmless. Another admirer. Another fleeting gesture in a life lived under the cold glow of spotlights and sharpened blades. You had grown used to being adored from a distance. But this? This was different. The gifts kept coming. So did the notes—first sweet, then strange. Then personal. Then frightening. Details you never shared with anyone. Things only someone who was watching would know. The feeling grew—like someone was always just out of sight, just beyond your reach. Watching. Following. Waiting. You told yourself it was nothing. That you were imagining it. That the pressure of competition, the isolation, and the weight of fame were playing tricks on your mind. But the line between admiration and obsession thinned quickly. Now, nearly a year later, the rink no longer feels like a sanctuary. The applause that once warmed you now sounds hollow. Even the ice—your safest place—feels thinner with every step you take. Your performances are flawless, but your nights are restless. The shadow that lingers has a name—though you don’t know it yet. Someone else is watching now. And you’re not alone in the dark anymore. Detective Park Seonghwa is assigned to protect you, quiet, calm, always watching from any signs of danger. Bound by duty, but haunted by eyes he hasn’t seen. You stopped trusting easily. Seonghwa doesn’t like to get close. But some cases aren’t solved with distance. And some stories—like yours—don’t begin with love. They begin with obsession.

𒄬 warnings:

stalking and obssesive behavior / invasion of privacy / psychological manipulation / anxiety / implied violence / emotional distress. more tba. minors dni, if you don't feel comfortable reading any of the trigger warnings stated, please don't read. seonghwa isn't the stalker.

TAGLIST IT'S OPEN. MIGHT RELEASE VERY SOON. PLEASE COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE TAGGED. ASK ARE OPEN HERE.

ateez section it's open now, more atz stories coming soon.

[yongilityreposts]

NEO TV # i like me better when i'm with you ꗃ╭╯ jung jaehyun.

──────── epilogue: in another life—and this one too.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / gang au / rich kid au / e2l

𒄬 warnings none. this is the peace all of you were waiting for. this is pure fluff, no more angst. read chapter 10 before this. 𒄬 word count: 2.8k

Calgary, Canada.

Life was nothing more than the sum of the choices you made.

And while Jaehyun regretted most of the choices that had led him down the darkest paths, he was grateful for the one he had made three years ago.

Sooman was dead.

The night of the exchange had turned into a battlefield—gang members against police, bullets flying, screams tearing through the air, desperate prayers lost in the chaos.

And in the end, it had taken only one bullet to Sooman’s chest to bring his empire crumbling down.

Neo Zone had fallen with him.

Even though the streets were still dangerous, crime had dropped significantly. Without Sooman pulling the strings, and with most of Neo Zone’s key players locked away, the shadows that once ruled the city had started to fade.

And Jaehyun?

Jaehyun had died that night too.

At least, that’s what the world believed.

By the time the dust settled, when the bodies were being identified and the surviving criminals were being processed into the prison system—Jaehyun was nowhere to be found.

Rumors spread like wildfire.

Jung Jaehyun was dead.

And in many ways, that was the truth.

The night of the exchange had been both an ending and a beginning.

Starting over was harder than he ever imagined. A new city, new faces, a new life. Everything that had once defined him was gone, and for a long time, he wasn’t sure if he was meant to exist without it.

The first year was brutal.

Especially the first few months.

Jeno was a mess. He refused to speak to Jaehyun, refused to leave the house they had been placed in. He was drowning in grief and anger, haunted by the past he never had a choice in.

It wasn’t until Baekhyun intervened that things changed.

Under witness protection, the Jung family was not allowed to have any contact with their old life. But Baekhyun—who had held Jaehyun in his arms when he was seconds away from death—knew he couldn’t just leave them alone. He pulled whatever strings he could, bending rules that were never meant to be bent, just to be the one person who could keep that connection alive.

And so, Baekhyun told them the truth.

About Sooman. About Jaehyun’s father. About the accident that ruined Winwin’s life.

The truth shattered Jeno.

But it also set him free.

It took time—months of silent dinners, tense conversations, and Jaehyun carrying the weight of Jeno’s resentment without complaint—but eventually, Jeno accepted it. And on a quiet night, after far too many nights of pretending he didn’t care, Jeno broke down, sobbing as he apologized.

And just like that, their bond, fractured and fragile, began to heal.

The second year was different.

They were no longer just trying to survive. They were learning to live.

Their new home no longer felt like a prison. The stares of strangers no longer felt like judgment. The ghosts that once clung to them were beginning to fade.

They were free.

And then, there was Winwin.

Jaehyun had spent years carrying the guilt of what had happened to him. The accident. The coma. The stolen future.

But in their second year, something changed. Winwin made progress.

With the help of new doctors and a rehabilitation center, he spoke for the first time in years.

By the third month of that year, his voice, once lost, returned.

By the fifth month, he took his first steps since the accident.

And by the time the second year ended, Winwin wasn’t just recovering—he was laughing again.

And the best part?

Jaehyun was there for all of it.

The third year brought peace.

The kind of peace Jaehyun never thought he would find.

For the first time, he wasn’t drowning in his past. He wasn’t trapped in the cycle of guilt and regret that had consumed him for so long.

He was healing.

He had learned that the past wasn’t something he could erase. It was something he had to carry. But that weight didn’t have to define him.

Even his tattoos—the ink that once felt like a death sentence—became something else.

In the beginning, he hated them.

The first year, he wanted them gone. He wanted to rip them off his skin, to burn away the reminders of everything he had done, everything he had been.

But by the third year, he saw them differently.

They weren’t chains anymore.

They were proof that he had survived.

Once, they had meant there was no way out.

Now, they were a reminder that there always was—as long as you chose the right path when the moment came.

There were things in life you could walk away from.

People spent their whole lives running—escaping from their past, their mistakes, the ghosts that clung to their shadows. Jaehyun had spent years believing he could outrun his own, that time and distance would eventually blur the edges of everything he had lost.

But there were some things that never faded.

Some things that time refused to erase.

And three years later, he realized that no matter how far he had come, no matter how much he had rebuilt—one thought remained constant.

(Y/N).

Jaehyun had sworn he wouldn’t look back. That night at the warehouse had been the end of one life and the beginning of another. He had fought for this, for a clean slate, for the chance to breathe without the weight of Neo Zone pressing on his chest.

But even after all this time, there were moments—quiet, unsuspecting moments—where she would slip through the cracks of his mind. He could go days, weeks, even months convincing himself he had let go.

And then a song would play. A familiar scent would drift through the air. The city lights would flicker just right.

And suddenly, he was back there again.

Three years ago, Baekhyun had told him what happened to her.

The night of the exchange, the night he had nearly died, she had disappeared too. Gone from SM City.

And for a long time, that was enough to keep him frozen.

If she was building a new life, if she was trying to move on—he had no right to pull her back into a past she had barely escaped from.

So he let her go.

But not a single day in those three years had passed without thinking of her.

The scent of warm spices filled the house, the faint aroma of cinnamon and cardamom lingering in the air. It was late afternoon, and the sky outside was beginning to darken, the golden light of the setting sun spilling through the windows, casting soft shadows against the wooden floors.

Jaehyun sighed as he stepped inside, rolling his shoulders to shake off the cold.

“I’m home,” he called out, voice low but steady, the familiar weight of exhaustion settling over him.

From the hallway, a figure appeared, leaning slightly on a cane.

Winwin.

Jaehyun smiled despite himself. His friend was moving better these days—his steps steadier, his balance stronger.

“Your mom and Jeno went to the market to get stuff for dinner,” Winwin said, his tone easy, familiar. He made his way closer, pulling Jaehyun into a brief but firm hug, the kind that spoke of quiet resilience, of the battles they had fought and survived.

Jaehyun clapped him on the shoulder before moving toward the couch. They both sank into it with matching sighs, the air between them comfortable in a way it hadn’t been in years.

“How was therapy today?” Jaehyun asked, glancing at Winwin’s cane.

Winwin exhaled, rolling his neck slightly. “Better. I’m still stuck with this thing for a while longer, but it’s better than not being able to walk at all.” He chuckled, a quiet, genuine sound.

Jaehyun smirked, nodding. “Definitely better.”

Winwin tilted his head. “What about you? How was work?”

Jaehyun leaned back against the cushions, rubbing a hand over his face. “Couple of jobs. Nothing crazy. Though I had this one car come in today that I have no idea how it’s still running. It’s a damn wreck.”

Winwin grinned. “That’s good though, right? Means more work for you.”

Jaehyun huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I guess.”

A real job. A legitimate one.

It still felt strange sometimes.

For years, Jaehyun had lived in a world where the only way to survive was to take, to fight, to bleed. But here, in this quiet city, he had found something different.

Working at the mechanic shop wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. And after everything, that was enough.

He had spent too many years with oil and grease on his hands for all the wrong reasons— street illegal racing. Now, he had earned the right to build something with them.

“You’ve got time off coming up soon, don’t you?” Winwin asked, watching him carefully.

Jaehyun nodded, stretching his arms over the back of the couch. “Yeah, in a month or so. My boss says work should slow down a bit, so I can take a break.”

Silence settled between them, the sound of the television humming in the background, filling the space between words left unsaid.

And then—

“I think it’s time you look for her.”

The words were soft, barely above a whisper, but they hit Jaehyun like a freight train.

His breath hitched. His chest tightened.

Winwin wasn’t looking at him, his gaze fixed on the television screen, but Jaehyun could see the weight behind his words, the careful way he had chosen them.

Jaehyun swallowed, forcing his voice to stay even. “Win, don’t—”

“You never stopped thinking about her,” Winwin cut in, his tone gentle but firm. “Not once.”

Jaehyun clenched his jaw, fingers curling into his palms.

Because it was true.

There were things from the past you could bury.

Mistakes. Memories. Regrets.

But love was never one of them.

Three Years Later Connecticut, USA

Jaehyun never thought he’d say that a cop had become one of his closest friends.

But somewhere between saving his life, dragging him out of the hell he was drowning in, and checking in on him like an older brother who refused to leave him alone—Baekhyun had managed to become exactly that.

So when Jaehyun asked him for a favor, something that was technically out of his jurisdiction, he had expected resistance. Expected a lecture, maybe even a flat-out no.

What he hadn’t expected was Baekhyun sighing, rubbing the bridge of his nose like Jaehyun had just asked him to commit a felony, and muttering, “You better not make me regret this.”

It took a few weeks—just enough time for Jaehyun’s vacation to start—but Baekhyun had done it. Had put everything in place, made the necessary calls, pulled whatever strings he could.

And now, standing in the middle of a quiet street in Connecticut, Jaehyun felt like he couldn’t breathe.

He had spent three years convincing himself he had lost her. Three years trying to live with the ghost of her touch, her voice, her love.

And now, he was here.

Here to see if the universe was willing to give him one last chance.

Jaehyun had imagined this moment a thousand times.

And in every version, he was prepared for it.

He had prepared himself for her indifference. He had prepared himself for her anger. He had prepared himself for the possibility that she had moved on.

But nothing—not the endless nights spent yearning for her, not the weight of three years apart, not even the prayers whispered into the dark when he swore he didn’t believe in miracles anymore—could have prepared him for this.

For her.

The campus was lively despite the early evening air settling over the city. Students strolled past, their conversations blending into the background hum of normalcy, of a life Jaehyun had never been part of.

But his world was silent.

Because at the end of the path, standing on the steps of a grand old university building, was her.

(Y/N).

He could barely recognize her.

Not because she looked different—no, she was still the same girl who had haunted his dreams, the same girl who had made him feel something even before he realized he was capable of it.

But because she was free.

She wasn’t the girl trapped in SM City, suffocating under the weight of expectations she never asked for. She wasn’t the girl desperately trying to hold together a life that was unraveling at the seams.

She was radiant— and so heartbreakingly beautiful that it made his chest ache

The evening sun cast a golden glow on her skin, her hair catching the light just right. She was speaking to someone, her laughter drifting through the air like music. And for a moment, Jaehyun couldn’t move.

Because how the hell was he supposed to walk up to her when she had done exactly what he always wanted for her?

She had moved on.

Jaehyun swallowed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. He had played out this moment in his head a thousand times. Had rehearsed what he would say, how he would explain, how he would tell her that not a single day had passed without her name pressed against his ribs like a prayer.

But now that she was standing in front of him, just a few feet away, all he could do was stand there, frozen in the agony of uncertainty.

What if she didn’t want to see him?

What if she had forgotten him?

What if she had healed, and he was nothing more than an old wound she didn’t want to reopen?

But then—

She turned.

And her eyes met his.

For a second, nothing happened.

The world stood still.

Jaehyun wasn’t sure if he was still breathing.

But then her lips parted, and he saw her eyes—those same eyes he had dreamt about for three years, the eyes that had once held every secret part of him— widened. The way her entire body reacted to the sight of him. The way her fingers trembled, the way her chest rose and fell a little too quickly.

And for one agonizing second, neither of them moved.

The world stretched impossibly wide between them.

And then, without warning—

She ran.

Straight toward him.

Jaehyun barely had time to react, breath knocked from his lungs as her arms wrapped around him, her body colliding against his with a force that felt like a lifetime of longing compressed into a single second.

And suddenly, he was eighteen again.

Holding her like she was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.

(Y/N) was crying—sobbing against his shoulder, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt like she was afraid he would disappear if she let go. And Jaehyun—Jaehyun was shaking.

Because after all these years, after all the distance, after all the pain—he had found his way back to her.

His arms tightened around her, his fingers tangling in her hair as he pressed his face into her shoulder, breathing her in, grounding himself in the reality that this was real.

She was real.

She was here.

“I—” Her voice broke as she pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his like she was trying to understand if he was truly standing in front of her. “I thought— I thought you—”

Jaehyun exhaled shakily, brushing his fingers against her cheek, his heart breaking at the way she leaned into his touch like she had been starving for it.

“I know,” he whispered. “I know.”

(Y/N) sucked in a breath, her hands moving to cup his face, her thumbs tracing over his jaw like she couldn’t believe he was real.

“I tried to call you,” she choked out. “That night. When I found out I was leaving. I tried, but you never—”

Jaehyun’s heart clenched. “I never got them.”

Her lips quivered.

“Jaehyun…”

A pause. A second of hesitation, of uncertainty.

Then, Jaehyun let out a soft breath, his fingers brushing through her hair, tucking a strand behind her ear with the gentlest touch.

“It’s Yoonoh now,” he murmured.

Her breath hitched.

(Y/N) hadn’t heard that name in years. And the last time she had, he had begged her not to call him that—had told her that Jaehyun was all he had left.

But now… now he was choosing it.

Choosing to be himself again. Choosing her.

Tears welled in her eyes, overflowing before she could stop them. Her lips trembled, a choked laugh escaping her as she buried her face in his chest, gripping onto him as if the weight of his words had made her legs give out.

Jaehyun—Yoonoh—smiled, pressing a soft kiss to the crown of her head, his arms pulling her impossibly closer.

“Angel,” he whispered.

A sob broke from her throat.

He had never stopped calling her that.

Even now, after all this time, after everything, she was still his Angel.

She pulled back slightly, just enough to look at him, her hands still cradling his face.

“You came back.”

Jaehyun swallowed, his voice raw. “I never stopped looking for you.” His lips found the top of her head, pressing a lingering, shaky kiss into her hair, his fingers trailing up and down her back. "I left. Sooman it's down. I'm not part of Neo Zone anymore. I have a new life— there's nothing helding me down anymore."

Her lips trembled. “And now?”

His thumb brushed away a tear that rolled down her cheek.

“Now?” He let out a shaky breath, pressing his forehead against hers, his eyes never leaving hers.

“Now I’m here to say that I love you. That I have always love you..”

And when their lips met, it wasn’t just a kiss.

It was a homecoming. It was every unsaid word, every missed moment, every aching, desperate wish they had ever whispered into the dark, answered in a single breath.

It was the universe setting itself right.

It was the answer to every prayer they had ever whispered in the silence.

They had spent years running.

But in the end, they had always been meant to find their way back.

And this time, Yoonoh wasn’t going to let go.

a/n: NOT PROOFEAD! Yes! I finally give you fluff. And you know what? They both healed. So that's all that matters. So yeah, this is the end of I like me better when i'm with you. I'm thinking about add bonus scenes like time-stamps or headcanons, but i'm not sure... but for now that's the end. I'd love to know what you think about the whole series so far. Thank you for giving this story a chance. I'm sorry about the slow-burn and the push-pull and push dynamics but i really love drama. I'm so grateful to get to this point.

taglist: @peachfulnight @gojoscumslut @bluedbliss @dear-97 @girlwholovespreppyattire @hana-off-icial @cigarettesafterjae @bts-iris @dojaejung @methneo @kriizztin @mrsuhnshine @pieddpiperr @completelyjae @kanekisheart @daegalismybiasinnct @spicyryujin@dear-97

idk why some of the tags just don’t work out!but we still gonna see each other later or tomorrow for the epilogue!

Feel free to send any asks here if you want!

[yongilityreposts]

NEO TV # i like me better when i'm with you ꗃ╭╯ jung jaehyun.

──────── chapter ⵌ10 (the final) : a prayer for the damned.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / gang au / rich kid au / e2l

𒄬 warnings for this chapter: it's the end / fights / mental manipulation / use of weapons aka knifes and guns / gunshots / mention of blood and bleeding / this whole ahh chapter it's angst, angst and more angst (you might hate me but i promise i'll make it better)— wait for the epilogue please. 𒄬 word count: 6k

The night before— of the exchange. it all comes down to this moment.

The warehouse felt like the closest thing to hell.

It felt like an extension of his soul— an abyss, suffocating, suffused with the smell of rust and decay, mirroring everything Jaehyun had become. Everything he had done. Every bad decision he had ever made. It was as though the very walls of this place absorbed the sins he carried, mocking him, daring him to escape them.

The car was a furnace, stifling. The air around him was thick— saturated with something he couldn't name, but which weighed on him, sinking into the marrow of his bones, making it harder to breathe, harder to think. He gripped the wheel with a force that made his fingers ache, the knuckles turning an agonizing white, his palms slick with sweat. As though holding on this tightly could stop everything from unraveling. As though gripping so hard could stop the inevitable. But it was too late. He knew that. He could feel it.

He dragged in a breath, slow and controlled, as though his lungs had forgotten how to fill themselves. But even as the air slid into him, it didn't help. It couldn't help. He couldn't shake the tremor in his chest, the suffocating weight pressing down on him. The silence outside wasn't the comforting kind. It wasn't the kind that wrapped you in peace. No, this was the kind of silence that felt like a warning— like the pause before everything you had ever known was torn apart.

His heart thudded erratically against his ribs, beating too fast, too hard— each pulse a hammering reminder of the time ticking away. He could feel his own blood rushing in his veins, rushing to his head, flooding him with a heat that made his whole body tremble.

He moved his fingers, almost in a daze, brushing the GPS device hidden beneath his clothes. It was there. It was still working. The small device pressed against his skin like a tiny time bomb, reminding him of the lies he was about to live, the truth he was about to bury.

The microphone under his shirt was on, waiting. Listening. Baekhyun would hear every breath, every word, every sound. The team of agents would be in place— waiting for him to lead them into the lion's den.

His family should be safe. That was the plan. It was supposed to be foolproof.

So why did everything feel like a death sentence?

His instincts had always been sharp. They had always been his guide. But right now, every instinct in him was screaming. Screaming for him to run, to turn around, to stop the madness. But it was too late.

Jaehyun squeezed his eyes shut, trying to fight off the ache in his head, the pain in his chest. He could feel it intensifying— the pressure, the weight of everything he was carrying, the crushing realization that this was it. The end. This had never been a choice. It had never been an escape. This was just a countdown to his own grave. And deep down, he knew, with chilling certainty, that when they buried him tonight, there wouldn't be enough left to mourn.

He hadn't been afraid of dying. Not really. Not after everything he had been through. Not after losing his father, after losing Winwin, after losing everything that had once made him feel human. Death didn't scare him anymore. What scared him was knowing that his family would be left with nothing but the ashes of a man who had failed them. The ghosts that would follow them— ghosts that he would never be able to protect them from.

He wasn't a religious man. He hadn't been for a long time.

Maybe he had been, once— back when he still believed in salvation. Back when he thought there was a way out. Back when he thought prayers meant something. But that was before he learned the truth about this world. Before he understood that hope and faith wouldn't stop a bullet, that love couldn't save you from the mess you created.

But tonight... tonight was different.

For the first time in years, Jaehyun found himself praying. But it wasn't for him. It wasn't for the hollow shell of a man he had become.

He prayed for them. For his family. For the ones he still loved, even though he knew it was too late to fix anything. For the people who would suffer for his failures.

He prayed for every part of him that had already died. For the pieces of him that were buried under years of violence, betrayal, and regret.

And he prayed for her.

(Y/N).

If the Universe had been cruel enough to make him love her, then he only asked one thing: let her forgive him. Let her heal from the damage he had done. Because if she couldn't be his in this life, if the weight of the past and the ghosts that haunted him were too much to let him be the man she deserved, then maybe, just maybe, the Universe would let them be together in the next life.

His chest tightened. The thought of her— her face, her laugh, her warmth— it burned him more than he could handle. He had never been this honest with himself. He had spent so long building walls, keeping everyone at arm's length, but she— she had seen through them. She had seen him, not as Jaehyun, the monster, the failure everyone else saw in him— but as Jung Yoonoh, the person he had buried deep inside. She loved him for who he was. And it had broken him in the most painful way.

But now— now he had to let her go. For her sake. For the sake of the life she deserved. He couldn't drag her any deeper into his hell.

With a shuddering breath, he forced his gaze up, staring at the ceiling of the car, as if somehow it could offer him a sliver of comfort. He murmured something under his breath, something so quiet it was barely a whisper. A prayer. A plea. But it wasn't for him. It wasn't for his redemption.

He asked for it to let him end this hell once and for all.

Jaehyun didn't need to be a genius to know it. Even before he stepped foot inside the warehouse, he knew. Because the air felt wrong, thick, unnervingly still.

The lights above him flickered faintly, casting shadows that stretched like crooked fingers across the walls. It was dark, as if the place were holding its breath.

His jaw tightened. His stomach twisted— and when he tilted his head toward the door, lit only by the sliver of moonlight that spilled through the window, his body stiffened, muscles locking into place as a cold, slow terror crawled up his spine.

Because there he was.

Sooman.

Waiting.

Standing by a pile of crates with his hands in his pockets, his pristine suit untouched by the grime of this place— as if he hadn't already decided how tonight would end.

Their eyes locked. A silent battle, one that didn't need explanation— thoughts, memories, emotions buried deep within those two sets of eyes, speaking to each other without words.

When Jaehyun dared to look away and acknowledge the silhouettes lurking in the shadows, he knew. The men surrounding the warehouse weren't just guards.

They weren't looking at him. They were waiting. For a signal. For a shot. For an end.

Jaehyun knew a trap when he saw one. And this place? This was nothing but one— a damn trap.

"You're late," Sooman's voice sliced through the silence like a blade, drawing Jaehyun's gaze back to him. He fought to hold his stare, forcing himself not to break.

No emotion. No shout.

Sooman shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, feigning casual control.

Baekhyun should be listening.

"I didn't think we were in a rush," Jaehyun replied, his voice calm despite the storm brewing inside.

Sooman chuckled, shaking his head.

"Always so quick with that mouth of yours." His smile twisted. "It's a real shame."

Jaehyun gave nothing. No reaction. Sooman hummed, taking a step forward, the click of his polished shoes echoing on the floor like a countdown.

"You know what this is, don't you?"

Jaehyun stood still. "Clearly, it's not the exchange."

And the only answer he received was a smile.

"You've always known how to read the room, Jaehyun." Another smile, another step forward. His legs shook. "I'll admit—" Sooman exhaled, sounding almost disappointed. "—I never thought it would end like this."

"End like what?" Jaehyun asked, his chest tight.

Sooman tilted his head, his grin stretching impossibly wider.

And then he laughed.

"Like your father."

Jaehyun's blood turned to ice. "You think I don't see it?" Sooman's voice was light, but each word cut deep, sharp as a blade. "The way you look at me now? The way you pull away?" Jaehyun stopped breathing. "It's the same way he did."

Jaehyun's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms until his skin screamed.

"You had a great future with the gang, Jaehyun. You really did. I gave you everything. Trust, advice, a place in the family." Sooman's smile faded, his eyes darkening. "But words spread fast, and secrets don't stay buried forever."

"Let's not talk about trust," Jaehyun shot back, his voice bitter, but he was cut off.

"Your father thought he could be better than me. That he could improve the path of Neo Zone— that he could betray me and live to tell the tale." Jaehyun could swear his hands were bleeding from how hard he was clenching them.

"And you?" Sooman laughed. "You're just like him." Jaehyun's vision blurred. "But that's something you already know, right?"

Silence.

And then, with the weight of everything crashing down on him, Jaehyun exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

"My father was better than you."

Sooman's eyes darkened, and Jaehyun took a slow step forward, challenging.

"You want to talk about betrayal?" His voice was cold. Unforgiving. "You're the traitor. Killing your men. Using them. Making them think they owe you their lives—"

Sooman's jaw tightened.

"But the second they're no use to you. The second we're no use to you. You put a bullet in our heads."

A slow, cold chuckle.

And then— a gun.

The click of the safety felt like a death sentence— Jaehyun's breath stilled. Sooman raised the gun, aiming it at his chest.

"Look me in the face, Jaehyun."

He did. Cold, dark eyes staring back, his smile breaking through the silence.

"You know, when I killed your father, you cried in my arms." The lump in Jaehyun's throat grew painfully thick. "— like a baby. You cried in the arms of the man who put a bullet in your father's head."

And the world exploded.

Something inside Jaehyun snapped— it wasn't just anger. It was a deep, crushing, and consuming fury. And Sooman knew it. He could see it in Jaehyun's eyes.

And that only pleased him more.

"Ah, there it is." Sooman teased, his hand moving the gun slightly. "That look. The same look your father had before I finished him off." Jaehyun's breath quickened, the barrel of the gun now almost pressing into his jacket.

But Sooman wasn't done yet.

"Tell me, Jaehyun," he stepped closer, his voice a low whisper. "Did you really think you could get out of this? That I wouldn't know?"

Jaehyun didn't move— because he couldn't.

"Did you really think I wouldn't find out you were working with the police? You've always been so predictable— always pretending you're smart, but in the end? You're just another dog thinking it can bite the hand that feeds it."

One more word, and Jaehyun's hand would break from how tightly he was holding his fists.

"And Jeno?" Jaehyun's body stiffened, his eyes flashing with a flicker of fear. Sooman had him.

"You really think you could protect him?" A slow shake of his head. "Jaehyun, Jaehyun, Jaehyun... you don't get it, do you? Jeno is already one of us."

"Shut up."

The words hurt more than the bullet that was waiting to hit him.

Where the hell was Baekhyun?

"Maybe he hates you, but at least he knows his place— unlike you. Do you think he will cry your death? Just like you cried your father's?"

"You're a—"

"And Sicheng? Ha, you failed him too. Your best friend's rotting in a hospital bed for months, all because of what? Your stupid sense of loyalty?"

Stop. Stop. Stop.

What he hated most was how nothing seemed to leave his mouth.

And then came the final blow.

"She's been snooping too much, don't you think?" Sooman sighed, his tone dripping with mock disappointment. "People are starting to talk." Jaehyun's ears began to ring. "Maybe it's time to deal with her too."

And something inside Jaehyun shattered.

He lunged at Sooman before he could even think.

A blurry movement.

A flash of lead.

A click—

And then— a shot.

Pain seared through his ribs. The force pushed him back, his body stumbling as a burning sensation tore through his side.

His jacket was damp. Warm— and the blood...

"That was a warning." Sooman lowered the gun a little. "Now— let's try this again."

Jaehyun saw red.

"You're a bastard."

He didn't think. He didn't hesitate. He didn't care about the gun. The pain. The plan.

He wasn't going to be the only one to fall tonight.

He launched himself, and chaos erupted. Like a war that had been waiting to explode, one that could never be stopped. Jaehyun collided with Sooman, scrambling for the gun.

BANG—

A stray bullet.

And with the sound of metal against concrete, the gun skittered away, sliding across the floor.

Jaehyun's breath was ragged, his heart pounding in his ribs as his body reacted to the punch Sooman threw at his jaw— barely enough time to react when another hit landed in his side, the bullet wound flaring up in agony, causing a guttural scream.

The warehouse air was thick with tension, the faint hum of distant machines barely cutting through the sound of fists colliding with flesh. Jaehyun's breath came in ragged gasps, his body battered and bruised. The metal walls around him echoed every strike, the harsh clanging of steel and bone ringing in his ears. Sooman stood opposite him, a twisted smile on his lips as he wiped blood from his lip, never once breaking his stride.

"You're still here, Jaehyun? I thought you'd be gone by now."

Jaehyun growled, his fists tightening as he lunged forward, throwing a quick jab to Sooman's jaw. It landed with a sickening thud, but Sooman barely flinched. Instead, he grinned wider, dark amusement flickering in his eyes.

"That's the spirit. Too bad it's useless now." Sooman countered, his fist crashing into Jaehyun's ribs. The pain was sharp, instant, and all-consuming. Jaehyun stumbled back, gasping for air, but he didn't fall. He couldn't fall.

Sooman took a step forward, grabbing Jaehyun by the collar and slamming him into a nearby metal crate. The force rattled Jaehyun's skull, and for a moment, everything around him blurred.

"Your father wasn't even able to protect you. You think you can?" Sooman's voice was a taunting whisper in his ear. "You're nothing but a little boy, Jaehyun. Always trying to play grown-up."

Jaehyun's mind flashed back to his father's words from years ago: "Protect Jeno. He'll look up to you one day. Make sure you have something worth looking up to." But what was he now? A broken mess, trapped in a world he couldn't escape from. A world he hated.

"I'm not like you, Sooman," Jaehyun spat, pushing against the crate to regain his footing, his voice a low growl. "I won't be your puppet anymore."

Sooman's expression faltered for just a moment, the first sign of frustration. He shoved Jaehyun hard, sending him sprawling across the ground. Jaehyun's vision blurred, his head spinning from the impact, but he fought the dizziness back. He couldn't let himself go down.

Sooman's footsteps echoed around him, slow and deliberate. "You're still just a kid, Jaehyun. Always trying to run away from the truth. You'll never escape this life. You'll die just like your father did—alone."

Jaehyun's hands trembled, his fingers sore from the pounding he'd taken. His body felt heavy, and with every breath, his muscles screamed in protest. But he refused to let go. He couldn't. Not now.

"You're wrong," Jaehyun grunted, pulling himself to his feet, wiping the blood from his mouth. "I'm not him. I'm not you."

He lunged forward again, this time with everything he had left. A desperate strike, his fist catching Sooman in the side. For a split second, Jaehyun felt the rush of victory—a brief flash of hope. But then, Sooman's fist found his gut, and the air was knocked from his lungs.

Jaehyun staggered back, his vision swimming. His body felt like it was made of stone, heavy and unyielding. But in the pain, he found something. A flicker. Something that drove him forward again.

His fists moved without thinking, each punch feeling like it was ripping him apart, but he kept going, kept fighting. The pain, the exhaustion, the doubt—it all blurred together.

Sooman's face twisted in frustration as Jaehyun landed another blow, this one cutting across his cheek. But the older man's anger boiled over, his attacks becoming more reckless, more vicious. "You think you can beat me? You're nothing but a little boy who doesn't know when to stop."

"I know exactly when to stop," Jaehyun muttered, but it was more to himself than to Sooman. "When it's over."

Sooman charged, and the two collided once more. Metal screeched as Jaehyun was thrown into a pile of rusted equipment, his back slamming against the sharp edges. He let out a pained grunt, but his mind was clear. He couldn't back down. Not now.

Sooman moved in, fury evident in his eyes. Jaehyun barely managed to block a wild swing, feeling the weight of the man's force behind each punch.

And then he landed a punch to Sooman's cheek, sending him stumbling. Jaehyun grabbed him by the collar, throwing him against the nearest wall.

A thin stream of blood dripped from Jaehyun's mouth.

Sooman coughed, spitting blood onto the floor— and then he laughed.

"Is that all you've got?"

Jaehyun's fingers dug into his throat.

"Go to hell."

"After you, kid."

And the next thing Jaehyun knew— something sharp sliced through his shoulder.

A knife.

Sooman's knife.

Jaehyun staggered back, the pain shooting through his arm. The blade gleamed in the faint light as Sooman twisted it, making Jaehyun cry out.

"LET GO!"

The shout echoed through the warehouse. Jaehyun's vision blurred. Blood was pouring from his shoulder, staining the ground beneath him. But a glimmer of hope stirred in his chest as he heard it—the sound of heavy footsteps, the click of weapons being readied.

They were close.

Jaehyun barely had time to process it. His vision swam, his thoughts faltering, as he felt Sooman's grip tighten around the knife's handle. The blade shimmered in the dim light, moving toward Jaehyun's throat, and in that instant, the space between them seemed endless. Jaehyun's pulse thundered in his ears, and it wasn't just from the pain—it was the fear. The fear of dying here, without even a chance to redeem himself, to fix the mess he had made.

He was certain this was it. This was the end.

But then—

The sound of gunshots rang through the warehouse, echoing off the cold metal walls. Baekhyun and his team had arrived.

Sooman froze.

The echo of those gunshots felt like a distant memory, the sharp crack of the weapons like the sound of salvation ringing in Jaehyun's ears.

"Put your fucking hands up, Sooman!"

Baekhyun's voice rang out, unwavering, as the first wave of officers stormed into the warehouse. Jaehyun could barely focus, his vision swimming. He saw flashes of movement—uniformed officers rushing in from all sides, weapons drawn, eyes sharp with determination. They weren't here to negotiate; they were here to end this.

But Jaehyun wasn't sure if he was going to make it long enough to see it through.

"Jaehyun, stay with me." Baekhyun's voice cut through the chaos like a lifeline. Jaehyun's body wanted to collapse, but he held on, his hand still wrapped weakly around Sooman's collar, his knuckles white from the grip.

Sooman hissed through his teeth, pulling the knife back as though to strike again—but before he could, a shout rang through the air.

"Drop the weapon!"

A blur of motion. An officer moved forward, knocking Sooman's arm aside. In an instant, Sooman's knife clattered to the floor, the danger momentarily dissipating. Jaehyun's body slumped, his muscles no longer able to hold him upright. His legs gave out beneath him, and he crumpled to the ground, gasping for breath.

The pain in his shoulder and chest was blinding, but all Jaehyun could think about was the sound of Baekhyun's voice—so close, so real.

"Stay with me, Jaehyun. Stay the hell with me."

Jaehyun's vision wavered. He felt himself slipping into darkness, but there was something about Baekhyun's voice—something that anchored him to the present, something that told him there was still a chance.

Baekhyun was here. They were here.

The world tilted around him as Baekhyun knelt beside him, pulling him into his arms, the pressure on his chest almost unbearable.

"You did good, kid" Baekhyun said. Praying for Jaehyun's life. "Don't you dare close your eyes on me, Jaehyun. We've got him. We've got Sooman. Your family's safe. They're already on their way to another country. Do it for them."

Jaehyun's heart hammered in his chest, each beat growing weaker, his mind clouded. His eyes fluttered, the world blurring as Baekhyun's words seemed to echo in his mind.

"I can't..." Jaehyun muttered, the words barely escaping his lips. "I don't know if I can do it anymore..."

"You can. You can do this," Baekhyun urged, his grip firm on Jaehyun's shoulders as he helped him sit against the wall. His voice was raw, thick with a kind of emotion Jaehyun hadn't expected. "This isn't the end. We're going to fix this, I promise you. Stay with me."

But Jaehyun could feel the darkness tugging at him, could feel the weight of his body, the ache of his soul. His vision was dimming, the world around him fading into a cold silence.

A blur of memories crashed through his mind, sharp and unrelenting. The scene was too familiar—too much like that night seven years ago. But this time, it wasn't his father slipping away.

It was him.

And yet, even as the darkness closed in, the faces of those he loved refused to fade. Jeno, his mother, Sicheng—(Y/N)... they surged through his thoughts like a heartbeat, relentless, desperate. As if remembering them could anchor him here, could pull him back from the edge.

But he wasn't sure he had anything left to hold on to.

"You're not alone," Baekhyun whispered, just as Jaehyun's vision began to collapse into a blur of black.

And his prayers faded into the night.

The dawn after the setup.

(Y/N) felt like a prisoner in her own home.

For the past few days, her life had been reduced to tears that never seemed to stop. Because just when she thought she had no more left to cry, her body would prove her wrong—another wave would come, leaving her breathless, leaving her drowning.

Daeho was stable now. They had discharged him yesterday afternoon, and for a brief moment, she had felt relief. He was alive. He was safe. That should have been enough.

But it wasn't.

Because this morning, she was about to load her suitcases into the back of her family's Range Rover.

Her face was streaked with tears, red from exhaustion, from grief, from anger. Her chest ached, her throat burned from the countless fights, the desperate pleas, the hours spent screaming at walls that refused to listen.

It was official.

Her parents were sending her away.

And there was nothing she could do to stop it.

The sky outside was painted in shades of soft gray, the world caught in the fragile moment between night and morning. But inside, (Y/N)'s world was already falling apart.

She gripped the handle of her suitcase, her fingers trembling against the cold metal.

She didn't want to go.

Her body refused to move, her legs felt like lead, but outside, the Range Rover was waiting. The engine was on, her parents were waiting for her to get in, and every passing second felt like another nail sealing her fate.

Her chest felt too tight, her breath coming in uneven gasps as if she were suffocating.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

The world looked the same. But her world had already changed

Daeho stood beside her, hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture stiff with guilt. His face was still pale from the overdose, the dark circles under his eyes proof of the hell they had all just lived through.

"This isn't fair." Her voice was barely a whisper, but Daeho still heard it.

"I know."

The weight of everything pressed down on her chest.

She didn't just feel like she was leaving. She felt like she was being erased.

Her mind drifted back—to the streets she had walked a thousand times, to the skyline she had memorized, to the memories woven into every corner of this city.

She thought about Jungwoo.

The best friend who had been by her side since childhood. The one who had made her laugh even on her worst days. The one who had always known how to pull her back from the edge.

She had told him everything. About Jaehyun. About the way she felt.

And the night she found out she was leaving, he had held her while she cried.

"What am I supposed to do without you?" she had whispered, voice raw with heartbreak.

Jungwoo had smiled—a sad, knowing smile.

"You'll figure it out," he had said. "You always do."

But now, as she stood here, ripped away from the life she had built, from the people who made her feel whole—she wasn't so sure.

The night she found out she was leaving, she had tried.

Tried to call him. Tried to text him. Tried to reach him in any way she could.

But Jaehyun was nowhere.

Her messages went unanswered. The calls rang and rang before going straight to voicemail.

She had never felt more helpless.

Maybe he was avoiding her. Maybe he had already decided that it was better this way.

Or maybe... he never even saw her messages at all.

Either way, the silence spoke louder than words ever could.

And now, it was too late.

(Y/N) clenched her fists, nails digging into her palms as she fought to hold back the tears threatening to spill.

She had already lost the battle.

Daeho shifted beside her, his gaze lowered to the ground.

"I'm sorry," he murmured. His voice was quiet, but the weight of it was crushing.

(Y/N) swallowed hard, turning to look at him, her throat burning.

"This isn't your fault." But even as she said it, they both knew it wasn't true.

If Daeho had never fallen into that spiral, if he had never overdosed—maybe their parents wouldn't have made this decision. Maybe she wouldn't be standing here, forced to leave behind everything.

"I should've been stronger," Daeho admitted, his voice cracking. He finally looked at her, eyes glassy, full of regret. "I should've handled things differently. Maybe then—maybe you wouldn't have to go."

Her lips trembled.

"I don't want to go."

Maybe if things had been different... Maybe if Daeho had been okay... Maybe if Jaehyun had answered the phone...

Maybe she wouldn't be standing here, saying goodbye to everything she loved.

The driver asked them to get in the car politely.

It was time.

Daeho gave her a small, broken smile.

"We'll be okay, right?" he asked.

(Y/N) swallowed hard.

"I hope so."

She turned, took one last look at the house, at the city beyond it.

At the life she was leaving behind.

And then she got in the car.

She didn't look back.

Because if she did—she knew she wouldn't be able to leave.

The car hummed steadily as it rolled down the street, the low sound of the tires against the pavement oddly comforting in the midst of the storm inside her chest. (Y/N) leaned her forehead against the cold window, watching the city slip away from her, each passing building another piece of her life she was leaving behind.

Her throat was tight, her chest aching as the weight of it all settled deeper inside her, making it hard to breathe, hard to think. She couldn't escape the feeling that everything she had loved, everything that had ever made her feel like she belonged, was being ripped from her. It felt like she was suffocating, the air heavy with the bitter taste of regret.

Beside her, Daeho stared out the window too, his expression empty, like he'd already gone somewhere far beyond the confines of the car. He hadn't said a word since they left, and neither had she. There was nothing left to say.

But the silence, deafening as it was, didn't give her any peace.

Her mind drifted to the night before. To the phone calls she had tried to make, to the desperate messages she had sent, to the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, Jaehyun would answer.

But nothing.

His silence felt like a slap in the face. The unanswered calls, the unread messages—it hurt in a way that felt wrong, almost cruel.

She felt stupid for even thinking it, but part of her couldn't help it. Jaehyun had been so close. They had shared something real, something that had burned so brightly she thought it could survive anything. But now it felt like a distant memory, a dream she would never wake up from.

If she could just talk to him, tell him everything—tell him she was sorry for leaving—maybe things could have been different. But she would never get that chance now.

Her fingers tightened around her seatbelt, her mind spinning with all the things left unsaid.

The car had been quiet for what felt like hours, the air inside thick with unspoken words, with tension that neither of them seemed to know how to break. The city was far behind them now, the skyline a distant memory in the rearview mirror, swallowed by the horizon. And the weight of it all pressed down harder with each mile.

(Y/N) didn't look out the window anymore. She couldn't. There was no point in watching the city she loved disappear. It was as though the farther she went, the more she faded from it.

Daeho shifted beside her, his face still pale from everything that had happened. He hadn't spoken since they left the house, but his presence next to her was a reminder of everything she was leaving behind. Everything she didn't want to leave.

The Range Rover pulled into the airport parking lot, the sudden noise of it startling in the midst of their silence.

It was real now.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of her phone buzzing in her pocket. Her heart skipped. Jaehyun? She quickly pulled it out, fingers trembling as she unlocked the screen. It was a message, but from Jaehyun? She swallowed hard and tapped it open.

It wasn't from him.

6:45 am - Jungwoo— have a good flight, bestie. I promise to visit you once you settle down.

"Are you okay?" Daeho's voice was soft as he stood beside her, watching her face, sensing the tension that held her in place. She nodded, though the anxiety bubbling inside her made her feel anything but okay.

She forced a smile, not wanting him to see how fragile she really was. "Yeah, I'm fine."

She didn't mean it. She wasn't fine. She hadn't been fine for days, weeks, maybe even longer. She missed Jaehyun more than she could put into words. But right now, standing at the edge of her own escape, all she could feel was the silence. He wasn't there. He wasn't answering, and she didn't know why.

She clenched her fists at her sides, willing the tears back. She couldn't break down now, not when everything was finally set in motion. Not when she was leaving it all behind—her family, her life, her love.

(Y/N) took a deep breath and walked toward the gate, feeling as if each step was a small betrayal of everything she cared about. She had been waiting for a sign, for something to pull her back, to tell her that Jaehyun was still there, that he wasn't completely lost to her. But the silence remained, deafening, suffocating.

It was too late.

She reached the boarding gate, her stomach twisting with every passing moment. And still, no call. No message. No word from Jaehyun. Just the bitter emptiness that had taken root in her chest.

She looked down at her phone again, scrolling through her contacts, her thumb hovering over Jaehyun's name. She could try one more time. She could reach out again, maybe this time, he'd pick up. Maybe he'd explain. But she didn't.

She couldn't.

Every time she reached out, it felt like he was farther away.

The plane was waiting, the final call ringing through the terminal, and (Y/N) stood frozen in the silence that felt like it was swallowing her whole.

As the plane took off, rising into the morning sky, (Y/N) looked out the window, a deep ache consuming her. She was leaving, yes, but it didn't feel like freedom. It felt like loss.

And Jaehyun? She didn't know where he was. What he was doing. All she knew was that he was no longer reaching out.

Her heart was still tangled in a web of longing and regret, but she knew one thing: she needed to survive. She had to.

And when the time came, when the distance between them was finally bridged, she would find herself again.

But for now, all she could do was walk forward. She would take the first step toward healing, even if she didn't know where it would lead her.

And she prayed. She asked the Universe to let her find a way back to him.

— In this lifetime.

a/n: NOT PROOFEAD! Okay, yes this is the last chapter— I'M SORRY. I know it's pure angst. I KNOW, but fot what is worth it, WE STILL HAVE THE EPILOGUE LEFT. Which i'm gonna post it between tonight or tomorrow morning. It might be the final chapter here— but we still have a part left, so what do you think it'll happen? I'm promise it's not that bad. I wanna see what you think so far, so you can leave a comment or talk to me here. I want to specify that (Y/N) doesn't know what happened to Jaehyun, so maybe that leave us some hope for the epilogue?

taglist: @peachfulnight @gojoscumslut @bluedbliss @dear-97 @girlwholovespreppyattire @hana-off-icial @cigarettesafterjae @bts-iris @dojaejung @methneo @kriizztin @mrsuhnshine @pieddpiperr @completelyjae @kanekisheart @daegalismybiasinnct @spicyryujin@dear-97

idk why some of the tags just don’t work out! but we still gonna see each other later or tomorrow for the epilogue!

Feel free to send any asks here if you want!

[yongilityreposts]

#yongility

NEO TV # i like me better when i'm with you ꗃ╭╯ jung jaehyun. ──────── ⵌ MASTERLIST.

𒄬 genre: slowburn / angst / suggestive / gang au / rich kid au / e2l 𒄬 prologue:

The first time (Y/N) met Jung Jaehyun, he reeked of cigarette smoke and trouble. Leather jacket slung over his shoulders, knuckles bruised from a fight he didn’t bother explaining, a smirk that belonged to someone who had already lost too much. The kind of boy mothers warned their daughters about. And yet— She still let him in. Still traced the scars on his hands, still kissed the taste of mint cigarettes from his lips, still held onto the illusion that he could be more than the violence that shaped him. But Neo Zone didn’t let people go. And neither did the ghosts that haunted him.

𓍢 ⌗ chapter #1: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ the boy with bloddy knuckes. 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #2: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ shadows don't let go. 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #3: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ the price of loyalty. 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #4: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ silent screams. 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #5: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ a world without us. 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #6: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ the chains you can't see 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #7: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ a way out. 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #8: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ ghosts of the past. 𓍢 ⌗ chapter #9: 𓈒 𓆇 ━━ the choices of a (dead) man.

☆ more..!

𒄬 warnings:

drug use mention / gang activity / fights / use of weapons / adult language / nsfw scenes / illegal activities / mentions of cheating / toxic family enviroment / addictions / manipulation / insecurities / push and pull dynamic / illegal street racing / death mentions / jeno is jaehyun's brother / lots of angst.

[yongilityreposts]

so this is the blog I moved a while ago… check it out c:

ᑎEO Tᐯ # 𝐘𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

♯┆about me .ᐟ

﹒＞＜﹐call me nina | 21yo | jaeyong and mark biased. ateez stan.

♯┆ asks here. !

⌗ . ᵎᵎ ⸝⸝ www. stories... loading .ᐟ

jung jaehyun # i like me better when i'm with you | bad boy au, rich kid au — e2l ⊂⊃﹒full masterlist.

lee taeyong # rockabye | ceo au, single dad au, strangers to lovers. ⊂⊃﹒full masterlist.

──────── ⵌ upcoming stories…coming soon !

mark lee # eighteen | one shot | lovers to strangers.

♯┆ more to be announced !

posting for ateez soon !

[yongilityreposts]

[yongilityreposts]

NEO TV # I LIKE ME BETTER WHEN I'M WITH YOU. (jaehyun x reader)

genre: angst, suggestive, gang au, rich kid au, enemies to lovers (kinda), a lil of fluffy stuff.

warnings: drug use mentions, gangs, fights, use of weapons, adult language, illegal activities, cheating (not on the main couple), toxic family environment, addictions, manipulation, insecurities, illegal street racing, death mentions. jeno is jaehyun's younger brother, angst, smut and if I slip something my bad haha.

word count: 10k?

a/n: I’m a sucker for cliche stuff so as soon as this fic popped in my mind I had to write it down, english isn’t my first language tho.

if you want to be in the taglist, just lemme know;) enjoy!

At SM City, things were simple.

Either you were born on the North side of the city where everything was filled with luxuries, privileges, incredible status, and the newest and most expensive things in the world, or you were born on the South side, where your childhood and adolescence could never be enjoyed because you would live surrounded by illegal businesses, in which eventually you would end up being a part of even if you didn't want to.

There was no third option.

There never was, and it wasn't expected that there would be.

SM City was radiant and beautiful... as long as you were in the Kwangya area because as soon as you set foot in the Neo Zone; things turned completely dark. Things were not always like this precisely; at some point in the past, despite the notorious differences between these two areas, Kwangya and Neo Zone had a synchrony that created an almost perfect balance and kept the city in maximum beauty.

But it was impossible to keep things that way.

Being part of the North side had its advantages: wealth, privilege, extravagant parties, designer clothes, and everything anyone could want, it would be in their hands as soon as they asked for it. Did you want a trip to the other side of the world? Done. Did you want the latest Louis Vuitton outfit? Of course. Did you want the newest car? Okay. Having it was as easy as asking for it.

They only followed one rule: do not approach Neo Zone unless your life depended on it... which would never happen.

While growing up on the South side was something peculiar. It didn't matter what you dreamed of, it didn't matter your future aspirations or your talents. Just by being born in Neo Zone; your life was already prescribed.

You would end up becoming a drug dealer, a hitman, or anything that involved ilegal businesses. Those were your only options. There were no others.

Did you want to get out of Neo Zone? Yeah, good luck with that.

On the South side, bad moves, riots, and problems were so common now that residents were accustomed to it. They began to accept their life and what destiny had prepared for them, even if it wasn't what they wanted.

Your age didn't matter, nothing mattered; as soon as you turned fourteen years old, you started your initiation into the Neo Zone gang. Each person had a different initiation and they had to complete it if they wanted the support and respect of the other inhabitants of Neo Zone, if not... you would end up fighting for your life alone. Without anyone's help, without anyone's support, and ending up being a nobody.

Welcome to Neo Zone, where there is an area as bright and welcoming as day and another as cold and dark as night.

______________________________________________

SM City was a small city, which meant there had to be at least one place where the inhabitants of Kwangya and Neo Zone had to mix and live together, and that place was none other than the high school. They shared the hallways, shared classes, the cafeteria, and that was not pleasant for either side.

Despite the always existing differences between the south side and the north side, the one thing the Mayor couldn't deny Neo Zone was education for its youth, and even though there were protests from Kwangya's parents about that abrupt mix, the mayor's idea would never change.

Because deep inside, he believed that the power of education would change his students and turn those Neo Zone vandals into good and promising individuals.

However, this opportunity served a completely different purpose for the youth of Neo Zone.

Because... What better place to do their business when it was Friday and many were looking to have a bit of fun on their weekend? It was no secret that the youth of Kwangya would take any opportunity to squander their millions of wones on some party made every new weekend. A party surrounded by the most expensive alcohol, the most relaxing and crazy drugs, and surrounded by hormonal teenagers who spent their time having sex whenever possible.

Jung Jaehyun wished that his business was different.

The boy let out a heavy sigh, frustration evident as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, quickly glancing at his friend before returning his gaze to the slender boy in front of him, who had his head bowed, hands and lips trembling and sweat drops were running down his forehead from fear.

Anyone facing Lucas Wong and Jung Jaehyun would feel fear.

"Look dude, this is the third time this week that I've come to look for you" Jaehyun said with a deep voice.

"I know, I know. It's just that..."

"I don't want to hear another lame excuse, you've given me enough of those already" he interrupted, dangerously approaching and grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, clenching his fists in it "look, I'll make things clear to you; you owe money to my boss, that shit you asked for is expensive, do you get it? He gave you a week and a half to pay for it, and guess what? The deadline ended... how long ago, Lucas?"

"Five days ago" Lucas, who was standing just behind his friend with his arms crossed over his chest, answered, flexing his muscles.

"Right, five days ago" Jaehyun affirmed, then looked to the side where the boy's Tesla was parked. He huffed with a sideways smile and returned his gaze to him, shaking his head slightly. "Those drugs won't pay for themselves, and you know it. You had a deadline to give us the money, and my boss was kind enough to wait for your little delay, and guess what? He's not very happy about it" he continued explaining without releasing his grip. The boy in front of him swallowed hard and nodded. "Daeho, you're surrounded by money, how hard can it be for someone like you to pay a few wones for the drugs you enjoy so much at those damn parties you throw?" he received no response, only seeing fear in Daeho's eyes and the fact that he couldn't give a good answer was starting to bother him.

He pushed him slightly with the collar still in his hands. Jaehyun clenched his jaw, and Daehyun closed his eyes momentarily.

"Jaehyun, let him go, I think he gets it" Lucas intervened when he saw his friend's white knuckles from the tight grip and knowing that if Jaehyun's patience was pushed further, things wouldn't end well.

"Sorry, I'm really sorry" Daehyun nervously apologized.

— Being sorry won't do a shit... your car is new, isn't it?"

At Jaehyun's unexpected question, Daeho furrowed his brow and shifted his gaze to Lucas, who simply nodded, then looked back at Jaehyun and swallowed hard.

"Yes, it is."

"Hmm, I see" Jaehyun examined the car meticulously, then scoffed and looked back at Daehyun with a smirk. "It's incredible to know that you can afford a damn car that costs much, much more wones than the money you owe us."

"My... my dad paid for the car. The money... the money is from my parents" Daeho stammered "I can't ask my dad for money for drugs, he would kill me" Daeho explained, avoiding Jaehyun's gaze and receiving a stern look from him.

"You should have thought about that before asking for them, you shitty addict" Jaehyun muttered, and Lucas placed his hand on his friend's shoulder, trying to calm him down.

"Let me talk to him" he requested, and Jaehyun, looking back at Daeho, finally released his grip, stepping back a bit, allowing his friend to continue. "Alright, Daeho, here's how it is: you owe us, your deadline ended a while ago, we've come to look for you three times already, and no matter the excuses you keep making up, you still haven't paid us. We want the money tomorrow, or the next visit won't be us, but our boss personally. And if you fear an angry Jaehyun, you should fear our boss more" he clarified while giving some not-so-gentle pats on his back.

"Tomorrow, at eight sharp, we want the money" Jaehyun announced, getting closer to the boy again.

"Tomorrow is Saturday, there's no school. Where am I supposed to give you the money?" Daeho asked, confused.

"We've looked for you several times, haven't we?" he questioned, not getting a response. "Haven't we?

"Yes."

"Good, tomorrow we have a race. Go to Neo Zone's main street and find us, we want the money with you" he requested, still smiling.

"Jaehyun..." Lucas called, and he shook his head.

"No Yukhei, we've given him many chances" he declared, approaching Daeho "Next time, you should think twice before asking us for more drugs if you won't pay on time.

Jaehyun turned around to walk away from the boy with Lucas by his side, but suddenly he stopped and chuckled. Returning to Daeho, he gave him a smile that made him even more nervous. Jaehyun looked around, making sure they were the only three people in the parking lot, and before Lucas could say or do anything, Jaehyun's fist hit Daeho's stomach, making him cough and place his hands on his abdomen, letting out groans of pain.

"Next time, don't play with us, you little brat" Jaehyun patted his back and winked.

Lucas hurried to take his friend by the arm and lead him away while muttering curses. They walked together to Jaehyun's car, and once they arrived, they got in. Lucas let out a heavy sigh as he shook his head, looking at his friend.

"I don't want to listen to you" Jaehyun spoke as he leaned back in his seat.

"We came to give him a little scare so he'd pay up, not for you to beat him up and ask for the money at tomorrow's race. Are you nuts?" Lucas asked, looking at him with disdain. "If Daeho goes to Neo Zone, they'll tear him apart, and you know it. As soon as he sets foot there, they'll know he's from Kwangya, and he won't be welcomed with flowers and claps."

"I gave him plenty of chances, and he didn't take them. Whatever happens to him next is not my problem," murmured Jaehyun as he tapped the steering wheel with his thumb. "Look, Lucas, I sold him the stuff, I asked the boss to give him a week and a half to pay, and now that he hasn't, the boss is getting on my nerves. He either pays or I make him pay. It's that simple."

His friend sighed and scratched his head as he looked out the window.

"At least make sure he doesn't have a rough time tomorrow."

Jaehyun scoffed. "Whatever. I couldn't care less about that rich boy"

____________________________________________

(Y/N) opened the large door of her house, and before she could say anything, Daeho took her by the arm and started walking with her trailing behind him. (Y/N) furrowed her brows and followed the confused boy, who began to climb the stairs and she almost stumbled trying to keep up with his pace. Her cousin continued the journey, then entered her room and locked the door. (Y/N) sat on her bed, breathing heavily, and gave a disapproving look to the boy in front of her.

"Could you stop acting like a damn paranoid and tell me what's going on?"

Just over half an hour ago, when she had arrived home from school, Daeho had called her sounding a bit nervous and asking if her parents were home. (Y/N) asked for the reason for his state, but he simply replied saying that he would come to her house and explain everything in there.

And not knowing what was going on was also making her nervous.

"Okay, it may sound strange, but I really need your help," Daeho pleaded, looking at his cousin with a plea in his eyes.

She looked at him confused and tilted her head, trying to decipher the look of the boy in front of her.

"What did you do this time, Daeho?" (Y/N) asked. "I'm not going to lie to your parents again if that's what you want."

"No, that's not it," he hurriedly replied.

"Then what is it?" she asked, crossing her arms.

They had grown up together, sharing everything from an early age. Wherever Daeho did... (Y/N) would also. Did she enroll in music lessons? Well, Daeho did too. Did he want to go to a summer camp? (Y/N) did too. They did everything together, they were always there for each other, and that's why they knew each other so well, too well, and every time Daeho said he needed help, (Y/N) couldn't help but to feel anxious. Her cousin always found a way to get into trouble, and the person who was always there to get him out of trouble was none other than his dear cousin.

"Hmm," Daeho scratched his head. "I need you to lend me some money," he said almost in a whisper, but loud enough for her to hear.

(Y/N) burst out laughing, and Daeho looked at her seriously, which made her realize that her cousin was not joking, and she furrowed her brow in confusion.

Of all the things she expected her cousin to ask for, money was the last thing on her mind.

Both families were among the wealthiest in the area. Their parents, being siblings, shared the same royalties in the family company. The same company that would soon be in their hands. Their parents were known for the international business they conducted, for the galas they organized to donate money to the city, and for the luxuries everyone knew they had. Money was never a problem for the Hwang families, so why was her cousin asking her for a loan?

"Money? Isn't it easier to borrow from your parents than from me?" she asked with a smirk.

"I can't ask them for money; I exceeded the limit for this week and now I'm grounded, they blocked my bank account for two weeks" he explained with frustration.

"Well then, how much money do you need?" she asked again.

"A few wones," he replied without looking at her.

"How much is 'a few wones'?"

Daeho sighed and nervously scratched his head before looking at her again. He closed his eyes for a moment and, without opening them, he replied, "545,000 wones."

(T/N) widened her eyes and then shook her head.

"545,000 wones?" she repeated, and he nodded. "What do you need that for?"

"It doesn't matter what it's for," he hurried to say.

"Well, it matters if you're asking me for a loan," she said simply.

The girl knew he could have expensive tastes, but she didn't know how he had exceeded his weekly money limit when the week wasn't even over yet, and he still needed more money. The same money he didn't want to ask his parents for.

So no, her cousin wasn't acting normal, and that worried her. First, he called her nervously asking if he could come to her house, then he took her to his room while asking if his parents weren't home, and now he asked her for money without intending to tell her what it was for.

What trouble did you get into, Hwang Daeho?

"If you don't tell me what you need the money for, I won't lend it to you," she warned him, and seeing that she didn't get a response, she got up from her seat and stood in front of her cousin, pointing a finger at his chest. "Fine, I won't give it to you, and I'll also tell my uncle that you asked me for money."

Daeho widened his eyes and shook his head hastily, taking his cousin's hands and looking at her with pleading eyes, pouting, and speaking, "Please, don't tell Dad, I don't need a lecture right now," she looked neutral, "(Y/N), please."

"Tell me what you need the money for, I won't tell anyone, and I'll lend you as much as you need. Even more, but be honest."

He sighed for the thousandth time that day and finally relented.

"It may or may not be that I asked for drugs..."

"What?" she interrupted. "Daeho, you told me you wouldn't use anymore," she said angrily.

"I'm sorry, okay?" he said, raising his hands defensively, "but we had that party two weeks ago, and I couldn't bear to spend a whole night with my parents and all those people asking me about my future, when I don't even know if I want to keep getting up every day!"

(Y/N) knew the pressure her cousin felt about his future because she felt the same pressure. Being the next in line for an international company left many people wishing, and every chance they got, they bombarded them with the same questions about it. Making both of them wonder if they were good enough to fill the big shoes their parents would leave behind. If they were capable enough to be the leaders their parents were. They knew they had carried that weight since they were little, that their lives were already determined from the moment they were in the womb. (Y/N) knew her place and her responsibilities. She was aware that any mistake she made would affect her future. She couldn't make any mistakes, not even one, or it would be the next topic at their father's business meetings.

Just like Daeho was.

She had always been like that; upright, responsible, making sure things went as they should. Almost perfect. The pressure was even greater on her, after all, many didn't trust her just because she was a woman. They believed that really the only one who could take over the company in the future was Daeho, and that hurt her pride because she tried. Really, she did. She put all her effort into that company, even when she was still in high school and didn't have time for her university career yet. However, from an early age, she was involved in the business world, she wanted to do more and be more. Because she needed to be the pride of her family. Her father's pride. There was nothing else she wanted more.

She wished she could shut people up.

And Daeho, on the other hand, was different. All eyes were on him, expecting him to be the only leader in the future, but Daeho hated everyone's attention.

Everyone's attention except his parents.

If there was one thing different between (Y/N) and Daeho's families, it was their parents. Daeho's parents were absent. They were always away on business trips, in the office, or anywhere but home. That was part of the reason why he was so close to (Y/N); during his childhood, he spent more time with his aunt and cousin than with his own parents. And that led him to do things that would catch their attention. Daeho was known as the rebel, yet people still expected a lot from him. He always threw parties whenever his parents were away on trips in the hope that they would return soon and spend time with him. He spent money on unnecessary things so that his parents would call him when they were away, and among all his needs to get their attention, it led him to drugs.

"(Y/N), I know I said I would quit it," the boy spoke again. "But believe me, right now it's the least of my worries. I need to pay for that stuff tomorrow, and I can't ask my parents," he explained impatiently.

"God, Daeho," she sighed. "Okay, I'll give it to you," she rolled her eyes and went to her bag, opened it, took out her wallet, took all the bills she had in there, then went to her desk and took a little more from one of her boxes. "Who do you owe the money to?"

Daeho swallowed hard at the question and looked at her guiltily.

"To... Jaehyun," he murmured, and she slapped her forehead with her hand.

Jung Yoonoh, or as many knew him: Jaehyun. If someone described him in simple words, it would be: leather jackets, tattoos, cigarettes, gangs, and drug deals. If she described Jaehyun, it would be with a single word: danger.

He wasn't just a drug dealer. Jaehyun was always in fights and in bad situations. Jaehyun participated in illegal races. He was the one who showed up to first period with bruised knuckles, a split lip, and a cigarette in his mouth. He was the one teachers respected – or rather feared – and never messed with him. He was the one you wouldn't look at for more than five seconds for fear that it might bother him, and things would end badly. Jaehyun screamed danger at its finest, and that caught the attention of many people.

However, if you wanted good stuff to have a good time, to escape your worries, or simply to annoy your parents, Jaehyun was the person you should go to. It wasn't a secret that he was one of the dealers at the high school. Hell, even the principal knew. Everyone did. He and his group of friends were the people you should stay away from if you wanted to be okay, the only reason you could or should communicate with them was to make a deal. Nothing else.

Being from Neo Zone, he was the last person you wanted to associate with, and there was Daeho, buying stuff from him, then owing him money, and asking her to lend it to him.

"Of all the people you could have asked for your damn drugs and then stay in debt, did it really have to be Jaehyun?" she asked with frustration, hitting him on the head. "You could have gone to that guy Taeyong. At least he has a bit more manners," Daeho lowered his gaze, and she sighed, "Okay, take the money and promise me... promise me that you'll never buy drugs again, much less from Jaehyun," she asked.

Daeho took the money from her hands and nodded with a smirk.

His cousin really was his savior.

"When do you have to give him the money?"

"Tomorrow," he replied as he put it in his wallet, looked at his cousin, and swallowed hard. "I might have to go to..."

"Please don't say Neo Zone, please don't say Neo Zone," she begged in whispers.

"Neo Zone," Daeho said again, lowering his gaze. His cousin covered her face with her hands while shaking her head vigorously. She sighed; why did her cousin always find a way to get into trouble? Revealing her face, she walked straight to her bed, where she threw herself onto it, grabbed her pillow, and put it on her own face before letting out a frustrated scream.

Daeho sat on the small couch in the room, looking at the money in his hands while thinking about all the possible scenarios that could happen the next day.

Of all the places her cousin could go, it had to be there... it had to be Neo Zone. She imagined what could happen as soon as he set foot there, and the thought that maybe her cousin wouldn't come out of there scared her. They had never set foot there; they didn't know for sure how things were done, but it was enough to hear the rumors about that area to fear it.

Now Daeho would go and get involved there.

And she would have to do something to make sure he came out with all his limbs intact.

She removed the pillow from her face and let out a heavy sigh, got up from the bed, and sat on it. She looked at her hands for a moment and anxiously played with her fingers. She thought about the words that would come out of her mouth: would she regret saying them? Possibly, could something go wrong? Maybe, but that's who she was. She would take care of her loved ones' lives before her own, because that's (Y/N) for you.

"I... I'll go with you," she said almost in a whisper. Daeho raised his eyes extremely quickly, almost panicked, looking at his cousin. He couldn't risk her, he couldn't put her in danger.

"(Y/N), you won't go. You'll stay here; we won't even argue about this," Daeho spoke, standing up and looking at her defiantly.

"It's my money you're carrying with you; I'm involved in this, and I'll go with you because I need to know that you'll be okay," she also said, standing up.

"Listen, me going to Neo Zone is already stupid and dangerous, you going with me is even more so I don't want to put you in danger; if something happens to me? Fine, it's under my responsibility, but I couldn't bear the guilt if you get hurt."

"Daeho, I won't let you go alone. We've always done things together. If you're in trouble, I want to help you. Just like you would if it was me," she explained, raising her voice.

"(Y/N), I really don't want to argue about this. You're not going..." he was interrupted.

"In one way or another, I'll go with you. Whether you want it or not ," she finished, crossing her arms.

Daeho looked at his cousin for a moment, analyzing her face. He knew that once she had made up her mind about something, there was no turning back. She was stubborn and determined, and if she had said she would go with him, she would.

He sighed and nodded.

"Fine, but I swear to you, (Y/N), if something happens to you, I'll never forgive myself," he said sincerely.

"Don't worry about me; worry about not making me regret going with you," she replied with a small smirk.

Daeho rolled his eyes and shook his head with a small smile.

Of course, his cousin was like that.

"You'll have to wear something less conspicuous," Daehyun spoke, breaking the moment.

"What do you mean by less conspicuous?" she asked, tilting her head.

He approached his cousin and put his hands on her shoulders, then looked her straight in the eyes.

"(Y/N), you can't go dressed like a rich girl. You'll attract too much attention, and it won't be good for you," he explained.

(Y/N) narrowed her eyes and shook her head, removing her cousin's hands from her shoulders.

"And what do you suggest?l she asked sarcastically.

Daeho smirked and shrugged.

"Just wear something that doesn't look like it costed you millions" he replied.

(Y/N) looked at her cousin incredulously and sighed.

What was she getting herself into now?

______________________________________________

(Y/N) took a quick look at the large mirror in her room and observed the clothes she had put on. Nothing extravagant, nothing expensive, nothing that screamed her social status. If she could keep a low profile, she would, and she hoped it would work.

She didn't know how to feel. Fear and nerves were running through her body and could be seen reflected in her eyes; her hands were sweating, and she had to wipe them on her pants, letting out a long, heavy sigh, trying to erase all the negative thoughts that came to her mind.

Would something happen to Daeho and her while they were in Neo Zone? She hoped not; she hoped they would just hand over the money and leave that place as soon as they could.

She grabbed her bag with her belongings inside and left her room as quietly as possible. She walked almost on tiptoe along the long hallway, passing her parents' room with great care and approaching the stairs. She checked the time on her wristwatch; it was seven thirty in the evening. The way to Neo Zone would take them about fifteen minutes, and hopefully, they would be there by the agreed time.

She cursed Jaehyun with all her being for getting them into this, but she cursed her own cousin even more for getting involved in these situations.

She began to descend the stairs, one by one and carefully. Her cousin was at the main entrance of the house, waiting for her, and the last thing she wanted right now was to run into one of her parents.

And it seemed that was exactly what she asked for.

"(Y/N)," her mother's voice was heard behind her from afar. "Where are you going?"

The girl closed her eyes for a brief moment and cursed under her breath. She adjusted her posture and turned around to see her mom leaning on the second-floor railing.

"Um, I'm going out with Daeho," she replied, moving her head slightly.

"Oh, has Daeho come?" her mother asked.

"Hmm yes, he's waiting for me outside," she replied.

"Well, where are you and Daeho going?" her mother asked again, this time getting closer to her daughter, descending the stairs and stopping before her.

(Y/N) swallowed hard. Lying to Daehyun's parents when he got into trouble was easy... lying to her own parents was something different. Very different. She tried not to move her hands anxiously as she always did, a movement that everyone in her family knew, something that betrayed her every time something happened.

She clenched one of her fists at her sides to avoid doing it and cleared her throat.

"Daeho said something about seeing a new movie and then going out to dinner. You know that my uncles are traveling this week, and you know how lonely Dae feels when they're not around," (Y/N) murmured the last part.

Her mother looked at her from above and squinted her eyes for a few seconds, then smiled as she nodded. She raised her hand and brought it to her daughter's cheek to stroke it slowly, causing her to hold her breath.

"Of course, dear. Keep your cousin company, offer to spend the night here so he doesn't feel lonely until your uncles arrive," she said, then pushed one of her hair strands behind her ear. She then gave her daughter a quick once-over and wrinkled her nose a bit. "Poor choice of clothing, dear. Too casual. Remember who you are; you can't go around like that... looking like a homeless. What will our associates say if they see you like this?" She put her hand on the girl's shoulder, feeling the fabric's material and wrinkled her nose.

(T/N) fought with herself not to roll her eyes right there and push her mother's hand away abruptly. She hated it when her mother told her what to do, what to wear, or what to say. She hated the phrase she always used against her, "remember who you are." It made her feel so small, as if her status or her way of acting were more special than what she thought. Than her own thoughts.

"Of course, mother," she replied simply, as she always did. No matter how many times she tried to gather the courage and say everything she felt... it never worked. Her mother's gaze would always manage to intimidate her, and she was tired of it.

She turned around to continue her way and walked through the entire place from the stairs to the main door. She left her house after a while, crossed the main yard until she reached the entrance. She greeted the security men with a simple nod, and they opened the doors for her to finally exit. Her cousin's Tesla was in front of her; as she got in, she saw Daeho tapping lightly on the steering wheel with one of his fingers.

"Why did you take so long?" Daeho asked impatiently.

"My mother stopped me as I was leaving my room," she replied, taking a deep breath.

Her cousin didn't reply; instead, he started the car and drove off. None of them spoke throughout the journey, possibly because of the anxiety it caused them. The city looked increasingly different as they approached the Neo Zone area. The streets were now darker and lonelier; (Y/N) could feel her chest pounding strongly. Her hands were sweating, and she felt a slight pressure on her chest.

May nothing go wrong tonight.

She shifted her gaze forward and finally could see the lights of Neo Zone in the distance. A few more minutes, and they would enter what would determine whether they would continue to live or not.

Was she being dramatic? It was just a part of the city. It couldn't be as bad as they painted it, right? Maybe everything they had heard from their parents or older people about that place was just an exaggeration.

Right?

She didn't even notice it. She didn't even feel when her cousin's car stopped. Daeho let out a sigh and lightly tapped the steering wheel in frustration.

"Well, we arrived on time," her cousin murmured, (Y/N) nodded, and they both got out of the car.

A few meters away from them, they could see a bunch of people. Some drinking, others smoking, others dancing, and others having passionate sessions with others. The music volume was loud, too loud for a public place. However, the car engines could be heard over it. Loud and clean. (Y/N) remembered Daeho mentioning that there would be a race... one that surely wouldn't be legal.

Daeho stood beside her, and they looked at each other. He nodded slightly, and together they began to blend in with the crowd. For a moment, they thought they had gone unnoticed. It seemed that many people were busy with their own business to even notice them.

Or so they thought.

(Y/N) stayed close to her cousin, who was leading the way for both of them. She bumped into some people from time to time, but none bothered to turn and look at them. It wasn't until Daeho felt a hand on his chest stopping him and causing (Y/N) stopped abruptly, colliding with her cousin's body.

"Oh, well," a deep voice spoke. "Who are you?" asked the broad-shouldered man. His arm muscles were large and with a particular tattoo. The Neo Zone one.

The girl swallowed fearfully and stayed behind her cousin.

Great. Just great.

"Excuse us," Daehyun spoke, trying to keep walking, but again the man stopped him.

"I hadn't seen you around here before," the man spoke again. "I repeat, who are you?"

(T/N) looked around, now seeing more people cornering them. The difference between them could be noticed. It was clear that neither she nor Daehyun fit in there. It was clear they weren't part of Neo Zone.

That had been a bad idea. A very bad idea.

Someone took her by the arm and separated her a bit from her cousin. They did the same with him. Placing him right in front of the big man, who impatiently awaited an answer.

"Aren't you the Hwangs?" someone asked from afar. Upon hearing her last name, (Y/N) turned her head to see who had spoken, seeing one of her schoolmates among the crowd.

She forgot that several people there attended the same school.

"Oh, the Hwangs?" the man questioned. "As the kids of Hwang Inc’s owners?”

Before anyone could even say anything. The crowd parted, and the tall figures of Jung Jaehyun along with Lucas Wong appeared. Jaehyun stood between the man and Daeho and smiled slightly, patting him on the shoulder.

"Calm down, Hanseok. They're with me," Jaehyun said firmly. He turned to look over his shoulder at the Hwang cousins and clicked his tongue.

"Hmm," the man, now known as Hanseok, looked at each boy and then at Jaehyun. "What are you doing associating with someone from Kwangya?" Hanseok approached the girl, and before he could get too close to her body, Jaehyun stopped him by placing his hand on his chest and Lucas slipping in front of her.

"Business," the boy replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to take him... take them to the boss," Jaehyun stopped looking at Hanseok and changed his gaze to the Hwang cousins. "Let's go."

Neither Daeho nor (Y/N) uttered a word. They both followed Jaehyun and Lucas, who were heading towards what seemed to be a garage, which was surrounded by cars and was dimly lit. (Y/N) swallowed hard and kept walking. Thanks to Hanseok, all eyes were on them. They could feel each of them staring at their bodies, watching them meticulously. Waiting for a wrong move to pounce on them and tear them apart.

The air was tense, and Jaehyun knew it.

Now he was having second thoughts about bringing Daeho here.

But screw it. Daeho had let him down. He owed money to his boss, and his boss was being a painful nuisance in his balls.

He glanced back to see the Hwang cousins; Daeho walking cautiously and (Y/N) behind him trying to look calm, although she actually looked like a scared little mouse.

He clicked his tongue and shook his head. The idea was to bring only one Hwang. Just Daeho, why did he bring his cousin along? Something wouldn't end well tonight.

“I don’t remember telling you that you could bring someone with you” Jaehyun said without looking back at them. “The deal was only you coming, not your cousin as well” they both could hear the anger in his voice”

And before Daeho could answer, she spoke “I tagged myself along” (Y/N) said. “It wasn’t Daeho’s idea”

“I thought someone like you would know better” he gave them a side smile and scoff”.

Lucas stood beside him, and both stopped when they reached the entrance of the garage. Two of his boss's bodyguards were guarding it and looked at them with superiority.

"Cheol Uk, the boss is waiting for us," Jaehyun explained, looking neutral.

"Only two people can enter," Cheol Uk replied nonchalantly. Jaehyun and Lucas looked at each other, and the former sighed. He nodded and turned to the Hwang cousins with no expression on his face.

"You brought the money with you, right?" he asked Daeho, who nodded eagerly. Jaehyun clicked his tongue and looked at Cheol Uk. "The boy and I will enter."

Daeho quickly turned to look at his cousin, and she could see a bit of panic in his eyes at the thought of leaving her alone, but she straightened up and smiled slightly, mouthing a "I'll be fine."

"Lucas will stay with her," Jaehyun told Daeho, who turned to look at the mentioned.

"I'll take care of her," he assured, approaching the girl and nodding at her.

Jaehyun gave Daeho a little push, and they both approached the entrance even more, the bodyguards inspected Daeho, making sure he didn't have any weapons with him, and once they saw he was clean, they allowed them to enter.

(Y/N) swallowed when she saw her cousin's body disappear through the entrance.

Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine.

She felt Lucas Wong's presence beside her. Both standing side by side, saying nothing, and the atmosphere was weird. (Y/N) began to play with her fingers unknowingly and moved one of her feet slightly. Lucas looked everywhere except at the girl. He didn't know what to say because the situation wasn't really the best. His boss was angry, and he knew what his boss was like when he was in that state, so he didn't want to make (Y/N) panic right there because he wouldn't know how to calm her down.

It had been a bad idea of Daeho to bring her here.

The brunette straightened her back and with a little curiosity, she looked around. The night had completely fallen by then, the full moon reflected on them, and the lights of the city and the place created a contrast. The music could still be heard even from where they were. And from there, in her position, she could be a perfect spectator of what that scenario was.

The car engines roared, the girls in mini skirts stood in the middle of the highway to announce the start of the race. The young people, who were also (Y/N)'s classmates, drank effusively as they moved their bodies to the rhythm of the music. Some had a cigarette between their lips, others brought their nostrils to what seemed to be a key and inhaled strongly from it, and their eyes widened when the substance was inside them.

Lucas let out a sigh that (Y/N) could perfectly hear, looking at him, she noticed how the boy put his hand in his jacket pocket and from there took out a small bag and some papers to roll. He placed the substance on the paper and rolled it carefully, then after a moment, brought it to his mouth and lit it. He inhaled deeply, furrowing his brow slightly, and slowly released the smoke from his lungs, causing it to reach the girl, who coughed when she smelled the smell of that substance reach her nostrils.

"Do you participate?" she asked, trying to break the ice.

"In what?"

"In the races."

"Sometimes," Lucas replied. "Not right now because I'm fixing my car, the last race didn't end well," he continued.

"Oh..."

"Jaehyun does it," the boy said as he took another drag of his cigarette, then offered it to the girl, who quickly declined. "He's one of the best in the area."

"Is it fun?... racing like that?" she questioned, looking at the highway.

"Yes, it is," he replied simply, bringing the cigarette to his lips, sucking slightly, and holding the smoke in his lungs. "It's really a stress reliever, and it's even more fun when you get the final prize," he released the smoke, and this time, he didn't receive a response from the girl, but she remained silent and continued to watch the show in front of her.

A few minutes passed... (Y/N) lost track of time, but it really seemed like many minutes had passed, but finally, the garage door opened, and she looked up with shining eyes to see her cousin. However, she found only Jaehyun arriving at the place. (Y/N) frowned and looked behind Jaehyun's shoulder, searching for Daehyun, but the door closed, and he never came out.

A pressure in her chest became present, and she walked to the door to try to open it, but she was stopped by Cheol Uk himself. She tapped her chest a bit to let her go. Mumbling a couple of nonsensical things and kicking before feeling the pressure of a hand on her arm, holding her back. Cheol Uk sure had strength and was beginning to hurt her arm.

Where's Daeho? Where's Daeho? Where's Daeho?

If something happened to Daeho, she wouldn't know what to do. She wouldn't know how to react.

She didn't know at what point, but someone’s hands took her from behind and separated her from Cheol Uk. They moved her away from the door a bit, and then she slightly felt her feet touch the ground. She couldn't focus on what was happening.

(Y/N) always used to worry, and maybe that was her weakness. Thinking that something could happen to one of her loved ones drove her crazy in every imaginable way, and now there was Daeho, on his own, inside a garage with some mobsters. What if it ended badly? What if he got shot? What if he got stabbed?

"(Y/N)," she heard a voice calling her, and after shaking her head, her attention focused on the boy in front of her. On Jaehyun. Who looked at her with one of his eyebrows raised and without any emotion on his face.

"Where's Daeho? Why didn't he come with you?" she asked hurriedly.

Jaehyun glanced quickly at Lucas and then returned his gaze to the girl.

"My boss wanted to talk to him alone," he explained.

"Why?"

"He owed money, his deadline expired almost a week ago. It wasn't just a few wones he owed, and my boss wanted to make a few things clear to him," he explained again, staying neutral.

She swallowed and then squeezed her eyes shut.

It was now or never.

She had never imagined in her life trying to do business with someone from Neo Zone, much less with someone like Jaehyun, but as they said somewhere, "desperate times call for desperate measures." So there she was, on a Saturday night at an illegal race, with her cousin inside a garage with other mobsters, Jung Jaehyun in front of her, and her hands sweating like they had never done before.

So, to protect her cousin from future problems, she would have to do it.

"Jaehyun?" she called softly. Jaehyun looked up at that, his name, his nickname, sounded so different coming from the lips of that girl that it almost sent a chill down his spine. How weird that felt. "Can I talk to you?" she asked, and Jaehyun looked at her with confusion, then glanced at Lucas, who was in a similar state, and nodded. (Y/N) cleared her throat and smiled sideways. "Alone."

Again, a look of confusion crossed his face, and he glanced at his best friend, who was already moving away from both of them. He looked at the girl and noticed how she lightly played with her fingers. Then, she followed his gaze and immediately stopped her hand movements, embarrassed and feeling her cheeks heat up a bit.

"What do you need?" he asked, looking into her eyes, and before she could say a word, he spoke again. "I won't sell you drugs if that's what you want."

(Y/N) frowned and quickly shook her head.

"Hey! I'm not Daeho, I don't put that stuff in my body, and that definitely wasn't what I wanted to talk about," she replied, pointing at him with one of her fingers.

Jaehyun thought she looked cute with her annoyed face.

"Well, then enlighten me," he asked with a sideways smile.

She cleared her throat again and unconsciously started playing with her fingers again.

Yes, that was definitely a tic.

"I... wanted to ask you something," she murmured, and when she didn't receive a response from the boy, she continued. "Could you... could you stop selling to Daeho?" she asked without looking him in the eyes. Why couldn't she meet his gaze?

He chuckled softly and then received a glare from her.

"Oh, are you serious?"

Jaehyun looked at her in surprise for a few seconds. He observed every detail about her. From her slightly furrowed eyebrows to her lips that were almost pouting. Then to her hands that played with each other, and then to her clothes, which were very different from what he usually saw her wearing at school. This was more casual; it didn't scream 'look at me, I'm the heir to a billion-dollar company.' This felt more like her, it suited her very well.

But he shouldn't get distracted. Especially not by someone like Hwang (T/N). So he scoffed and gave her a sarcastic smile.

"I'm sorry, Angel, but business are business. I can't stop selling to Daeho just because you ask me to. He's my client, after all, not you" he said, crossing his arms.

"You know my name, Yoonoh," she snapped, mirroring Jaehyun's movement and crossing her arms.

"You know not everyone is allowed to call me Yoonoh," he approached her with a furious look.

His name was something different. Only his family and very close friends called him that, and no one outside that circle could or should call him that. It just wasn't allowed.

So now she was coming and doing it?

"Don't sell anything to Daeho," she asked again, this time with firmness.

"Business. Are. Business," he repeated, emphasizing each word.

"Let's negotiate then," (Y/N) challenged. "How much money do you want?" Without hesitation, Jaehyun burst into laughter and shook his head slightly, making the girl look at him with annoyance and clench her jaw.

Was Jung Jaehyun really laughing at her? Who did he think he was?

"Angel, things don't work like that," Jaehyun teased, running his tongue over his lips. "You won't just come here and tell me what to do or not do, who to sell my shit to and who not to. That's just how things are," he explained with some gestures.

"Listen, Yoonoh," she placed her index finger on the boy's chest and tried to push him, although it was in vain. Jaehyun was stronger and managed to stay in place, not even moving an inch. Jaehyun lowered his gaze a bit to see her eyes and narrowed them, but at that moment, it didn't intimidate her. "Daeho promised not to use again, but I know him. As soon as his parents leave the city again and he feels lonely, he'll come looking for you to buy more stuff. One of the times he did, it ended badly. They punish him every two weeks because he's overspending, and I don't want him to be late with his payment again, because now he's there," she pointed to the garage. "With your boss, who's angry, and I don't know what he's capable of. Daeho has changed a bit since he started using. I'm afraid it might become an addiction and end badly. He lost weight. He's sleeping less. I don't want his habits to change and harm him. If my uncles find out about this, they're capable of anything, even sending him away until he changes those thoughts," she sighed and moved away from Jaehyun a bit. "Daeho is like a brother to me. We've always been together, and I'm afraid something will happen to him, either because of an addiction, a late payment, or whatever. I promised myself I would always take care of him, but I'm failing, and if I can do something to change that now, I will. Just... just stop selling to him."

She murmured the last part, and after a few seconds, she looked into Jaehyun's eyes, hoping to find a response in them, but she saw nothing. Not even an emotion. Nothing. They were flat. Empty.

Why did she think that was a good idea?

Everyone thought that the great Jung Jaehyun had no weaknesses. Or at least that's what he always showed. That was his facade. A tough guy, a dealer who had been through so much that nothing scared him. That was his life, or at least that's what others believed. His body was covered in scars, possible results of the many fights he had had throughout his life. His character was cold, a result of all the hard things he had been through. Of everything that being and belonging to Neo Zone meant.

Of everything that being Jung Jaehyun meant.

Of course, he wouldn't accept the deal with (Y/N) just because of her sentimentalism.

Of course not.

"Ugh, forget it. I shouldn't have even thought about asking you that," (Y/N) murmured as she walked away from him and let out a small sarcastic laugh. Had she forgotten who the boy in front of her was?

But Jung Jaehyun did have weaknesses. Deep down inside him. Amidst everything he presented to the world, they existed, and although no one might know them, they lived with him; and Jeno, his little brother, was one of his weaknesses. He had spent his whole life trying to take care of his brother, trying to prevent him from ending up like him. Trying to keep him away from anything that could hurt him, and if taking on a great responsibility within Neo Zone, even if he hated it, to take care of him, it was necessary... he would do it.

His family would always come first.

Then, the image of a Sicheng came to his mind, causing his throat to dry up and his eyes to close for a moment. Listening to (Y/N) talk about her cousin and how she felt the responsibility for him fell on her somehow shook him. Maybe there was something similar between them.

Something small but significant.

He sighed, debating internally.

“Do you want to negotiate? Then let's negotiate” his voice came out thick and a bit hoarse, (Y/N) turned slightly, surprised by the words that had come out of Jaehyun's mouth. “So, what do you have to offer me?” he prompted, raising his eyebrows.

(Y/N) moved her bag hanging from one of her arms to the front and began searching for her wallet. When she opened it, she remembered something: she didn't have any cash with her.

“Hmm, I don't have cash, but we can go to a nearby ATM and I can give you whatever you want” she said hurriedly, then Jaehyun laughed.

“So, you're offering me money, angel?”

“Well, yes, what do you need?”

Jaehyun made a pensive gesture and placed one of his hands on his chin. Then he looked at the girl and smiled slightly.

“Are you doing well in school?” he asked. Of course, she was doing well in school; she was the top of her class. (Y/N) nodded without understanding. “Alright, do my homework for the rest of the year.”

She frowned and looked at him incredulously.

“Of all the things you could ask for, you want... me... to do your homework?” she asked, confused.

“Look, I'm not doing well in some classes, and the principal warned me that if I didn't improve or maintain my grades, I'd have to drop out. And do you know what that means? That's right, no school, no clients. No clients, no money. No money, angry boss. Do you understand what I'm saying?” he asked, and she nodded “so do my homework, give me your notes, and let's make a deal.”

“You want my notes too?” she asked incredulously “besides, wouldn't it be easier if I gave you money? With whatever you ask from me, you could surely quit working. You wouldn't have to sell drugs anymore.”

Jaehyun scoffed and shook his head. “Do you really think it's that simple?”

“I mean… yes” she replied simply “I give you money, then you won't have to work on your own and stop selling. See? We both win” she said triumphantly.

However, he laughed. “Things don't work like that here, sweet cheeks. It's not just selling and that's it, there are other things, and things aren't that simple. Maybe where you live, it is. But not here. I can't just quit the business like that.”

(Y/N) sighed and looked into Jaehyun's eyes, trying to find something in them. Can't quit the business? She was sure that if Jaehyun was smart enough and asked for enough money, he could survive a few months without needing to continue his drug deliveries and without getting into trouble. So why would he pass up an opportunity like this?

“Jaehyun, just give me a number and I'll write you a check.”

“It's not just about the money for me!” he exclaimed annoyed “look, I'm not here for this... it's not something you'll understand, and it's not something I'll bother explaining to you. It was nice talking to you, Hwang, but I don't want your money” Jaehyun finished, turning around and walking away from the girl without saying anything else.

She closed her eyes and cursed under her breath.

“Wait... do you want my notes and for me to do your homework?”

He smiled slightly and turned around to face her again. Looking at her cynically.

“And a coffee every Monday, like those rich kids drink you have… Oh! And also, if I ever ask you for something, you'll have to do it” Jaehyun spoke playfully.

“What? Will I be your maid or something?”

“Deal?”

“Jaehyun...”

“Deal?” he emphasized this time, raising one of his eyebrows and giving her a hard look. Extending one of his hands, and she looked at him hesitantly.

Was it really necessary to shake hands?

Moreover, of all the things she could give him; money, clothes, jewelry... damn, she could even buy him a plane ticket to an island and a free vacation if she wanted to... did he decide that she would do his homework for the rest of the year, in addition to treating her like his servant whenever he pleased?

Jaehyun sure was interesting.

“Is there any catch?” she asked hesitantly, looking at the boy's hand.

“Take it or leave it. I can continue selling to your cousin, it’s up to you if you want to close the deal or not” he shrugged. (Y/N) gave him one last look and without saying anything else, she took Jaehyun's hand in hers and shook it.

“Deal” she murmured, looking at him directly.

Jaehyun gave her a sideways smile while still shaking her hand and nodded cynically. (Y/N) swallowed hard and quickly let go of the boy's hand.

She hoped he would keep his word, because as soon as he broke it, she would forget who he was, and she herself would kick his ass if necessary.

“It was nice doing business with you, Hwang (Y/N).”

Hopefully, she wouldn't regret doing business with Jung Jaehyun.

What could go wrong?

“You know that Daeho can go to any other dealer, right? I'm not the only one he can call” he questioned a bit obviously.

“I know” she replied, letting out a sigh “You take care of making your part of the deal, and I'll take care of the rest” he looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Do you know that you also can't go around offering deals or money to other dealers just because your cousin keeps getting into trouble?”

“I know, Jaehyun! I know..”

“The deal I made with you has been innocent. Believe me, another dealer won't ask you for homework and class notes. They'll take advantage of your vulnerability” Jaehyun commented “I'm just saying, be careful with who you talk to and who you get involved with. This is not your zone, you had never set foot here before, you have no idea how things are handled in business here, and nobody... nobody will spare a thought for your little story of the protective cousin who wants to save her cousin from an overdose.”

“You did it though” (Y/N) retorted defiantly.

Jaehyun sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumbs: “Look, I'll stop selling to Daehyun because I keep my word, but you can't make every dealer in Neo Zone do the same. Much less by offering deals to anyone who crosses your path, because money won't be the only thing they'll ask for in return” he continued, this time looking her up and down, making her feel small under his intense gaze. (Y/N) bit her cheek inwardly and then cleared her throat.

“I can take care of myself, thanks for your concern, Yoonoh” she replied with a fake smile.

“I'm not concerned” Jaehyun responded with a smile as he turned around “And (Y/N)?” he saw her over his shoulder “don't call me Yoonoh again. Good luck with your mission of taking care of your cousin as if he is a child, you can leave or stay, maybe you want to see me run.”

When Jaehyun was far enough from her sight, the garage door opened and a Daeho was pushed by Cheol Uk, until his cousin fell to the ground, letting out a groan and placing his hand on his abdomen as he writhed in pain, causing (Y/N) to run towards him with panic evident on her face. She knelt beside him and took his face to examine it, identifying the bruise on his cheek, the cuts on his eyebrow and lip, and the blood running from the latter.

Daeho smiled slightly and after coughing, spoke weakly: “The debt has been paid”.

You're an idiot, Hwang Daeho.

a/n: taglist is open! thank you for reading! wait 4 the next chapter!

[yongilityreposts]

HI! ITS BEEN A LONG TIME!

I’m very happy to announce that I’m moving to a new blog. U can follow me here at @yongility. I’m bringing you some new stories that I’ve been working on for a time ago. So pls check out the blog! Hope to see you there ! I’m going to post a jaehyun gang au and a Taeyong single dad au! Very excited for this!

[yongilityreposts]

HI! ITS BEEN A LONG TIME!

I’m very happy to announce that I’m moving to a new blog. U can follow me here at @yongility (I’ll be using it as my MAIN blog) I’m bringing you some new stories that I’ve been working on for a time ago. So pls check out the blog! Hope to see you there ! I’m going to post a jaehyun gang au and a Taeyong single dad au! Very excited for this!

[yongilityreposts]

Hi! After a long hiatus hehe (srry I got graduated from high school and I had a lot of work to do >.<) I’m going to be more active! I’m going to post a Bang Chan series !

Kinda supernatural and stuff?? I’m really excited and I hope you like it! I’m also going to post soon a Lee Know's short series!

So pls standby for it!

You can go to my stray kids masterlist and see what I’m going to post! (My soon to post Bang Chan' series it’s called Angelus!)

[yongilityreposts]

Hii hope all is well 🤧💘💘

Hi! Everything is going well! Thank u! Been a little busy lately but now i have time so i'm hoping to come back, possibly i'm going to post something this week!

[yongilityreposts]

Hi! Just passing by to tell you that I really enjoyed the second part of From Home! It's was sweet despite the angst (idk if that makes sense) so far what's your favorite part? 💚

Hiii, srry i didnt answered before. Been busy with school these days. I’m really happy to hear that you like the story!

My favorite part?? Omg can’t decide yet, have a lot of favorites parts that are coming (((:

[yongilityreposts]

Hi! I just read From Home first chapter and I'm so excited for the rest of the story! Can't wait for the next one! But take all the time you need no pressure!

I loved you're writing btw, have a good day! 💚

hiiii! thanks for giving it a chance 💛 I think I’ll be posting the next chapter this weekend ^^

thank u so much! have a great day ! 💛 lots of love x

[yongilityreposts]

im so excited for you to start writing!! your account looks so cool <3

hiii !! Srry for not having responded:(( was kinda inactive but I’m back and hopefully I’ll be starting uploading real soon 💛

thx, lots of love 💛

[yongilityreposts]

the blue theme is everything 😩✋

oww, thx bu! 💛

[yongilityreposts]

Your blog looks reallyy pretty ^-^

I was looking for more stray kids scenarios and then, you followed me so thank you😂. Looking forward to reading what you write! I do think I have a request if it helps you start off💞

hello ! thank u ♡ ♡

if you have a request you can drop it! it will really help me out. 💖

have a nice dayy ! ♡