thedensworld

[thedensworld]

When Love Kills | W. J

Pairing: Wen Junhui x reader

Genre: mafia au!, exes au!

Type: angst, fluff, action, smut (mdni!)

Word count: 12k

Summary: Love is a double-edged sword—one for a kiss and one for a kill. Jun was meant to do one thing: uphold his family’s ruthless legacy. But everything changed when he met the woman he loves.

Jun arrived in South Korea after six years, returning to a place that felt strangely like home. The city had changed—skyscrapers seemed taller, neon lights brighter, and the streets more crowded, all moving at a relentless, breakneck pace. Yet the air held a sense of nostalgia, a reminder of the time he first set foot here a decade ago, learning the language, understanding the world of business, and tasting a freedom he rarely experienced back home.

The driver navigated the bustling roads, eventually pulling up at a high-end hotel where Jun would stay until his work was done. A simple task, at least in theory—secure the prime minister’s daughter.

Ji Jaekyung, the prime minister, had quietly forged an alliance with a rival syndicate in South China. Betrayal was something Jun’s father could never tolerate, and he had ordered his son to ‘take care of it.’ But Ji Jaekyung was a cautious man, his daughter a carefully guarded secret. No photographs, no public appearances—she was a ghost even in this hyperconnected country. Yet Jun had his ways.

A single bank account—the one receiving regular transfers from Jaekyung—had led Jun to her. A small apartment in a quiet neighborhood, nothing extravagant, almost too ordinary. Tonight, he stood across the street, watching through the café window. She was there, laughing, her short hair framing her face, eyes crinkling with joy as she spoke with someone—a boyfriend, perhaps? That would make things more interesting.

Jun’s gaze lingered, a strange pang tugging at his chest. He hadn’t expected this—hadn’t expected to feel anything at all. But there was something familiar about the sight of this city, a memory buried beneath years of distance.

Back in his hotel room, the city lights spilled through the tall glass windows, casting a cool glow. He should be focused, preparing his men for tomorrow's briefing, but his mind refused to stay on task. His thoughts wandered, retracing old memories of this city—the late-night walks, the crowded markets, the warm, humid summers.

And most of all, the girl he met one summer night. You.

He hadn’t thought of you in years, and yet now, in this familiar city, the memory of you felt too close, too vivid. The taste of yout laughter, the warmth of your touch—it all rushed back with a force he hadn’t anticipated.

But that was then. This was now.

Tomorrow, he would have to forget sentiment. His father had given him an order, and sentiment had no place in this world.

Jun woke up in the morning with a dull ache of desire, a boner—one night in Seoul, and already his dreams were haunted by memories of you. He sighed, glancing down at the unmistakable evidence of his thoughts. His hand reached for his phone, fingers dialing quickly.

"I’ll be late for the meeting," he informed his men, voice steady despite the heat pooling in his chest. "Something urgent to take care of. Very healthy, I assure you."

He leaned back against the pillows, letting his mind wander. "Y/n…" he whispered, the name a ghost on his lips. Memories rushed in uninvited—one summer night in college, the first time he saw you.

It was the beginning of summer break. Jun and his friends had decided to blow off steam at an arcade. The place was alive with flashing lights and laughter, but nothing captured his attention like the girl on the dance game platform. Long hair swaying, laughter bright and infectious, you danced with a carefree joy that seemed to pull all eyes toward you.

"This is Y/n," one of his friends had introduced, nudging him. "She’s an art student."

Art student—that explained the wild creativity in your movements, the way you painted the air with every step. But what lingered most was your scent, a subtle sweetness that seemed to linger even when you weren’t near, an intoxicating memory.

One date became two, then three, and soon, he found you in his bed, bare and vulnerable, the world beyond those sheets forgotten. For the first time, Jun felt himself attach to someone—truly, dangerously. And it was you.

You held him with a warmth and softness no one else could replace—a touch that seemed to whisper comfort, a presence that wrapped around him even in the coldest of nights. If he ever met you again, he would make sure you knew that nobody else had ever taken your place. But there was one problem—he didn’t know if he would ever meet you again.

"Y/n, where are you?"

*

Jun waited in the shadowed corner of an old, abandoned building, its peeling walls and broken windows a testament to forgotten days. His fingers drummed lightly against the worn leather of the chair’s armrest, impatience simmering beneath his calm exterior. His people were on their way, and they had clear instructions.

"Bring her alive. Don’t you dare touch her," Jun had ordered, voice cold and precise. At least not before he arrived. Killing her immediately would be such a waste. There was so much potential—so many ways she could be useful. And if there was one thing his father valued, it was Jun’s efficiency. He never wasted anything. He never left a trace.

The creak of the rusty door pulled him from his thoughts. Jun stood as three men entered, one carrying a figure slung over his shoulder like a sack of rice—unconscious, her limbs hanging limply.

"Money first, then we’ll hand her over," one of the men demanded, his voice gruff.

Jun’s gaze slid to his right, where Minghao stood with a quiet, composed demeanor. A silent nod from Minghao, and Jun gestured for the money to be handed over. One of the men seized the briefcase, snapping it open and greedily flipping through the crisp bills.

They set the girl down on a dusty chair, her head lolling forward, long dark hair cascading over her face. But as Jun stepped forward, a chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong.

"Are you sure this is the right girl?" Jun’s voice was sharp, a sliver of suspicion threading through his usual calm.

"She's the only one there," one of the men replied, barely looking up. "Exactly where you told us."

Jun’s jaw tightened. The girl he had seen last night had shoulder-length hair. This one… He reached out, brushing a few strands aside—and his world seemed to freeze.

Familiar features stared back at him, pale and unconscious but unmistakable.

"Y/n…" he whispered, the name escaping him like a secret he had tried to bury.

Ji Y/n. His ex-girlfriend. The woman who had vanished from his life six years ago.

"What’s wrong, boss?" Minghao’s voice cut through the tension, but Jun barely heard it.

His chest tightened, a storm of emotions crashing against his resolve—shock, confusion, and something he didn’t dare name.

He forced a steady breath, eyes never leaving your face. "We’re going to stay here longer than expected," he murmured, his voice betraying none of the chaos inside.

*

The drive back to his hotel was tense and silent, the hum of the city outside muted by the weight of his thoughts. In the back seat, you lay slumped against the leather, still unconscious, your chest rising and falling with a steady rhythm—a reminder that this was real. That you were real.

Once inside his suite, Jun dismissed his men, locking the door behind him. He stood there for a moment, staring at your figure on the king-sized bed, trying to process the chaos in his mind.

Six years. Six years of unanswered questions, of searching without knowing he was searching. And now, you were here. But why? How?

Stepping closer, he leaned over you, his hand brushing a stray lock of hair from your face. The softness of your skin was the same, the gentle curve of your lips unchanged. Memories threatened to overwhelm him—the laughter you shared, the nights tangled in each other’s warmth, and the sudden, aching emptiness when you disappeared.

His jaw clenched. He needed answers, but he wouldn’t get any while you were unconscious.

He turned away, forcing himself to think logically. First, he needed to make sure you were unharmed. Jun grabbed a damp towel, gently wiping away the faint traces of dirt on your cheek. Your breathing remained steady, your pulse calm beneath his fingertips.

But who were you now? What had brought you to this dangerous world? Are you the daughter of Ji Jaekyung?

Jun leaned back against the wall, his gaze never leaving you. For now, he would wait. Because the moment you opened your eyes, he would demand every answer you owed him.

Morning light filtered through the hotel’s thick curtains when you finally stirred, your head pounding, ears ringing. A dull ache spread through your body as consciousness returned in fragments. Flashes of memory hit you—the door of your apartment bursting open, three towering men storming in. You thought it was Jena, your friend, coming by. But then rough hands grabbed you, muffled your screams, and darkness swallowed you.

A familiar voice pulled you from the fog of confusion.

"Awake already?"

You blinked, eyes adjusting to the bright room. Clean sheets, a spacious layout—luxury everywhere. Panic tightened in your chest until your gaze landed on the figure leaning casually against the wall.

"Moon Junhui…" you whispered, disbelief lacing your voice.

A faint smile played on his lips. "So you do remember me."

You pushed yourself up on the bed, the silk sheets slipping from your shoulders. "Where am I? What is this—"

"A hotel room. My hotel room." He stepped closer, leaning against the desk, arms crossed over his chest, an unsettling calm in his eyes. "Relax. You’re not going anywhere… yet."

Silence thickened between you, tension simmering beneath the surface.

"What is Ji Jaekyung to you?" Jun’s question cut through the air.

You frowned, your heart pounding faster. "What’s wrong with him?"

"So, he’s not your father?"

You hesitated, then nodded slowly. "He… he is my father."

Jun’s gaze sharpened, a dangerous curiosity in his eyes. "You don’t sound so sure. Your father passed away when you were sixteen, Y/n. So tell me… which one is a lie?"

Your breath hitched, the truth clawing at your throat. Six years of running, hiding, trying to forget. And now you were trapped—trapped in a room with the one person you never thought you’d see again. The one you once loved… and you tried to hate.

He moved toward you, and you instinctively scooted back, your back pressing against the headboard. But before you could retreat further, his hand caught your wrist—not harshly, but firmly.

"Relax," he murmured, his gaze dropping to your arm, where a faint blueish mark had begun to form.

Jun’s eyes darkened. "Why would you defend yourself against men twice your size?" His thumb traced the bruise lightly, his touch almost gentle despite the situation.

You didn’t answer, your throat tight, a mix of fear and stubborn pride keeping you silent.

Jun sighed, pulling out his phone and calling for room service, his tone cold and commanding. "Bring a first aid kit. Now."

But as he ended the call, his gaze lingered on you—intense, unreadable. Memories you tried to forget flooded back—his touch, his voice, the warmth you once craved. And you hated how, even after six years, he still held something in your chest—an ache you couldn’t ignore.

*

"Now, you’re going to tell me—who is Ji Jaekyung’s real daughter?" Jun’s voice cut through the quiet of the room, sharp but calm as he watched you finish your breakfast.

He had tended to your bruises himself, his touch surprisingly gentle, ordering room service to bring you a warm meal. He hadn’t said much, letting you eat in silence while he took a shower. But now, standing before you in his neatly tailored suit, his patience was gone.

"I’m his daughter," you replied, your voice steady.

Jun chuckled, a low, humorless sound. "I dated you, Y/n. I knew your family. Ordinary people. They weren’t part of any political circle, let alone connected to Ji Jaekyung."

You met his gaze, unwavering. "I told you, I’m Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. If you have anything to do with him, then do it to me."

Jun’s expression didn’t change, but there was a brief flicker in his eyes—something like frustration or disbelief. He said nothing more, simply adjusted his suit jacket and stepped away. Moments later, you heard the door click shut behind him.

Silence settled around you. He was gone, leaving you alone in the spacious, luxurious room. A chance. Maybe your only chance.

Just as you stood, a voice cut through your thoughts.

"I’m Minghao, Mr. Wen’s right-hand man."

You froze, turning to see a young man leaning casually by the door. He had a calm, almost disinterested expression, but his gaze was sharp.

You sighed, leaning back against the plush chair. "You mean Moon Junhui?" you corrected, using Jun’s Korean name.

Minghao’s lips twitched slightly, a hint of a smile. "Yes. He went out for a business meeting and left you with me. You’re not allowed to leave without my supervision."

Your hands clenched in your lap, a mix of frustration and resignation washing over you. That man—he hadn’t changed at all. Still controlling, still calculating.

And yet, even now, your chest tightened with a confusing ache—anger, fear, and something else you refused to name.

Jun returned to the hotel room as the evening sun cast a warm, fading light through the curtains. His suit jacket was the first to go, discarded over a chair, his gaze immediately falling on you, curled up on the bed, still asleep.

"Did she say anything about Jaekyung?" Jun asked, loosening his tie.

Minghao, who stood by the window, shook his head. "No, sir. She insists she’s his daughter."

Jun’s lips curled into a faint smile. "I believe even his real daughter would rather disown him," he muttered, waving Minghao off. "You can leave for tonight. I’ll be going alone."

Minghao nodded, slipping out quietly.

Jun walked over to the bed, his gaze softening slightly as he looked at you. A moment of quiet hesitation. Then he leaned down, gently touching your shoulder. "Wake up. I’ll drive you back to your apartment."

You stirred awake, blinking against the dim light. His words barely registered, but you nodded, getting up slowly. In the car, the silence stretched between you two, thick and tense. Jun’s eyes remained fixed on the road, his expression unreadable.

At your apartment, you fumbled for your keys, and Jun followed you inside without asking, his eyes scanning your modest living space.

"Who's this? Your boyfriend?" Jun asked, picking up a framed photo of you with a younger man, both of you smiling brightly.

"So you like them younger now?" he teased, a hint of something bitter in his voice.

"Not your business, Jun," you muttered, already searching for your phone, checking if you missed any important messages.

A sudden knock at the door cut through the tension. "Y/n, are you ready? We need to be there before the Prime Minister," a man’s voice called out.

Panic surged through you. You spun around, grabbed Jun by the wrist, and dragged him into the kitchen. "Stay here. Don’t make a sound."

You rushed back, smoothing your clothes, and unlocked the door with a bright, apologetic smile. "Sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll be ready in 15 minutes."

"Got it. Don’t take too long," the man replied, his footsteps fading down the hall.

You turned to find Jun leaning against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a smirk tugging at his lips. "You need to go, Jun."

"Going somewhere with the Prime Minister, are we?" he drawled, his tone laced with amusement. "So tell me, are you his daughter or his mistress, Ji Y/n?"

Your patience snapped. You tried to step past him, but his hand shot out, catching your wrist. His touch was firm but not painful, his eyes searching yours. The heat of his presence was too familiar, too close.

"Let go," you hissed.

"Make me," he challenged, his voice low.

In a swift motion, you stomped on his foot, and he grunted, instinctively letting you go. You didn’t spare him another glance, marching off to your bedroom to get ready.

Behind you, Jun leaned against the wall, rubbing his foot with a mix of pain and reluctant admiration. "Still got some fight in you, huh?" he muttered under his breath, a faint smile pulling at his lips.

*

Jun watched you all night, his car parked discreetly across the street. He saw everything—from the moment you stepped out of the sleek black car, escorted into a high-end restaurant, to the late hours when an older man led you into a lavish hotel lobby.

His jaw tightened, fingers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. His chest twisted with a mix of rage and disgust. He had pieced it together, or at least he thought he had. Ji Jaekyung was using you, presenting you as his daughter to entertain his clients—perhaps even worse. The thought sickened him.

By the time dawn brushed the city with pale light, Jun was already waiting in your apartment, a storm of emotions swirling beneath his calm exterior. The door creaked open, and you stepped in, your makeup smudged, hair disheveled, exhaustion written all over your face.

"Tell me," Jun's voice cut through the quiet, cold and sharp. "What is that bastard making you do?"

You froze, surprise flashing across your features before you frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Ji Jaekyung," he spat the name like a curse. "What is he making you do? Is he forcing you to entertain his clients? To sleep with them too?"

Your expression twisted with shock, then fury. "Fuck you, Jun. It’s none of your business!"

"None of my—" He stepped forward, his towering presence making the small space feel even tighter. "It becomes my business when I see you being treated like—"

"Like what?" you snapped, your voice rising, tears stinging your eyes. "Like a tool? A pawn? How the hell did you even here?"

"Don’t twist this, Y/n! I’m trying to help you, but you’re too stubborn, too damn prideful to admit you need it!" His voice escalated, fingers twitching with the urge to shake you awake.

"By accusing me of being a whore? By making me feel even smaller than I already do?" You tried to push past him, but he blocked your way, his glare unwavering.

"I’m not letting you walk away from this. Tell me the truth!" he demanded, his voice like a thunderclap.

"Get out of my way, Jun!" You shoved him, but he didn’t budge. His anger, his judgmental gaze—everything overwhelmed you.

"I won’t! Not until you—"

The sharp crack of your palm against his cheek silenced him. The room fell still, the sound of the slap echoing. Your chest heaved, tears spilling freely now.

"I’m tired, Jun. I’m so damn tired," you whispered, your voice breaking. "I don’t need your judgment. I don’t need your pity. And I don’t need you."

After leaving South Korea six years ago, Jun had learned how to mask himself. He buried the version of himself that only Seoul had known—the carefree, warm-hearted boy who once believed in love. In his father’s world, there was no room for softness. He trained relentlessly, sculpting himself into a weapon, a businessman, a strategist. He drowned himself in work, in power, in everything that would keep his mind too busy to think about you.

But tonight, as he watched you being paraded like a mistress—escorted by a man old enough to be your father, vanishing into the shadowed halls of a luxury hotel—every wall he built crumbled. All the effort to forget you was worthless. Because seeing you like that didn’t just hurt—it enraged him. You were his lover, and you were never meant to be anything else.

The phone in his hand felt like a lifeline, his father’s voice crackling on the other end. "It’s taking longer than expected to find his daughter," Jun reported, struggling to keep his voice steady.

"I’ve managed a few business matters here well," his father replied, almost dismissive. "Honestly, it would be easier to end him than to keep searching for his daughter. The man’s a coward—paying someone to pretend to be his child."

"I know. Ji Jaekyung is a damn snake," Jun muttered, jaw clenched. But now, a new resolve burned in his chest. He wasn’t just going to finish his father’s mission—he was going to save you, even if you didn’t want to be saved.

"Listen to me, Y/n," Jun's voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. He turned to face you, his expression a fierce mix of anger and desperation, while you stood there with tears streaming down your cheeks.

"Jaekyung has a lot of debt with my family in China. He promised his daughter as collateral for the deal, and he broke that promise. If you keep pretending to be his daughter, you’re walking straight into danger. Real, unforgiving danger."

His words struck like a whip, each one leaving a mark, but before you could even process them, Jun stormed out, the door slamming behind him with a thunderous bang. The sound echoed in your chest, leaving you alone in a silence that felt louder than anything else.

*

Your mother was murdered the night you left Jun.

The call came from the police, their voices cautious and clinical. They informed you that your mother had been found dead in her apartment. They tried reaching your brother, Seungkwan, but you knew they wouldn’t succeed—it was nearing the KSAT, and Seungkwan usually buried himself in his studies outside.

The first piece of evidence they found was a security camera recording of a stranger leaving your mother’s place in the dead of night. A dragon tattoo was visible on his arm—a dragon you recognized. The same ink Jun bore on his back.

"It's from a Chinese crime syndicate," the officer explained, his voice tinged with grim seriousness. "We suspect your mother may have been involved with them."

But you knew better. Your mother was no involved to the syndicate. And you couldn’t let Seungkwan know. He had worked so hard, pushing himself to become a police officer so he could catch the person who killed your father. Another tragedy would shatter him.

It all spiraled into a tangled mess. Your parents had once worked for Ji Jaekyung, and both were killed by people with that dragon tattoo. Now Jun, with the same tattoo, had shown up—searching for Jaekyung’s daughter.

One night, a man in a sleek suit appeared at your door 6 years ago. His expression was as sharp as his attire.

"Ji Jaekyung wants to meet you."

Seungkwan was asleep, exhausted from his studies, so you left quietly.

The proposal was straightforward: become Ji Jaekyung’s daughter. Smile, play the role, and he would pay you enough to support Seungkwan’s dream of entering the police academy. No further explanations, just one threat:

"Or else, we’ll have to do something about your brother."

That was the leash around your neck.

From that moment, you were a hostage in a game far beyond your control. You learned about Long Wei, the syndicate Jaekyung was tangled with—the same syndicate responsible for your parents' deaths. You thought you could uncover the truth by diving into this chaos, but instead, you were trapped deeper.

You hated all of it—the politics, the business, the way innocence was trampled for power. But you had no voice, no power. Just a thin, fragile line of survival with a bullet always aimed at your head.

"I brought chicken!" Seungkwan's delighted voice filled your apartment, a burst of warmth you didn’t realize you needed. You looked up from your laptop, seeing him still in his uniform, clearly fresh from his shift.

"You didn’t even change," you noted, a soft smile tugging at your lips.

"Figured I had some clothes here anyway," he quipped, already darting into your room. "Don’t start without me!"

Moments later, he emerged in a faded pajama set he had once left behind, immediately joining you at the small dining table where you’d set out the chicken and a few cold beers.

"My shift was a nightmare," Seungkwan grumbled around a mouthful of chicken. "Two separate thefts in one shift! Why do criminals love my schedule? Seriously, is it me?" He gestured dramatically, his expression an exaggerated mix of exhaustion and outrage.

You laughed, the sound easing some of the tension you’d been carrying. "Maybe they just love giving you a challenge."

"Chicken is the best stress relief," he declared, tossing another piece into his mouth.

But your laughter faded when your phone buzzed, and you saw the caller ID—Ji Jaekyung’s assistant. A sense of dread settled in your stomach. The man wanted you at a meeting with clients tomorrow. Seungkwan’s eyes darkened as he recognized the name.

"I’m annoyed," he muttered, throwing his fork into the chicken box, his mood dampened.

"I’m sorry," you whispered, your hand reaching for his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "We have to get through this."

Seungkwan’s jaw tightened. "If only our parents hadn’t worked for that bastard, we wouldn’t be stuck in this mess—especially you."

A thick silence settled between you, rage and sadness lingering like an uninvited guest at your table.

"I promise, I swear," Seungkwan’s voice trembled, his grip on your hand tightening. "I’ll catch everyone who made our lives this hard. I won’t let them win."

*

"You have a beautiful daughter, Mr. Ji."

The familiar man across from you smiled, his words smooth but laced with something darker. So, this was how people like him played their games—one meeting with Ji Jaekyung, a pleasant exchange of words, deals sealed over expensive wine. And in the end, it was always the innocent who paid the price.

Just like your parents.

Would you be next?

Jun tilted his head, watching you squirm in your seat, your gaze fixed on the ornate carpet beneath you. Beside you, Ji Jaekyung wore a pleasant smile, sipping his wine with the ease of a man who controlled the room.

"Your visit was rather surprising, Jun. I was expecting one of your uncles, actually. I can't believe they sent the serpent himself," Ji Jaekyung mused, swirling his glass.

Jun chuckled, his voice light, but his eyes sharp. "I apologize if my visit seems a bit impolite. I was just playing around in the city—feeling nostalgic."

Jaekyung nodded, a smile never leaving his face. "Ah, nostalgia. I heard you graduated here. My daughter is an alumna of the same university."

Jun’s gaze shifted to you. "Is that so?" he murmured, leaning back with an air of casual interest. "You're very secretive about her for someone so beautiful."

Ji Jaekyung’s hand moved to your hair, brushing a strand behind your ear with a touch that felt cold rather than comforting. "She is beautiful. I simply want to protect her. You know how it is—enemies can be unpredictable."

"That's very fatherly of you," Jun said, his smile unwavering. "Do you consider me an enemy?"

Ji Jaekyung laughed, the sound loud and full, yet hollow. "Of course not. You're practically family. I know your grandfather, your father, your uncles... No, you could never be an enemy."

Jun’s smile widened, though his eyes never softened. "Since we’re practically family, may I take your daughter with me tonight? I find myself feeling a bit lonely here in Seoul."

Your eyes widened, a jolt of shock running through you. He had trapped you with a simple question—one that Ji Jaekyung couldn’t refuse without appearing rude, and one you couldn’t reject without risking angering either man.

"Of course, of course," Jaekyung agreed with a chuckle. "I’m sure my Y/n doesn’t mind. You don’t mind, right?" His gaze shifted to you, a smile masking a warning.

The weight of your fate pressed against you like a stone. You were nothing more than a pawn in their game, your life a currency exchanged with a polite smile. And maybe that was all you were meant to be—something to be used, polished, and displayed, but never truly free.

*

Jun drove in silence, the city lights spilling over the windshield, their glow a pale wash against the dark leather interior. The gentle hum of the engine filled the void between you, but it did nothing to calm the storm in your chest. Every breath felt sharp, every heartbeat a painful reminder of how your world kept spiraling out of control.

Your gaze remained fixed outside, the blurred neon signs and bustling sidewalks passing like ghosts. But your mind wasn’t in the present. It was wandering, lost in the echoes of a time you had tried so hard to forget.

Six years ago, you were different—bright-eyed and hopeful, your world centered around love and simple dreams. Jun was a part of that world, his laughter a melody you cherished, his touch a promise of comfort. But then everything shattered. Your mother was murdered. Your father’s name was stained with secrets and blood. Seungkwan was left clinging to his dreams of justice while you were forced to live as someone you weren’t.

Was it all a lie? Was Jun just another player in this twisted game? Even then, when he held your hand, whispered sweet promises—was he already playing a role? Was everything a calculated move, leaving you to fend for yourself in this nightmare?

The ache in your chest grew unbearable. You wanted to scream, to demand answers. But part of you was terrified—terrified of hearing the truth, of confirming that the one person you once loved was just another betrayal.

The car eventually slowed, pulling into the familiar driveway of the grand hotel where Jun was staying. He stopped in front of the entrance, but neither of you moved. He let out a quiet sigh, fingers tapping against the steering wheel in a slow, rhythmic pattern.

You didn’t respond. Your fingers dug into the fabric of your dress, knuckles white. You had nothing to say to him. Nothing that wouldn’t break you further.

After a long moment, Jun stepped out, moving around to open your door. Ever the gentleman, even when his actions felt like cruel mockery. You stepped out, your legs feeling like lead, and followed him into the grand, silent lobby. The warm, golden light of the chandeliers felt oppressive, a stark contrast to the cold emptiness pooling in your chest.

The elevator doors closed around you, trapping you in the suffocating silence. You stood beside him, his reflection in the mirrored walls a ghost haunting your thoughts.

When the elevator chimed, you stepped out without waiting for him. But he followed, his footsteps quiet but ever-present. He opened the door to his suite, and you walked in, each step feeling heavier than the last. The familiar scent of expensive cologne and polished wood washed over you.

Your hands moved mechanically, a reflex born from nights of forced smiles and silenced pride. Your fingers reached for the zipper of your dress, pulling it down, the fabric slipping off your shoulders. Cold air touched your skin, but you didn’t feel it. You were numb, lost in the hollow routine you had perfected—a doll performing its part, a daughter sold for survival.

But just as you began to let the dress fall, a strong, calloused hand caught your wrist.

“Stop.” Jun’s voice was sharp, cutting through the suffocating silence. His grip tightened, his touch burning against your skin.

You looked up, your hollow eyes meeting his. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was clenched, a faint tremor in his grip. Anger radiated from him, his dark eyes stormy, but beneath the fury, something else lingered—hurt, desperation.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his voice low but shaking with barely contained rage.

“What do you think?” Your voice was empty, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “This is what I’m supposed to do, right? Isn’t this what you wanted? What he wanted?”

“I never—” His voice broke for a second, but he quickly composed himself. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t you dare think I’m like them.”

“Then why did you take me?” Your voice rose, trembling, your chest heaving with a rush of anger you didn’t even know you had left. “Why, Jun? Is this your revenge? Is this how you prove your power over me?”

“Revenge?” He scoffed, his eyes narrowing. “You think this is revenge? Watching you—watching you reduce yourself to this?” He released your wrist, but the heat of his touch lingered, burning against your cold skin. “This isn’t you, Y/n. This was never you.”

“Then who am I, Jun?” you shot back, your voice cracking. “A liar? A puppet? A pawn in your sick game?”

“No.” He took a step closer, his anger palpable, but there was something else—pain, raw and unhidden. “You’re the woman I—” He stopped himself, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “Damn it, Y/n. You’re not some doll for them to play with. Not for him. Not for me.”

“Then what am I?” Your tears broke free, hot against your cheeks, your voice desperate. “Because this is all I know now, Jun. This is all I’ve become.”

A thick silence fell between you, your breaths heavy, your tears blurring your vision. His fists were clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if fighting to keep his own emotions in check.

You stood there, trembling, your arms wrapped around yourself like a fragile shield. Jun’s presence was overwhelming—tall, intense, his dark eyes fixed on you with a mixture of shock and anger. But you couldn’t stop. The dam had broken, and the words poured out like a torrent you couldn’t control.

“My father… he was killed. By people with those dragon tattoosn. And I thought it was just a coincidence, I thought… I thought I could escape. But I couldn’t.” Your voice wavered, your breathing coming in short, frantic gasps. “I met you, and for once, I thought I could be happy. But then… my mother—my mother was murdered too. They said it was the same people. The same syndicate. Your people.”

Jun’s eyes widened, his brows knitting together. He tried to reach out, but you stepped back, your voice rising.

“Don’t touch me!” you cried, the tears streaming down your face. “Don’t you dare touch me, Jun. I was a fool. I thought I could protect Seungkwan, that I could find a way out. But I ended up becoming Ji Jaekyung’s puppet. I became his fake daughter, a plaything for his clients, all because I had no choice. And now you—” Your voice broke, a sob escaping your lips. “Were you part of it, Jun? Were you always part of it? Did you know everything?”

“Y/n, stop—” he began, but you cut him off.

“Stop what? Lying to myself? Pretending that you’re different from them?” You laughed bitterly, your knees giving out as you sank onto the cold floor. “I don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t even know who I am. I’m just a pawn in their game—a doll they pass around. And you… you might be just another player.”

Jun moved towards you, but you curled into yourself, hiding your face in your shaking hands.

“Did you use me, Jun? Did you ever care? Or was this all a game to you? A way to keep me under control? To keep me as a bargaining chip?” Your voice was hoarse, your body trembling uncontrollably. “Because that’s what I’ve become—someone they use, someone you might have used too.”

“Y/n, no,” Jun’s voice was rough, desperate. He knelt before you, reaching out but hesitating, his hands hovering in the air. “I swear, I didn’t know. I didn’t—”

“Then why?” you looked up at him, your tear-filled eyes pleading. “Why are you here? Why are you pretending to protect me?”

“I’m not pretending.” He leaned forward, his own voice breaking. “I never used you. I never lied to you. I… I didn’t know about your parents. About your mother. I swear, Y/n.”

Your vision blurred, your breathing ragged. You wanted to believe him. You wanted to believe those desperate, pained eyes looking back at you. But the darkness around you was suffocating, and trust was a luxury you no longer had.

“Then what are you, Jun?” you whispered. “A savior? Or just another monster wearing a kind face?”

His hands finally found yours, his touch warm, but you couldn’t feel it. You were drowning, trapped in a whirlpool of doubt, fear, and grief.

“I’m someone who won’t lose you again,” he whispered, his voice raw. “Not to them. Not to anyone.”

Jun’s arms held you tighter, his embrace warm but desperate, like a man trying to keep you from slipping away. His hand cradled the back of your head, his lips pressing against your hair as he whispered, “Y/n, listen to me. I swear to you, I didn’t know. I didn’t know they would hurt your family. I didn’t know you were trapped like this.”

His voice trembled, yet there was a firm resolve beneath the fear. “I swear, I’m not a part of Jaekyung’s schemes. I came here to deal with him, to bring him down for everything he’s done—not just to you, but to everyone he’s destroyed.”

You leaned back slightly, your tear-streaked eyes meeting his, searching desperately for any hint of deception. Your voice was hoarse, barely above a whisper. “Are you telling me the truth? You’re not lying to me again?”

“I’m not lying. Not now, not ever again.” Jun’s gaze never wavered, his thumb gently brushing away your tears.

Your fingers tightened on his shirt, fear and desperation clawing at your chest. “Then save me, Jun. Please. I can’t do this anymore."

Jun’s thumb brushed against your cheek, wiping away the last of your tears, his touch so gentle that it sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes searched yours, a storm of emotions swirling within them—regret, longing, and something deeper, something that had never truly left even after all these years.

And then his lips were on yours.

It wasn’t a hesitant kiss, nor a cautious one—it was a kiss of desperation and yearning, of a man who had lost you once and was terrified of losing you again. His lips moved against yours with an urgency that sent warmth flooding through your chest, his hand slipping to the back of your neck, pulling you closer as though he needed you to breathe.

You melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt, clinging to him as though he was the only solid thing in your crumbling world. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pressing you against him, and you felt the rapid beat of his heart against your chest, matching the wild rhythm of your own.

Jun’s kiss softened, the fierce urgency giving way to something deeper, something that spoke of all the years of regret, the nights spent wondering if he should have come back sooner. His lips trailed over yours, slow and tender, as though memorizing the shape of your mouth, whispering promises with every touch.

Your hands slipped up to his shoulders, and you felt his muscles tense beneath your touch. But he didn’t pull away; if anything, he pulled you closer, his fingers tangling in your hair, his forehead resting against yours as his lips moved softly, lovingly against yours.

“I missed you,” he breathed against your lips, the words a quiet confession. “I never stopped thinking about you, never stopped loving you.”

A soft, broken sound escaped your throat, and your fingers tightened on his shirt. “Don’t leave me, Jun. Please… promise me, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t,” he whispered, and you could hear the promise in his voice, the desperate need to be the man you could trust again. “I swear, I won’t.”

His lips found yours again, slower this time, savoring each second, each gentle press, his hands cradling you with a care that made your heart ache. It wasn’t just a kiss—it was a promise, a silent vow that you weren’t alone anymore, that he would stand with you, fight for you.

And for the first time in years, in his arms, you felt safe.

*

Jun's sleek, black car sliced through the bustling city streets, the quiet hum of the engine a sharp contrast to the tension hanging in the air. Minghao sat in the passenger seat, his gaze fixed ahead, but his voice clear and steady.

“Her parents worked for Ji Jaekyung for a long time,” Minghao began, fingers drumming lightly on his knee. “Her father, Ji Ho-seok, was a lawyer—he worked for us. Her mother was a housewife, quiet but smart.”

Jun leaned back against his seat, his jaw clenched as Minghao laid out the twisted history. The dim overhead light cast sharp shadows over his face, making the anger in his eyes even more pronounced.

“So, Ji Ho-seok wasn’t just a victim of his own honesty,” Jun muttered, his voice low and edged with rage. “He was framed. Jaekyung made him a scapegoat, painting him as a traitor to Longwei so they would take him out.”

Minghao nodded, his expression grave. “That’s right. Jaekyung manipulated the narrative. Ho-seok’s death wasn’t just an accident. It was a calculated move. He convinced Longwei that Ho-seok was a threat, a liability who might expose their business dealings in Seoul.”

“And then he didn’t stop there,” Jun continued, his fists tightening. “Six years ago, he found out about Y/n. He used her—forced her into this fake daughter role to exploit his connections. And when her mother tried to protect her…”

“Jaekyung had her killed. Made it look like another syndicate move, but it was all part of his plan,” Minghao finished. “He knows that Y/n’s survival means his control over her. The moment she tries to escape, he can turn everything against her.”

Jun’s chest heaved with barely contained fury. The woman he loved had been caught in this twisted game for years—used, threatened, and forced to play a role that trapped her.

Jun strode into the safe house with Minghao and a group of guards trailing behind him. The cold, metallic hum of the place seemed to amplify the shock on the faces of the Longwei members stationed in Seoul. Their whispers died down immediately, replaced by a tense, suffocating silence. It wasn’t every day that their young boss appeared without warning—especially not with that fierce, unyielding glare in his eyes.

“Everyone, listen up.” Jun’s voice cut through the air like a blade, cold and authoritative. “I want this man found by tonight.”

Minghao stepped forward, holding up a clear, high-resolution image of a man—his features hardened with age, but the distinct dragon tattoo on his forearm was unmistakable. The room seemed to shift, the guards exchanging uneasy glances.

“This man killed Ji Ho-seok fifteen years ago,” Minghao announced, his voice steady but intense. “He was one of us—Longwei. But he betrayed that honor the moment he became a pawn in Ji Jaekyung’s game.”

Jun’s gaze swept over the room, his jaw clenched. “I want him alive. No excuses. No mistakes. If he tries to run, you make sure he regrets it.”

The men nodded, already pulling out their phones, making calls, and exchanging brief, whispered instructions. They knew better than to disappoint Jun—especially when his voice carried a darkness they rarely heard.

Jun stepped quietly into the hotel room, the soft click of the door almost drowned out by the city’s distant hum. His eyes immediately found you—sitting by the window, wrapped in one of the plush white robes, your knees drawn to your chest. Pale morning light filtered through the glass, painting you in a soft, ethereal glow, but your expression was distant, lost somewhere beyond the bustling streets below.

“You’re back.” Your voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight he couldn’t ignore.

“I promised I wouldn’t leave you alone.” Jun closed the door gently behind him, shrugging off his suit jacket and tossing it onto a nearby chair. His gaze never left you, taking in the way your fingers absentmindedly traced invisible patterns on your knee.

Silence stretched between you two, but it wasn’t the comforting quiet you used to share. It was heavy—thick with questions, with fears, with everything left unsaid.

“I thought about everything… about how this started. How one decision ruined everything,” you murmured, your voice cracking just slightly. “I feel like I’m drowning, Jun… I don't even know if there’s a way out.”

He crossed the room in a few strides, kneeling beside you. His warm hand reached for yours, covering your cold fingers. “There is. I swear there is. And I’ll make sure you’re free from all of this.”

You looked down at him, searching his eyes, desperate for even a flicker of certainty. “You promise?”

“I do.” His voice was steady, his grip firm, grounding you. “I’ve already started. Minghao is tracking the man who killed your father. We’ll get answers. And I won’t let Jaekyung touch you again.”

Your eyes stung, a tear slipping free despite your best effort. “It’s just… I keep thinking you’re going to disappear too. Like I’ll wake up, and you’ll be gone… just like everything else.”

Jun’s hand moved, cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing away the tear. “I’m not going anywhere, Y/n. Not now. Not ever.”

His forehead pressed gently against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “I lost you once. I won’t lose you again.”

*

You met Seungkwan at a quiet, tucked-away cafe far from the city center. He was already there when you arrived, his uniform jacket draped over the back of his chair, his face pinched with worry. The moment you sat down, his sharp gaze settled on you.

"You look tired," he noted, his tone softening just slightly. "You haven't been sleeping well, have you?"

You offered a weak smile. "Sleep has become a luxury I can't afford."

Silence hung between you as you stirred your coffee, the warmth seeping into your fingertips. Finally, you took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Seungkwan, I need to tell you something."

His expression tightened, and he leaned in, immediately alert. "What is it?"

"It's about Jun. He... he’s here. And he promised to help me. To help us escape from Ji Jaekyung," you whispered, watching his reaction closely.

Seungkwan's face darkened, his jaw tightening. "Jun? Your ex, Jun? He's with Longwei. He's part of the syndicate. The same people who ruined our family."

"I know," you admitted, struggling to keep your voice steady. "I know what he is. But he promised me, Seungkwan. He’s not like the rest of them. He’s trying to help."

Seungkwan leaned back, crossing his arms, his disbelief painfully clear. "Help? A man from the same group that killed our parents? That controlled Jaekyung? How can you even believe him?"

"Because he’s different!" Your voice broke, drawing a few glances from nearby tables. You forced yourself to lower your tone, tears burning in your eyes. "Because I have no one else to turn to. Because I’m so tired, Seungkwan. I’m tired of being Jaekyung’s pawn. I’m tired of living in fear, of pretending, of wondering who will be next—us, our parents, everyone we love."

Seungkwan's expression softened, but the tension didn't leave his shoulders. "Sister…"

"He promised me, Seungkwan. He promised to protect me. I know how this sounds, but I trust him. Maybe I’m a fool, maybe I’m desperate, but I need you to believe in me. Just this once. Please, understand."

Seungkwan ran a hand through his hair, letting out a shaky sigh. "And what if you’re wrong? What if this is just another trap? What if he’s using you like everyone else?"

"I don’t know," you admitted, your voice a bare whisper. "But I’d rather take a chance with Jun than keep living this nightmare. I can’t do it alone anymore."

Silence stretched between you two, only the faint clinking of cups and murmurs of the other patrons filling the air. Finally, Seungkwan leaned forward, his gaze soft but still cautious.

"Then let me help too. Don’t keep me in the dark. If you trust him, fine—but I’ll be watching. And if he betrays you, I won't hesitate."

A small, shaky smile tugged at your lips. "Thank you, Seungkwan."

"I just want you safe. That's all I ever wanted."

You stepped out of the cafe, the cool air brushing against your face, calming the lingering ache in your chest. The black sedan parked by the curb seemed almost out of place in this quiet neighborhood, but the tinted window rolled down as you approached, revealing Jun's familiar, composed face.

"How was the talk with him?" Jun asked, his voice steady but his gaze searching.

You slipped into the passenger seat, closing the door with a sigh. "He’s skeptical, but I told him everything. He’s worried, but… he’s willing to trust you. For now."

Jun's lips curved slightly, a trace of relief in his expression. "That’s a good start."

The car smoothly pulled away from the curb, and for a while, silence filled the space between you. But Jun’s hand found yours, his thumb brushing against your knuckles, a quiet comfort you didn’t realize you needed.

"Let’s take a break today," he suddenly suggested, glancing at you. "There’s a place I want to take you."

You blinked, a hint of surprise in your eyes. "Where?"

"You'll see."

The cityscape gave way to quieter streets, familiar corners, and warm nostalgia began to seep into your chest. Your heart skipped a beat when you realized where you were—your old university district.

The car stopped by a small, colorful alley with photo booth stations lining one side, neon lights flickering in the daylight. Memories rushed back, the laughter, the warmth, the days when everything was simpler.

"We had our first kiss there," Jun pointed to a particular photo booth, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "You remember? You were so nervous, kept laughing to avoid looking at me."

Your lips curved, a small laugh escaping. "And you kept teasing me until I got so annoyed that I pulled you down and kissed you first."

"Best surprise of my life." He chuckled, a softness in his gaze that made your heart ache.

Jun led you down the alley, his hand still holding yours, and he insisted you both take a new set of photos. The first shot captured your shy smile, the second was Jun leaning close to kiss your cheek, and by the third, you were both laughing, caught in that familiar, carefree feeling.

As the photo strip printed, Jun pulled you aside to a small cafe next door, the same place you used to visit after classes. He ordered the same iced coffee you loved, and you shared a slice of cake by the window, the warm sunlight painting gentle patterns on the table.

"You know," he murmured, watching you take a bite. "I thought I lost this feeling... That simple happiness of being with you."

Your fingers tightened around the cup. "I thought I lost you."

Jun leaned forward, resting his hand on yours. "You never did. And I won’t let you go this time."

Warmth spread in your chest, the weight of fear and doubts momentarily melting away. This was Jun—the Jun you loved, the one who made you feel alive. And for the first time in so long, you felt like you could breathe.

Jun drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gently holding yours. The city’s noise faded into the distance, replaced by the rhythmic whoosh of waves as the beach came into view. The golden hue of the setting sun stretched across the sky, its reflection dancing on the water’s surface.

He parked near the empty shoreline, and together, you stepped out, letting the cool breeze brush against your face. Without a word, Jun pulled down the back bunk of his car, and you both settled on it, facing the endless sea. His jacket draped over your shoulders, enveloping you in warmth as his arms wrapped securely around you.

Silence fell comfortably between you, the soothing crash of waves filling the space. The sky melted into a fiery orange, then a soft purple, stars slowly emerging one by one. But as the darkness grew, so did the weight in your chest.

Finally, you leaned against him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. Jun’s voice was soft, almost hesitant, cutting through the quiet embrace of the evening. "Why did you leave me?"

Your breath hitched, eyes fixed on the waves crashing against the shore, a rhythmic reminder of how time never stopped, even when your world crumbled.

"I didn't leave, Jun... I was forced to disappear." Your voice trembled, the bitterness of the truth catching in your throat. "After my mother was killed, Ji Jaekyung came to me. He knew everything—who I was, who my family was, how vulnerable I was. He gave me a choice, or at least pretended to. Play his daughter, entertain his clients, and in return, he'd keep Seungkwan safe. But I knew it was never really a choice."

Jun's hold around you tightened, his jaw clenching against the side of your head. "And you couldn’t tell me? You couldn't come to me?"

A faint, sad smile curved your lips. "How could I? I didn’t even know if I could trust you back then. After I learned about your family’s connection. Everything became a blur, and I was scared. I didn’t know if you were part of it... if you were just another trap."

Silence stretched, heavy and cold. Jun’s fingers trembled slightly on your shoulder, his breath warm against your temple. "I would’ve torn the world apart for you… if you had just told me."

"Would you?" You whispered, a tear slipping down your cheek. "Or would you have seen me as a burden—a weakness in your world of power and secrets?"

Jun leaned back slightly, just enough to meet your gaze, his eyes fierce, filled with a pain that mirrored your own. "You were never a burden. You were everything I wanted… everything I thought I couldn’t have. And I was an idiot to let you go."

Your hand reached for his, intertwining your fingers. "Then don’t let me go this time, Jun."

"I won’t," he whispered, his lips brushing against your forehead, a promise sealed in the warmth of his touch.

Jun's strong hands gently lifted you onto his lap, and once you settled, he cupped your cheek with tenderness, his thumb brushing your skin as if you were the most delicate porcelain. His other hand began a slow exploration, starting at your thigh and gliding with a featherlight touch beneath the hem of your dress. His fingers traced every curve and dip of your body as he leaned in closer, capturing your lips in a soft, lingering kiss.

"You're mine, Y/n," he murmured against your mouth, the words a gentle command. His hand slid to the nape of your neck, pulling you deeper into the kiss with a fervent intensity. "Say you're mine," he urged, his fingers dancing up your thighs, lingering at the curve of your waist before tracing the outline of your stomach.

You gasped his name, a soft moan escaping as his fingers brushed against your most sensitive spot, teasing and exploring with deliberate slowness. His lips never left yours, devouring you with a passionate hunger as his fingers slipped inside, moving with a steady, rhythmic intent. Captivated by the sounds you made, each soft whimper and sigh, he began to undress you, the cool night air whispering over your bare skin.

Your fingers moved with urgency, unbuttoning the last remnants of clothing between you both until skin met skin. He lifted you effortlessly, laying you back against the soft, worn cushions of the car's backseat. Spreading your legs, he positioned himself between them, his gaze locked on yours.

"Tell me each name that bothered you," he said, his voice a low promise. "I'll show them that touching you means messing with me."

With infinite care, he entered you, and the world around you seemed to disappear. The warmth and tightness enfolded him, and in that moment, there was only the two of you, cocooned in each other's embrace, with the gentle sound of waves lapping in the distance, an intimate symphony to your shared solitude.

*

Twelve men sat rigidly on the cold, metal chairs, fear starkly painted on their faces. Thick ropes wound around their torsos, binding them to the chairs, their wrists tied behind their backs, rendering them helpless. The dim light overhead cast a sickly glow, accentuating the sweat beading on their foreheads. The room smelled of damp concrete and something darker—panic.

Jun stepped into the room, Minghao trailing behind him with a steely gaze. Jun’s sharp eyes scanned each terrified face, lingering on the man he recognized—the one he saw that night, leading you through the hotel lobby. Rage simmered beneath his calm exterior, a silent storm brewing.

He remembered your voice, trembling but steady, each word a needle prick against his chest.

"What did they do to you?" he had asked, his jaw clenched, his eyes never leaving yours, desperate for the truth.

"Everything... They did... everything."

The quiet crackle of the burning charcoal snapped him back to the present. A thick metal rod, its tip glowing a fierce orange, sat on the smoldering heat, a twisted promise of pain.

"What should we do to them, boss?" Minghao's voice was steady, but there was a tension beneath his words, a coldness matching Jun’s simmering fury.

Jun's gaze never left the men, especially the one he recognized, whose face had turned ghostly pale.

"For whoever laid their hands on her," Jun’s voice was calm, almost emotionless—a chilling contrast to the violence in his words. "I want them to touch that." He pointed to the searing metal rod, the heat radiating from it like a promise of hell.

Minghao nodded, signaling to the men holding the rod. They stepped forward, the fiery glow reflecting in the captives’ wide, terror-stricken eyes. Some thrashed against their bindings, whimpering and begging, while others shut their eyes, murmuring desperate prayers.

Jun’s phone buzzed in his pocket, the screen flashing with a familiar name—Ji Jaekyung. He signaled Minghao to keep an eye on the captives before stepping away, his expression unreadable. With a swipe, he answered, his voice calm but guarded.

"Mr. Ji," Jun greeted, leaning against the cold wall.

"Jun, my boy!" Jaekyung's voice carried a forced warmth, laced with a hint of tension. "I haven’t seen my daughter since yesterday. She’s not answering her phone. I thought you two would be together. Care to tell me where she is?"

Jun’s jaw tightened, but he kept his voice steady. "She needed some fresh air, Mr. Ji. I figured she'd enjoy some time away without all the... usual pressures."

Jaekyung chuckled, though the edge in his laughter was clear. "Fresh air? That's sweet of you, but you know how dangerous this city can be. Especially for a young woman like her."

"Don’t worry, she’s in good hands."

"Good hands, you say?" Jaekyung's tone turned sharper. "I hope you're not forgetting our arrangement, Jun. You understand how important my daughter is to me... and how unpleasant things can get if something happens to her."

Jun’s fingers curled tighter around his phone. "Rest assured, Mr. Ji. I always take good care of what's mine."

A brief silence stretched between them before Jaekyung's voice softened again, but the threat lingered beneath. "See that you do. I expect her back soon, Jun. Don’t disappoint me."

The call ended, and Jun lowered the phone, his gaze darkening. He looked back at the room where the captives were. His grip on the phone was so tight his knuckles turned white.

"Minghao," he called out, his voice cold.

Minghao approached immediately, reading the look in his boss’s eyes. "Jaekyung’s getting anxious?"

"He's getting suspicious." Jun’s voice was low, almost a growl. "Have someone follow him. I want to know every move he makes. If he sends anyone to look for her, I want to know before they even leave his doorstep."

Minghao nodded, already typing instructions to his men. "And the men here?"

Jun’s gaze returned to the captives. His voice was ice. "Continue. Make them talk. I want to know everything they did to her. And I want them to feel what it means to lay their hands on her."

With one last glance at the room, Jun stepped out, his mind racing. He needed to protect you, and to do that, he needed to stay two steps ahead of Ji Jaekyung.

*

Jun’s car sped through the city streets, neon lights casting fleeting colors across his face. His grip on the steering wheel tightened as he dialed the secure line to his father. The call connected after a few rings, and a deep, authoritative voice echoed through.

"Jun?" His father's voice carried the weight of decades of power. "Is something wrong?"

"Father," Jun began, his voice steady but tense. "I need your permission to eliminate Ji Jaekyung."

A sharp silence filled the line, followed by a low, incredulous chuckle. "Holding his daughter isn't enough? Have you lost your mind, Jun?"

"No, Father. I've seen enough." Jun’s voice remained firm. "Ji Jaekyung has tainted the deal further than Longwei expected. He’s using our name, manipulating our men, and worst of all—he's exploiting innocent lives. He uses a false daughter to shield his business, dragging her into a world of filth."

His father’s silence deepened, the weight of his contemplation almost palpable through the phone. "Are you certain this isn't personal?"

"It is personal too," Jun admitted without hesitation. "But even without the personal part, his actions have become a liability. He hides behind our name, but he’s a snake, corrupting our reputation."

"Jun, killing an ally can bring consequences. The balance in Seoul will shift. His partners, his clients, they might turn against us. He just needs a warning."

"But if we keep him, he’ll turn them against us with his lies and deceit. I can handle the fallout. I will clean up every trace."

"Would you stake your position for this decision?" his father asked, his tone now sharp, testing.

Jun didn’t hesitate. "Yes. If you give me your approval, I will do everything. No one will ever trace it back to us."

A slow exhale echoed from the other side. "Very well, Jun. But remember, this is your choice. If you fail, it’s your head on the line, not just his."

"I won’t fail, Father."

The call ended. Jun's jaw clenched as he tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. The weight of what he was about to do pressed down on him, but it was a weight he was willing to bear.

The car pulled up to the hotel, and Jun stepped out. His expression remained cold, but beneath that exterior was a storm of determination. He was going to protect you, no matter the cost.

*

The television screen in the hotel room flickered to life, its glow casting a pale light over the dimly lit space. You were curled up on the bed, staring blankly at the screen, trying to distract yourself from the whirlwind of emotions inside you. But then the program shifted, the tone turned urgent, and a news anchor appeared, her face a mix of shock and professionalism.

"Breaking News—South Korea's Prime Minister Ji Jaekyung has died in a tragic car accident earlier this evening. Authorities report that his vehicle lost control on a mountain road before crashing into a ravine. Emergency responders arrived on the scene, but Ji Jaekyung was pronounced dead on arrival. The cause of the accident is still under investigation, but preliminary reports suggest a possible brake failure. This sudden loss has sent shockwaves throughout the nation."

Your breath caught, and the remote slipped from your hand, clattering against the floor. A cold chill spread through you as your eyes widened. Ji Jaekyung… dead?

Your thoughts raced—was it truly an accident? Could it be connected to Jun? You remembered his words, his quiet but fierce promise to protect you. You covered your mouth, trying to suppress the mix of fear and relief flooding your chest.

The screen continued to show footage of the crash site—flashing lights, twisted metal, and officers cordoning off the area.

"The Prime Minister's office has yet to release an official statement. Reports indicate that Ji Jaekyung’s car was traveling alone, and there were no other passengers. The investigation is ongoing."

Your heart pounded against your ribs as the door clicked open. Jun stepped in, his sharp suit barely wrinkled, his expression unreadable as his eyes immediately found yours. He saw your pale face and glanced at the television.

"You did this," you whispered, a mixture of disbelief and shock in your voice.

Jun's face softened slightly, his steps careful as he approached you. "I told you I would protect you."

You stared at him, tears pooling in your eyes. "Did you… was it really an accident?"

"It was necessary," he said, his voice gentle but unyielding. "He can never hurt you again."

A tear slipped down your cheek, and your legs gave way, but Jun caught you, pulling you into his arms. His hold was firm, grounding you as your mind struggled to process everything.

"You… you killed him," you whispered against his chest.

"Yes," Jun murmured, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "And I'd do it again to keep you safe."

The weight of everything crashed down on you all at once—fear, anger, betrayal, and an overwhelming sense of relief. Your chest tightened, and a sob tore itself free from your throat.

Your fingers gripped the fabric of Jun’s suit, twisting it as your body trembled. A wretched, broken cry escaped your lips, raw and unrestrained. Tears streamed down your cheeks, soaking into his shoulder as you buried your face against him.

"I-I thought… I thought he'd never let me go," you choked out, the words barely coherent between your sobs. "I thought… I thought I’d lose everything—Seungkwan, you—"

Jun’s arms tightened around you, a steady, protective embrace. He didn’t speak, didn’t try to hush your cries. He simply held you, letting you release every ounce of fear and pain you had bottled up for so long. His hand moved gently, cradling the back of your head, his other arm wrapped around your waist, grounding you.

"You’re safe now," he whispered, his voice steady, a calm in the storm of your emotions. "No one can hurt you. Not anymore."

Your sobs grew louder, uncontrollable. Years of suffering, of living under someone else’s shadow, of being used, manipulated, and threatened—all of it broke free. Your knees buckled, but Jun held you, sinking with you to the floor.

"I was so scared… so tired…" you cried, clinging to him. "I don’t want to be afraid anymore."

"And you won’t be," Jun murmured, resting his cheek against the top of your head. "I promised you, didn’t I? I will protect you… no matter what it takes."

You didn't know how long you cried—minutes, hours—it all blurred together. But through it all, Jun never let you go. He stayed, a silent, steady presence in the chaos of your breaking heart.

*

Life changed swiftly, almost ruthlessly. You followed Jun to Guangzhou, leaving behind the shadows of Seoul for the neon-lit city bustling with life. Jun was a name whispered with both fear and respect here, a man painted as the villain in countless stories. But to you, he was never a villain—he was your hero. The man who pulled you from the jaws of despair, who held you when you were broken, and who taught you how to survive.

Guangzhou was a different world. Jun's life was a world of negotiations done in half-lit rooms, whispers exchanged in crowded clubs, and loyalty measured in blood. You learned quickly that being Jun’s partner wasn’t just about standing by his side—it was about keeping up, about becoming strong enough to protect yourself and everything you held dear.

He introduced you to Minghao, who taught you self-defense. Hours spent in a private dojo, where you learned how to disarm a knife-wielding attacker, how to break a grip, how to move swiftly and strike precisely. Every bruise, every ache became a reminder of your growing strength.

Jun didn't just shelter you; he prepared you. Over sleek mahogany tables filled with maps and documents, you learned the art of strategy—how to anticipate moves, how to read people, how to negotiate. You became a quiet but sharp presence in his meetings, your observations valued, your voice heard.

"You’re not just my woman, Y/n," Jun whispered one night, his fingers tracing along your jaw as you lay in his arms. "You’re my partner. I need you to be strong. Strong enough to stand by me… and strong enough to protect yourself when I can’t."

And you became that.

Yet, being Jun's partner meant facing danger. You felt it the night a black sedan rammed your car, your body jolted against the seatbelt as your driver struggled to regain control. You heard it in the sharp, cracking sound of gunfire in a dim alley one evening, Jun’s arm pulling you against the wall, his body shielding yours.

You saw it in the cold glint of a knife pressed against your throat when you were kidnapped by a rival syndicate. You remembered the terror, the way your voice didn’t shake as you spoke to the man holding you, buying just enough time until Jun stormed in, his men dismantling the enemy with calculated precision.

But Jun, like he promised, was always there. When you were dragged out of the car wreck, he was the first face you saw, his voice soothing you even as blood ran down his cheek. When you were taken, he didn't sleep until you were back in his arms.

Your life was a dance on the edge of a blade, a world where chaos and calm intertwined. But in every shadow, Jun was your light. In every storm, he was your shelter. He was a villain in the stories of others, but to you, he was a savior.

Amidst all this, a call came from Seoul—Seungkwan’s voice on the other end, trembling but determined.

“I did it, Y/n,” he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. “I found him. I found the man who killed our parents.”

Your heart raced, the room around you fading into silence. “Seungkwan… where is he?”

“I have him in custody. He’s confessed. Ji Jaekyung set it all up—made him do it, made him kill them to cover his tracks.”

A cold rage settled in your chest, but also a twisted sense of relief. The ghosts of your parents had haunted you for so long, their deaths an open wound that never healed. Now, that wound had a face. A face that could finally be punished.

“Y/n?” Seungkwan’s voice softened. “Are you okay?”

Tears slipped down your cheeks, but a small, determined smile touched your lips. “I’m okay, Seungkwan. Because you did it. You brought justice to them.”

Jun noticed your tears as he entered the room, his gaze softening as he knelt before you. “What’s wrong?”

You met his eyes, your hand reaching out to grasp his. “Seungkwan found him… the man who killed my parents.”

Jun’s jaw tightened, his fingers threading through yours, offering his silent, unwavering support. “Then we’re one step closer, Y/n. To finally ending this nightmare.”

Or maybe, one more nightmare.

The grand hall of Long Wei's headquarters was a spectacle of opulence—crystal chandeliers casting a warm, golden glow over a sea of influential faces. Laughter and the clinking of glasses filled the air, but a sharp tension cut through the room as a man grabbed you, a knife pressed against your neck. Gasps rippled through the crowd, fear seizing those who watched. The man’s voice trembled as he shouted threats, his grip on you shaky, his eyes wild.

“Everyone back! I swear I’ll—”

But his voice faltered when he noticed the subtle change in the air—an eerie calm, an odd sense of confidence. You stood perfectly still, your breathing steady, your gaze unwavering. The knife against your skin was a cold whisper, but fear didn’t cloud your eyes. Instead, there was something else—annoyance.

Jun stood a few feet away, leaning casually against the marble pillar, a glass of wine still in his hand. His head was tilted slightly, a slow, amused smile tugging at his lips. He didn’t rush, didn’t shout. He simply watched, his eyes locked on you.

And you knew what that meant—his trust in you was absolute. Even though he was nervous, considering you were eight months pregnant, his confidence in your abilities never wavered.

The man’s grip tightened, his voice shaking. “I said move back, or she’s—”

Before he could finish, you moved. Your heel slammed down on his foot, hard enough that he cried out, his grip loosening just enough. Your hand shot up, grabbing his wrist, twisting it sharply until the knife clattered to the floor. His free arm reached for you, but you drove your elbow into his ribs with a force that made him gasp.

The room watched, frozen, as your fist collided with his jaw in a clean, precise strike, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Chaos erupted around you. Long Wei’s guards surged forward, tackling the man to the floor, rough hands ensuring he wouldn’t rise again. But you hardly noticed. Jun was already at your side, his arms wrapping protectively around you, pulling you close. His hand instinctively rested against the gentle curve of your stomach, feeling the faint movement within.

“You’ll be the death of me, baby,” he whispered, his voice half-scolding, half-loving, his lips brushing your temple.

You leaned into his touch, your own hand resting over his. “I didn’t even break a sweat.”

Jun chuckled, though there was a hint of exasperation in his voice. “If you weren’t eight months pregnant, I’d be proud. But right now, I’m just trying not to have a heart attack.”

Behind you, the party guests were beginning to murmur, the tension slowly dissipating. Long Wei’s men dragged the failed attacker away, and whispers of admiration and shock spread through the crowd. Even Jun’s father, who had been watching from the balcony, gave an approving nod.

“Come on,” Jun murmured, steering you gently toward a quieter corner. “Let’s sit you down. You’ve done enough for tonight, hero.”

You chuckled, letting him guide you, your fingers lacing with his. “Maybe next time, they’ll think twice before trying to mess with Long Wei’s family.”

Jun’s expression softened as he looked down at you, his hand never leaving your stomach. “They better. Because I can’t lose either of you.”

[thedensworld]

hiiii, can we get prompt 15 with dino? pls pls pls

dino + “are you awake yet?” “no.” “oh okay, sorry.”

warnings: fluff, cutie patootie channie baby an: oh channie, my fav little gooner boy ♡ (this fic does not include gooning.. moots will understand) if you like gooners pls read my 10th anniversary fics too much and journey mercies !!! thank you sm

it’s 8am.

it’s 8am already, and chan has been itching to tell you a story for the past 30 minutes. he hasn’t moved a bit, of course not, so he’s been laying next to you on his stomach, bedhead and all, watching you sleep with his beady eyes.

he reaches out to you with a finger, slowly but surely, until it’s close enough for him to reach out and poke you on the cheek. you groan, turning onto your side, facing away from him. he freezes, thinking you woke up, but when you don’t, he pouts before doing it again.

“chan.” you grumble, voice deep and full of fatigue. “cut it out.”

“sorry..” he winces, sensing your irritation. he waits a little longer, leaning slightly over you, watching your features even out as you fall back asleep.

you’re so pretty, all calm and peaceful in your slumber. your lips are stuck in a pout, cheeks slightly puffing up every time you take a breath. he almost feels bad for wanting to wake you up so badly, but the chatterbox in him is literally begging to come out. he can’t help it! he hasn’t spoken in the eight hours that he’s slept! he reaches forward one more time, this time poking your shoulder. when you don’t budge he does it again, and his entire soul leaves his body when you grab his hand and throw it off of you.

“i’m sleeping. it’s too early. give me an hour.” you speak, short and with no room for any debate.

he whines, mumbling an okay, fine.. before moving to lay on his back. he stares at the ceiling, looking at the ridges in the paint job, wondering what he could possibly do for an hour. eventually he looks at your dresser, giving himself a very unprofessional reading test as he tries to read the texts on all your perfumes and other bottles. he then moves to the frames scattered around the room, looking at the photos and remembering the events where they were taken. surely this all took an hour, right?

“are you awake yet?” he asks, breaking the silence.

“no!”

“oh okay, sorry.” once again he’s pouting, and he decides to just turn over and cuddle into you. maybe he’ll try going to sleep too.

1 to 13 🏷️ @markkiatocafe @ateez-atiny380

[thedensworld]

amourous; lc

summary; You’ve worked hard to escape the shadows of a painful past. But what happens when it resurfaces, threatening the image you tried to build – and the bond you’d built with someone who wasn’t supposed to see the real you?

hybrid au • university au • modern au • fluff, smut, angst

pairing; lee chan x fem! reader | wc; 14.2k | rating; 18+ explicit nsfw

contains; wolf hybrid! chan, human(?) reader, performance unit focused, wolf hybrid! hoshi, wolf hybrid! minghao, human! jun, jun has a wolf gf in this fic, possessive chan, performance unit performs in public, hoshi is kinda ooc (bro is a bit too calm/cool than usual + a bit mean), halloween party organised by SVT

mature/trigger warnings; anxiety/panic attack, mentions of cheating, mentions of bullying, trauma resurfacing, discussion of hybrid stigmas, discrimination/prejudice, the group has a fight at some point (but they do make up), mentions of hazing, dom! chan, sub! reader, scenting, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), fingering, multiple orgasms, creampie, doggy-style, tail-play (?), praise kink from both parties

petnames; his (Channie, Wolfie), hers (Baby, Foxy, Pretty Fox)

a/n; hope yall enjoy this fluff and lighter themed fic after the semi dark themes in bty lmao 🥴 i'm really sorry that there was no teaser/trailer and that this fic was overdue – work was hammering me and i was lowkey just tryna survive and catch up on sleep (sis was running on a min of 3-4 hrs of sleep rip) also, ik this is like kinda in the theme of halloween, but i can’t wait five months to post this solely bcs it’s been in the backlogs for at least two years lmao (the idea manifested the same time as ROL)

✨ support me by becoming a patreon (enjoy exclusive perks & content) OR tip me on kofi !! 💜 if you are unable to do so, you can also show support by reblogging your favourite works of mine !!

Your peers considered you to be a reserved person, quiet and usually kept to yourself. You were quite, for lack of a better word - picky, with your social circle. Not to mention, you were always on high alert with your surroundings, especially if you were in a new environment.

Walking through the hallway of Pledis Private High, your new high school had your anxiety peaking. You held your tears back as you timidly but hurriedly made your way to your classroom. You took a seat at the back of the class, close to the backdoor as you could just exit immediately without any trouble.

“Before we start, we do have a new student who has joined us for the school year!” the teacher announced, gesturing towards you. You felt your heart in your throat as all eyes fell on you while you stood up, feeling the room closing in on you. “Could you introduce yourself, dear?”

You took a deep breath to calm yourself, “___, my name is Choi ___.”

When the lunch bell rang, you snuck out through the back door and towards the cafeteria. Sitting at an empty table near a corner, you quietly enjoyed your lunch until a trio approached you, peaking your anxiety as you looked up from your food to look at them.

Two boys - one blonde, one dark haired; and a girl with orange hair.

The girl reached out her hand, a vibrant smile on her face. “Hi, ___, right?” she reached out her hand, “I’m Yejin, Kang Yejin. The blonde haired is Junhui, while the dark haired boy is Chan.” When you turned your focus to the boys, Junhui gave you a small smile while Chan gave you a nod.

“We’re friends of Chan, but we’re a grade above.” Junhui said, “Chan mentioned you’re new to the school, he’s your deskmate.” Your eyes darted to Chan who had a small blush on his face as he sheepishly rubbed his nape, “You didn’t notice me taking a seat next to you earlier… And… before I could try and talk to you, you were already out of the classroom…”

“Chan’s a little shy, but he’s a sweetheart,” Yejin stated as she popped a grape into her mouth, “You’re in safe hands with him around.”

You spent the rest of your lunch break with the trio, quietly observing them. You’ve learnt that Junhui and Yejin are dating, Chan is a dancer and seemingly has a personality that’s similar to yours - at least that’s what you’ve gotten from the 20 minutes of interaction with them. As the bell rang and you were about to head back to class with Chan, Yejin called out to you.

“Out of curiosity, what kind of hybrid are you?”

Junhui nudged his girlfriend, shooting her a disapproving look. “What? You can’t tell me you aren’t curious!”

“Yejin, you just met her!” he hissed, “You shouldn’t be asking these questions!”

Before the bickering could continue, you rushed out your answer, “Human.” As the trio shifted their focus onto you once again, you took a steadying breath and repeated yourself.

“I’m a human.”

Three years since that day, you’ve seamlessly integrated into the trio, now a quartet.

You even find yourself attending the same university as them. When Yejin and Junhui graduated, you vaguely remember Chan mentioning Junhui had gone back to ShenZhen for a year to see his family and did his Foundation Studies there while Yejin did hers in Attacca University.

Once you and Chan had graduated high school, you both enrolled into Attacca University for your Foundation Studies of your respective courses - you pursuing Language Studies while Chan pursued Sociology. You were glad to be enrolled into a university with the trio, at least there were familiar faces - easing your anxiety.

“.....hear me? ___!”

Snapping out of your trance-like state, you looked up to see Yejin and her boyfriend, Junhui, standing in front of you with worried looks.

Letting out a confused ‘huh?’, you watch how Yejin’s eyebrows furrowed. “I've been trying to get your attention for the past ten minutes, ___. Are you okay? Did something happen before we got here?”

You shook your head, giving her an assuring smile as she sat next to you. Junhui quietly took a seat across from both of you, texting away on his phone as his girl continued to question you. 

“Are you sure? You’re not lying to me, are you?”

“I promise, I’m fine, Yejin.”

While still unconvinced, she stops her questioning and redirects it towards her boyfriend. Junhui had flown back to Korea to resume his degree in Business; coincidentally ending up in the same course with Yejin. Chan had pointed out how the couple were attached to the hip and were so inseparable that even the universe decided to put them in the same university, in the same study course.

Though, you do admit – Yejin and Junhui were essentially textbook couple goals.

“Who’re you texting, Junnie?”

“Chan.” he answered, “Just asking if he’s finished with his class and if he’ll be joining us for lunch.”

“Is he coming?” you asked curiously, the couple looking at you as a knowing smile spread on their lips. A blush formed on your cheeks as you tried to avoid making eye contact, attempting to stutter out a response but failing. Within the years of friendship you had with the trio, you had somehow developed a small (read: massive) crush on Chan. Though you had managed to keep in under wraps from the majority of your peers, had they been as observant as Yejin, they would’ve noticed the subtle signs.

In fact, it had been Yejin who got you to realise your feelings for the wolf hybrid. She noticed the faint blush that would dust your cheeks when Chan would get too close or help you with a task, how only Chan was allowed to refer to you by a certain nickname (which has led to you only responding to him when he calls you said nickname), the extra decorations on his pastries when you’d bake for them - she noticed it all. When she had initially brought up the topic, you heavily denied it.

“I don’t see Chan that way, I swear!” you exclaimed, “It’s just- I just-”

Yejin placed both hands on your shoulders, attempting to calm you down. “___, dear, please take a deep breath. I’m not saying it’s a fact, okay? I’m just… suggesting that you might, based on what I’ve noticed.”

Junhui approached with a cardboard cup holder tray, passing you a drink as he sat next to you. “It’s okay if you don’t want to believe it. Maybe you haven’t fully processed everything yet, but from what Yejin’s told me, I think there may be a chance you fancy Chan.” You whined, burying your face in your hands as your face burnt bright red from embarrassment.

“At the end of the day, it’s your feelings and I’m just making a hypothesis based on my observation.”

“And if you set aside the whole… rut and aggression stigma, Chan’s a gentleman and always looks out for those he cares for. You’re no exception, too.”

Junhui gives you a teasing smile and before he could reply, Chan was standing at the end of the table with two other male students. “Hi, gang!” he greeted in an excited tone, gesturing to the two, “Meet Soonyoung and Minghao! They’re friends I made from the dance club, and we’re actually coursemates! Can you believe that?”

You watch how Yejin’s nose twitched slightly at Soonyoung and Minghao’s presence, “Are you both wolves?”

“Yejin!”

“They smell like wolves!”

The table watches as Junhui’s eyebrows scrunch together in confusion as he asks, “They smell like wolves?” Yejin later explained how each hybrid has a distinctive smell, making it easy to identify the different species of hybrids. “So… let’s say there are two different cat hybrids in the room,” Junhui hypothesised, “One’s a Siamese, the other is a Maine Coon, can you tell the difference?”

“Okay, I don’t know about differentiating two breeds of the same animals,” Yejin replied, “but, if you put a human and a wolf, two wolves and a cat, or even just two humans in a room, any hybrid would be able to tell.”

“Not all hybrids.” Minghao chimed in, “While any hybrids can differentiate the smell of a human and a hybrid, only some can differentiate the smell of two hybrids of the same breed.”

Chan felt the seat he was sitting on slightly shake. When he looked down, he noticed your leg bouncing – something he’s come to realise was what you’d often do when you’re feeling anxious. Placing a hand on your thigh, he watches as you tensed up, your head turned towards him with a panicked look.

“You okay, ___?” he asks, the group focusing their attention onto you. “I-I’m fine,” you forced out, “Just… Just feeling a little stuffed. I’m gonna go and get some fresh air.”

“I’ll come with you.” Yejin offered, getting up from her seat and you rushed out a quick “No!”, startling her.

“I… I just want to be on my own for now… I’ll… I’ll see you all at the end of the school day, okay?” Slinging your bag over your shoulder, you got out of the cafeteria as quickly as you could, feeling even more uneasy when you could feel eyes following you.

“Did we… did we scare her…?” Minghao asked, looking at Chan who shrugged. “I hope not,” Yejin said, “I still remember the first time the three of us met and talked to her. Poor girl looked like she was about to cry.”

“She is a human, right?” Soonyoung asked, turning to the female wolf. When Yejin nods, the blonde haired wolf asks again, “But, she has an odd scent… I don’t think I’ve met any humans that smell like that.”

“Well, ___ hangs out with the three of us a lot. And since Chan and I are wolves, alongside the other students she could have to interact with throughout the day, maybe the scent got mixed up.”

Soonyoung considers Yejin’s explanation for a moment before nodding his head, accepting it. However, there’s a voice in his head that’s nagging at him – telling him the human who had just left isn’t who she presents herself to be.

Over the next few months, the boys had gotten closer thanks to their shared passion for dancing.

Junhui’s dance style was more towards contempt, similar to Minghao but you could see some elements of b-boying, which when asked out of curiosity, he confirmed that he indeed has a background in b-boy. On the other hand, Soonyoung and Chan shared a similar dance style of hip-hop and urban.

You’ve never seen them perform, possibly because they are yet to perform as a group of four. Junhui and Minghao were the first to perform – signing up for the Attacca’s International Cultural Night, and their performance had blown everyone away. With the help of Jihoon, one of Junhui’s classmates, the trio had successfully produced a song titled ‘My I’. And after a week of brainstorming, the duo had managed to self-choreo a contemporary style dance for the song.

You remember witnessing the performance for the very first time.

A day prior to said Cultural Night, the duo had practically begged your group to attend the event and support their performance.

“So, you’ve been stealing my boyfriend for a performance and not even bothering to tell us until the very last minute?” Yejin asked, arms crossed as she’s sat on the couch of hers and Junhui’s shared apartment. To outsiders, they might think she’s mad but to the group, at least except Junhui and Minghao at the moment, she’s just teasing.

“Baby, please, I’m so sorry for hiding this from you,” Junhui pleaded, kneeling in front of his girlfriend and looking up at her with puppy eyes. “We wanted to tell you all a few days ago but Minghao had a test, I had a big presentation – and it just slipped our mind!”

You can’t help but giggle at the memory.

“Thought of something funny?” Chan asks, taking a seat next to you on the picnic mat Yejin and Soonyoung managed to secure that was provided by the event (it was also a front row seat to the stage, a better view to spectate the duo). A faint blush paints across your cheeks as you answered, “Just remembering how they told us they’d be performing.”

The wolf chuckles as he recalls the memory, “Yea, I’ve never seen Junhui and Minghao hyung look that scared.”

“Have you ever thought of performing on stage?”

Chan looked taken aback by your question, as if he wasn’t expecting you to have any interest in his hobbies since not many people have asked him anything about his own life. “Well… I had performed in the past – middle school, before you joined Pledis. Every school event, Junhui hyung and I would always perform and everyone called us ‘The Dance Bros’ back then. We kind of went on a hiatus of some sorts when Junhui hyung started high school and wanted to focus more on his studies.” “Did you continue performing?‘

“I may like the solo spotlight, but I still prefer having company if I were to go on stage. When hyung said he wanted to focus more on his studies, I decided to do the same.”

“Some people don’t take Chan seriously with his studies because of his passion for dance.” Yejin chimed in, “Sometimes, they even tell him dancing doesn’t really secure him a future. But, our little wolf boy never let that stop him from occasionally picking up dance gigs.”

“Dance gigs?” Soonyoung, who has been quiet all this while, finally speaks up upon hearing the revelation. You were equally curious, looking at Chan expectantly.

There was a sheepish smile on Chan’s face, “Well… the gigs were just me as a backup dancer, it’s really not that big of a deal.”

Soonyoung leaned in, causing Yejin to lean back a little as she’s sat in between them, his curiosity piqued. “Tell me more about these dance gigs.”

“Guys!” Chan exclaims as he runs up the stairs of Attacca’s football field. “Guys!”

Minghao wanted some peace and quiet; coincidentally, you also needed some peace after the morning you had. Your lecturer had decided to have some kind of Pre-Halloween celebration (it was the middle of September) and after an entire morning of loud noises, you’ve had enough.

So, when Minghao suggested the group just relax and eat lunch at the bleachers of the football field, you gladly took his side.

As Chan ran up the bleachers, Junhui can’t help but chuckle. “He gets any more excited and his tails and ears are gonna pop out.”

“That’s happened before?” Minghao asks.

“According to him, not as often as it did in primary school,” you replied, “He’s managed to get in under control, but tell him exciting news or something extremely good happens, out poofs his ears and tail.”

“Should’ve seen him when he found out you were accepted into Attacca,” Yejin teases, nudging your sides, “I have never seen his tail wag so… violently? Happily? Whatever the term is, his tail was wagging and he was happy.”

“Happy is an understatement,” Junhui adds, “He was over the moon.”

You blush, patting your cheeks in an effort to get rid of the redness as Chan reaches the row you were all sat in. “What’s up, Channie?”

The wolf pants, “Seungcheol wants us to join the SVT Frat and we got a busking offer!”

A moment of silence.

“I’m sorry, but could you repeat that?” Minghao asks, “You said it in one breath and so quick that I only heard Seungcheol’s name.”

You guide Chan to take a seat on the row in front of the group, letting him catch his breath. You hand him your water bottle which he happily accepts, taking a large gulp and wiping his mouth. “Seungcheol wants us to join his frat,” he says after catching his breath, his voice still slightly strained. He hands the water bottle back to you with a sheepish grin.

“Seungcheol? The president of the SVT Frat House?” Minghao recalls.

You’re not one to join a fraternity or sorority so your first question was, “What is that and what does SVT stand for?”

Junhui shrugs, “I think you know what frat houses are. Think sorority sisters but for guys where depending on the guy in charge, they’re either cool guys or… drunkards and druggies. SVT is more on the cool guys spectrum, think big seasonal parties or smaller pool parties.”

“As for what they stand for, according to what’s being said, it’s apparently Sigma Vitae Triumphalis. A Latin-inspired phrase for Sum of Life and Triumph.”

Yejin raises an eyebrow, leaning back slightly in her seat. “Since when do they recruit mid-semester?”

Chan shrugs, fiddling with the strap of his bag. “Beats me. But he said Jihoon recommended us and something about needing more members, how he’s been keeping tabs on us for the past… two months? Plus, you know how popular their parties are. It might not be the worst idea to check it out.”

You give him a skeptical look. “Are you considering it?”

He hesitates, keeping his gaze on you. “I mean, I don’t know… It’s not every day we get offered into a frat house like SVT. Could be a good opportunity, right? Connections, parties, networking…”

“Correction, you boys get offered into a frat house like SVT,” Yejin snorts, “I’m not into the whole sorority sisters thing and ___ there has social anxiety. We avoid that shit like the plague.”

“There… There won’t be any kind of hazing, right? I heard that frats from NeoCity University…”

“Oh yeah, I know what you’re talking about,” Soonyoung joins in, grimacing at the memory, “The 20XX NEOCITIZEN Hazing Incident.”

You wince at the mention of that incident. While you weren’t apart or knew anyone that were involved, you would consider yourself an empathetic person to some degree. The frat house that was involved weren’t disclosed, but a quick mention of the victims and what they’ve endured were quick to reveal it was the ANOM House.

Two humans suffered from alcohol poisoning, having digested a concoction that police suspected to have at least ten different types of alcohol; and a cat hybrid was forced into a ‘Mountain Dew Baptism’ as his pledge.

The worst part was when investigators announced that the frat seniors had multiple chat rooms where they would upload photos of the newcomers blindfolded and completely nude. 

A shiver goes down your spine as you recall the news, deciding to push it back down before unwanted images or your imaginations think of something similar happening to your friends.

Minghao was the one who tried to ease everyone’s minds, “They don’t do or condone hazing, at least that’s what I’ve heard from Jihoon. They’re pretty selective of who they let in, usually depending on connections and like Chan said, recommendations and some tab keeping.”

He goes on about how the boys in SVT were good people to some degree, saying how one guy named Jeonghan may look sweet and is like an Angel; but he sure as hell knew how to cheat when it comes to playing games. “Wonwoo and Mingyu look like they’re best friends, but they’re practically dating each other and a girl from Wonwoo’s class. Polygamy, if you may.”

You turn back to Chan, who’s surprisingly looking at you with puppy-like eyes, “Why are you giving me that look? You should be giving it to the boys, not me.”

“I dunno…” he mutters, “It feels right.”

You roll your eyes, cheeks flushing at the answer. “How about we hear him out first? See if it’s the real deal and make sure they aren’t secretly trying to haze you guys.”

“Deal.” Chan grins, already looking more optimistic. “Let’s just hope they’re not expecting us to pledge by chugging a gallon of milk or something.”

The group laughs, Junhui shrugging, “I dunno man… They had Jihoon drink that twenty ounce bottle of Coke Zero as his pledge.”

“I mean, the man has a strange obsession with Coke Zero so it’s no problem for him,” Minghao adds, “Remember that mini fridge he had in his room when we visited? I opened it and it was filled to the brim with Coke Zero.”

You turn your head back to Chan, “Hey, didn’t you also mention something about a busking gig?”

“Oh yeah! The gig!” Chan’s wolf ears popped right out of his head, a large grin on his face. “We got an offer for a busking gig!”

Chan was nervous.

You could practically smell it on him.

The boys took close to three weeks to practice their routine, Soonyoung wanting everything to be levelled and in sync for a more smooth or perfect performance. Chan had come to you for comfort several times, his entire body worn out whenever Soonyoung wanted to repeat a certain move or when he made them repeat the entire choreography with little to no breaks in between.

“___…” Chan mumbled, plopping into your arms the moment you were within reach. He didn’t even care that his ears and tail were out on display. “I’m so… tired…”

You chuckled, wrapping your arms around him and giving him some back rubs. His tail slowly wagged behind him, “My body aches, ___…”

“Well, that’s a small price to pay for landing a big gig. You guys must’ve made quite the impression on the SVT Frat,” you responded. “Getting recommended to the frat house president and a talent manager? I’m so proud of you, Channie.”

His tail wags faster. “Thanks…” he mumbles as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent; an action that causes you to shiver. “You’ll… You’ll come watch, right..?”

You run a hand through his hair, lightly scratching his scalp. A low, rumbling noise from his throat, concerning you just a little because you thought he’d wag his tail off with the speed it was at. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Y’know, if you don’t calm your balls down,” Yejin speaks up, holding up a fan to Junhui’s face, “You’re gonna end up drenching that outfit and it will not look good.”

“Hey, this is the first time we’re busking for a talent scout!” Chan snaps, sending Yejin a glare only to immediately shrink back when the older wolf shoots him a sharp and unimpressed look. He looked down and muttered, “Sorry.” only for you to tilt it back up so you could pat down the last bit of setting powder along the sharp line of his jaw.

You notice the way his ears tint red – whether from heat or embarrassment, you aren’t so sure. Junhui groans, tugging at the white choker around his neck. “Soonyoung, explain again why we look like emo Angels?”

“It’s for the aesthetics, Jun,” he replies, flashing peace signs at an imaginary camera that was behind the taller male. “You wouldn’t understand.”

Minghao scoffs, the fabric of his tunic swishing dramatically as he shifts his weight. “We look like we walked out of an early 2010s Tumblr moodboard titled ‘Sad Celestial Beings Who Listen to Fall Out Boy on Loop’.”

Chan snorts, clearing his throat when he realises it almost smeared the lipstick you were putting on him.

“Honestly,” Yejin says, “Hao’s not wrong. All y’all are missing is a grayscale filter and an unnecessary Latin quote about lost souls.”

Soonyoung pulls out his phone, a big smile on his lips, “Give me five minutes. I can totally make that happen.”

“But, seriously Yejin, how the hell are you not melting?” Chan asks while you carefully pat at the sweat beading along his forehead with a tissue. “You’re like… Jade from Victorious or something? Are you blessed with some kind of internal ice box?”

Yejin rolls her eyes, “It’s called antiperspirant.”

The younger wolf moves to argue back, but you’re quick to grab his jaw before he can do so. You hold up the eyeliner, narrowing your eyes at him, “Don’t move, Romeo, or I will stab you in the eye with this.”

He freezes instantly, wide-eyed, as if you’d just threatened him with a loaded gun instead of a makeup product. He blinks before giving you a sheepish grin, “Right… Statue mode… Got it.”

You shake your head with a soft laugh. “You’re lucky I’m patient,” you mutter, carefully drawing on his eyeliner. “More like I’m lucky I’m cute,” he whispers, earning himself a small pinch to his sides once you were done with his eyeliner – followed by a very undignified yelp.

“Once you’re both done flirting, we got a busking performance to do,” Soonyoung calls out, his voice dripping with exaggerated impatience. You don’t glance up as you cap the eyeliner with a decisive click, “We’re multi-tasking, Soonyoung.”

Chan sticks his tongue out at the blonde before turning to you with a grin that’s half mischief, half gratitude. “Thanks, makeup fairy,” he says, voice low and teasing.

You snort, setting the eyeliner back into the makeup bag. “Call me that again I’ll make sure your eyeliner on both sides are even.”

He’s quick to shut up, hands flying to his face protectively in a dramatic manner, making you laugh harder than you mean to.

“Alright, alright,” Yejin claps her hands, gesturing to the area that’s been sectioned off just for the group’s performance. “Go impress that talent scout with your dances, and maybe not scare some kids.”

You sat right behind the speaker as the boys began to perform, the energy buzzing through the air. Beside you, Yejin carefully holds up Junhui’s phone, recording a fancam of her boyfriend with the concentration of someone defusing a bomb.

“You’re not helping Chan film his?” she questions, glancing at you briefly.

You casually point toward Seungcheol who’s standing not too far away, phone in hand and already filming Chan’s every move with the intensity of a proud father at his son’s first school recital.

“Damn,” Yejin chuckles, “Chan’s already his favourite, huh?”

“From what I heard from Channie, he gets teased a lot, but they still look out for him.”

Yejin smiles softly, returning her focus to recording Junhui. “Well, the SVT frat is like that. Bite and bark at each other one second, then defend each other like their lives depend on it the next.”

You hum in agreement, shifting slightly to make yourself more comfortable. “Guess that’s just how wolves are, huh? Family first… even if they drive you insane half the time.”

“I heard from Junhui that he’s not the only human,” she adds, her fingers still steady on the recording. “There’s these two boys, Jeonghan and Vernon, they’re humans too. And the wolves are super protective over their human frat brothers.”

Your ears perked up, “Really? I thought most humans and hybrids don’t mix well. Stigmas and whatnot.”

“Yeah, but if you give them a chance, you’ll see it’s not that bad. Take me and Junhui for example.”

You snort, “You two are like, stupidly good together. He looks at you like you’re the only person on the planet.”

Yejin rolls her eyes, her cheeks warming slightly. “Yeah, well, sometimes he looks at me like he’s plotting to steal all my fries too.”

You both laugh.

“But, yeah, you could say we’re both proof that hybrids and humans can work out. Coexist in harmony. It may not be easy, but if both parties respect each other, I’d say it’s definitely worth the ups and downs.”

“Seungcheol said their fraternity is… different. Like, once you’re in, you’re family. No questions asked.”

“Oh, speaking of Jeonghan and Vernon, I heard they’re protective over their wolf brothers too!”

Yejin raises an eyebrow, urging you to continue. “I heard from Chan that Vernon once decked a guy for saying his wolf friends aren’t welcome in the cafeteria during a rainy day because they ‘smelled like wet dogs’.”

“Jeonghan?”

“Apparently one of the students on our campus was involved with the NEOCITIZEN hazing incident. Jeonghan posted an exposé document of it with receipts and everything. I guess you can say he’s more of a…’I will ruin your life with a smile’ type of guy.”

Yejin lets out a low whistle, clearly impressed. "Humans with wolf instincts. That’s terrifying."

“Yeap, but not as interesting as that.” You lift up your phone, capturing a few shots – not of the boys’ performance, but of Seungcheol mouthing every lyric, completely unaware. Yejin leans over slightly, whispering behind her hand, “At this point, we should just get him a varsity jacket that says President.”

You stifle a laugh. "He'd wear it. Proudly."

The busking performance wrapped up as the last notes of the song drifted into the warm evening air. The boys bowed dramatically, thanking the small crowd that had gathered, while you, Yejin and Seungcheol cheered from the sidelines like proud, mildly embarrassing parents.

It wasn’t long before someone suggested food and because all five men were made up of mostly bottomless pits disguised as people, everyone agreed.

“___, you wanna take the aisle seat?” Chan asks as everyone takes their seat at the corner booth of a cozy Italian restaurant. You blink, a confused look on your face. “Why?”

He shrugs with a small smile, “Figured you don’t like cramped spaces. You’re always on the outer seat of class or at the back where there’s more space.”

His voice is light, but there’s a warmth to his words that makes your heart flutter. You hadn’t expected him to notice that behaviour of yours. It may feel like a small gesture, but it was one that made you feel seen in ways you hadn’t felt nor expected.

Plates of pasta, pizza and baskets of bread covered almost every inch of space, the scent of garlic and tomato sauce filling the air.

Junhui was stealing bites from Yejin’s plate despite her swatting at him with a fork. Seungcheol was dramatically telling a story with hand gestures that nearly knocked over his glass of iced tea. Soonyoung and Minghao were locked in a serious debate over the best pasta sauce. And Chan was just happily demolishing a mountain of beef bolognese pasta as though he was trying to regain the energy he’d spent the past few weeks preparing for the performance.

You smile to yourself, twirling another spoonful of carbonara as you enjoy the warm chaos around you. The clicking of silverware, the laughter, and the occasional playful argument all blended together into a symphony of comfort.

This was like a dream come true.

For the first time, you were actually happy to be surrounded by others.

As the night winds down and everyone starts to slip into a comfortable haze only good food and company can bring, Chan leans forward. “Hey,” his voice was a little softer, like he didn’t want the others to hear. “Do you need a ride back?”

His offer catches you by surprise, “O-Oh… I was just gonna call a cab, actually…”

He’s quick to offer you a ride, “I-I can drive you back! It’s on my way home, plus it’s getting late. It’d be safer too.”

A small, shy smile tugs at your lips. “Are you sure? If it’s a hassle–”

Chan shakes his head so quickly it causes a few strands of his hair to fall into his eyes. “You’re not,” he says firmly, his voice a little softer. “Really, I want to do this. Let me drive you back, ___.”

Your heart does that little flutter again, and you find yourself nodding before your brain can overthink it. “Okay… Thanks, Chan.”

He grins, cheeks a little pink as he finally remembers the fork in his hand and dives back into his bolognese with renewed enthusiasm, like just asking you had taken more energy than he’d thought.

The drive back to your apartment was peaceful, the streets mostly empty as the city settles into a quieter rhythm. Chan kept the conversation flowing almost non-stop, talking about everything from the production of the song with Jihoon to a funny story about how Dokyeom, another wolf in the fraternity, accidentally put salt instead of sugar into a batch of cookies.

You listened, amused at how the considerably shy wolf is yapping. You can’t help but notice how… he was more animated than usual. His grip on the steering wheel was a little tighter than necessary, and he was tapping his fingers along the leather in a restless rhythm. Finally, as he launches into a ramble about how he should probably start learning how to cook properly, “I can’t just live on instant noodles forever, right? Even wolves need proper nutrition or whatever it is that–”

“Chan.” You interrupted him gently, “Are you okay? You’re… yapping a lot tonight.”

“Am not!” he blurts out immediately, voice cracking just a little.

You raise an unimpressed eyebrow, and he let out a helpless laugh, shrugging his shoulders a little. “Okay. Maybe I am,” he admits, eyes still fixed on the road. His voice drops to something softer, returning to that shy Chan you know, “It’s just… I kinda over-talk when I’m nervous. I can’t really help it.”

You turned fully towards him, curiosity piqued. “Nervous?” you repeated, “Why are you nervous, Channie?”

He almost chokes at the nickname, feeling the blood rush lower and he hoped to every god out there that you hadn’t noticed the way his thighs tensed, how he was about to have a half hard-on.

The car slowed as he pulled up to a red light, the glow casting a soft, almost intimate light over Chan’s face. He finally turns to look at you fully, his eyes struggling to make eye contact with you. With a deep breath, he answers, “Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you that I like you. Like, I like like you.”

The light turns green, but neither of you move, suspended in that breathless second (thank God there were no cars behind, else you’d be faced with multiple angry drivers). Chan scrambled to keep talking, panicked by the silence. “And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same! I just– I didn’t want to keep pretending that it’s just… platonic for me. Because I really do see you more than a friend. You’re an amazing person. Sweet. And you make the worst day feel like nothing, and I just–”

You interrupt him by laughing quietly, “Chan.” You reach out to place a hand over his on the console, and he shuts up, eyes wide like you’d just physically stunned him. You smiled, heart thudding in your chest as you confessed your little crush on him, “I like you too.”

The only sound in the car was Chan’s stunned inhale, then he blinked. Finally, the biggest, most radiant grin spreads across his face, pure joy lighting him up brother than the sun in the day.

“Really?” he breathed.

“Really,” you reassured, laughing a little and motioned to the green light. “Now maybe drive before any cars show up behind us and try not to crash from excitement.”

Chan lets out a shaky laugh, nodding frantically as he drives the car forward again. Throughout the remainder of the drive, he can’t stop himself from sneaking glances at you, like he couldn’t believe that you reciprocate his feelings.

Pulling up in front of your apartment building, he shifts the gears into park but makes no move to unlock the doors just yet. Instead, he sits there for a second, drumming his fingers nervously on the steering wheel.

“What’s up, wolfie?” you teased, an amused look on your face.

He hesitates for a moment, chewing on his bottom lip like he was holding back the words. Then, he finally blurts it out, “Would you, um– would you wanna go on a real date with me tomorrow?”

The way he rushed it out all at once had you giggling. “You… You deserve to be asked out properly and well, if I were to ask you to let me be your boyfriend, I would want it done right. I could come pick you and we could… Get coffee? Brunch? DInner? All of the above. Whatever it is that you want.”

You laughed, warmth blooming in your chest at the sheer nervous hope in his voice. “I’d love that, Channie.”

Chan’s body relaxes, but only slightly. “Cool. Cool, cool, cool. Totally chill about this. Not freaking out or anything.”

You gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, “Text me when you’re here, okay? I’ll be ready by then.”

Before you left the car, you leaned over the console and pressed a quick, gentle kiss to his cheek. The wolf froze, eyes wide and stunned – but the slow, bright smile that followed was enough to make your cheeks burn too.

“Nighty night, Chan,” you said, slipping out of the car with a giggle and a wave.

He stays frozen for a second longer, fingers lightly brushing against the spot where you kissed him. He calls out to you after with a huge, beaming grin, “Night, ___! Sleep well and dream about me!”

Attacca announced that for the week of Halloween, all classes would be suspended after 5pm, citing “seasonal engagement and student well-being” as the official reason on the letters and emails they sent out. But everyone knew what it really meant.

Halloween at Attacca wasn't just a holiday – it was a tradition. A week-long carnival of curated (but mindful) chaos, underground dares, and elaborate, unsanctioned events that blurred the lines between myth and reality. The staff pretend to discourage it, the administration feigned ignorance. But every year, as the leaves of October fell, the campus came alive in a way no syllabus could prepare the freshmen or you for.

On Monday night, the lampposts flickered with orange lights that weren’t there before. The usual LEDs were replaced with vintage bulbs that cast long, warped shadows across the quad. At exactly 11:11pm, the fountain in the center of campus would dispense black water and dry ice smoke. Scattered across campus were boxes labeled, ‘OPEN ME IF YOU DARE’.

Masks appeared in each on-campus dorm room on Wednesday. They were hand-carved, and the students suspected it to be the work of the uni’s drama teacher – Baek Jongho. He always did have a flare for the dramatics.

The masks were antique-looking, each one came with different designs. Some had feathers, others had horns. A few were grotesquely beautiful, almost… sentient. Whether or not they were meant to be worn, the masks certainly had students locking their doors afterwards. Even the usual campus troublemakers kept their heads down.

Then came Thursday, where the air shifted.

Literally.

Attacca’s main hall smelled of old wood and spices – you figured it’s a mix of clove and cinnamon. Students began preparing for the climax of the week: the Halloween Parties organised by each frat house. They all had different themes, it’s what made Attacca Halloween Parties so special.

BANGTAN was known for masquerade balls.

XLOV was known for their drag shows.

And, SVT? The wildest costume party you’ll ever attend.

The scent of takeout lingers in the air – fried chicken, tteokbokki, and kimchi fried rice. You’re curled up on the couch, Chan’s hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, idly scrolling your phone while Chan argues with Junhui about whether vampires or werewolves would win in a dance battle. You cuddle closer to your wolf, already feeling the cold autumn air – that or because they had the air conditioner turned on.

Soonyoung lounges across the arm of the opposite sofa, legs dangling as he sips on his coca-cola. “By the way, what are y’all wearing to the party tomorrow night?”

You blink. “What party?”

Yejin gasps like you’ve just taken the last piece of fries from her. “The Halloween party SVT is throwing! Y’know, the one that got shut down by campus security because Mingyu set off the smoke machine too close to the fire alarm.”

Minghao snorts, scooping up a spoonful of kimchi fried rice. “Yeah, and that was before they could unveil the haunted basement.”

“Aren’t SVT parties invite only?” you ask, setting your phone down. “I didn’t get an invitation so–”

“___, you’re Chan’s girlfriend,” Junhui points out. “You’re practically invited by just being his girl.”

You glance at your boyfriend, who only shrugs with a sheepish smile. “I just assumed you’d come with me.”

“Romantic,” you deadpan.

Chan is quick to scoot closer, wrapping both arms around your waist while giving you those puppy eyes; hoping that it’ll keep you from escaping the conversation. “Come on, baby~” his voice low and coaxing, “Just this once? Please? I’ll make it worth it.”

You raise a brow, “That sounds vaguely threatening.”

“I mean it,” he insists. “Tell you what, baby? You can pick any couple’s costume. Literally anything. I’ll wear ears, if they aren’t wolf ears – crown, body paint, a crop top – name it; I’m in.”

You shift to get a better look at him, “So if I asked you to wear a full-body suit?”

“If it gets you to come to the party, I’ll be a banana. I’ll be the peel if you want. I’ll even let Minghao film it!”

“Wow, you are whipped.”

“Hello?” Chan leans his cheek against yours, “Have you seen my girl? She’s gorgeous and a fucking baddie! I’d be damned if I weren’t whipped for her!”

Soonyung narrows his eyes, “Not bad for a human. Usually it’s foxes that have these kinds of effects – no matter on hybrids or humans.”

His words caused you to shift, like it made you uncomfortable.

Chan waves it off dismissively, “Hyung, enough of that. We don’t need to hear about you and your ex for the nth time.” Returning his attention to you, he pleads once again. “Baby, please~ I really wanna go with you. It’s more fun when you’re there and well, I wanna show off my girl.”

Your stomach does that annoying little flutter thing it always does whenever your boyfriend goes from clown to Prince Charming in a matter of seconds. Yejin makes a gagging noise, acting as though she hadn’t planned a matching costume with Junhui too. “Disgustingly sweet. I love it. Say yes.”

You sigh, giving Chan a dramatic side-eye. “Fine. But if I go, we’re doing my costume idea and you cannot leave me to fend for myself. You know how I am with crowds…”

“Deal,” he nuzzles his face into your neck almost immediately. “Thank you, and I love you. I’ll be the hottest… Mario or the shiniest disco ball you’ve ever seen!”

The bass from the frat house speakers is already making the floorboards vibrate, but none of that matters at the moment. Chan has you pressed up against the walls of his room, your hands flat against the wood as your boyfriend looms behind you, his warm breath brushing against the curve of your neck. His arms cages you in, one hand resting just above your head, the other firm on your him, thumb brushing the edge of the red satin.

“Chan,” you whisper, half-giggling, half-breathless, “We’re gonna be late–”

“Don’t care,” he mutters, nose trailing along your jaw. “They can start the party without us.”

His tail sways behind him, ears twitching every time you shift to press yourself back against him. You can feel the heat radiating off his body, his scent thick and lazy in the air – musky, familiar, and distinctively him. It curls around your senses until you’re practically drowning in it.

“Pretty baby smells so fucking good,” he murmurs, nuzzling behind your ear, his voice low and raspy. “You wore this just to drive me insane, don’t you?”

You roll your eyes, though the way your heart hammers against your chest betrays you. “It’s just Red Riding Hood, Channie… It’s not lingerie…”

The laugh he lets out were equal parts soft and dark. “Could’ve fooled me. Look at you…”

His nose brushes the base of your neck, then his tongue darts out to slowly lick up, stopping right where scent gland pulses. You shudder. He doesn’t bite, it’s not like he’s marking you but it’s close enough. He switches between nipping at the skin of your neck and his licking it, letting his scent seep into your skin, into your clothes – deep enough that every single hybrid in that will be in the frat house knows who you belong to.

“Need to make sure everybody knows you’re mine,” he says, lips ghosting your neck. “No one touches, and no one looks too long. Got it?”

You turn your head slightly, meeting his eyes. “Is that jealousy talking?”

Chan grins, eyes glowing just a little with the thrill of it. “Maybe. Add a bit of possessiveness into the mix.”

You turn around to face him, adjusting your red cape and smoothing down your skirt. “You’re lucky I like it when wolves get territorial with their partners.”

“You’re lucky that you being in that costume is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

You’d consider yourself… somewhat put together. After two years of therapy, you’d gotten better at managing your anxiety. You knew how to recognise the signs, how to slow your breathing, how to ground yourself before it spiraled.

However, nothing could prepare you for this.

Chan had only stepped away for a moment – to get drinks, he said; kissing your cheek and telling you to stay put. You do as you’re told, staying close to the wall – trying to stay away from the worst of the flashing lights and sticky drinks, fingers toying with the hem of your cloak. You scan the room, trying to soothe the buzzing in your chest. Maybe it’s the heat, or the lack of Chan’s presence, or–

“...___?”

You know that voice. You remember that voice.

There, just a few feet away in a glittered vampire cape and hesitant expression, stood the one person you hadn’t seen since middle school – the one person you prayed you’d never see again. Suddenly, you feel as though you’re thrusted back into your middle school years – how that venomous voice of hers echoed in the back of your skull after countless nights of crying into your pillow, how you begged the universe to let you be anything else but your current self.

Lee Minjae.

She has the same face, just… older. Softer, as though any cruelty she had back then had melted away. But the moment your eyes met hers, the room tipped sideways.

“Hey,” she said, her voice less venomous. “I… I didn’t think I’d see you here. I… I know this is weird, but can… Can I just talk to you for a second?”

She sounded so much calmer now. Gentler. But your body didn’t believe it.

Your heart slammed against your ribs.

The music fades out as the room dimmed, faces blurring at the edge of your vision as adrenaline takes over every nerve in your body. You feel a tingle go up your spine and panic curled in your lungs like smoke.

“___?”

As she approached you, you backed away instinctively – flashbacks of that day playing right before your eyes.

Her laughing at you. The cruel words. The humiliation. The isolation.

“Whoa, careful there, baby.”

Chan. His voice was sharp and anchoring as his hands closed over your shoulders firmly.

You flinched like you’d been burned. Your wide, glasses eyes turned up to meet his and you watched his expression drop instantly into full concern. “Hey, baby, what’s wrong?”

You wanted to respond, but you couldn’t.

It was like a hand was wrapped around your throat, stopping you from speaking. Stopping you from breathing properly.

The room was getting too loud. There were too many people. Too many eyes.

You couldn’t ground yourself.

Chan’s scent was there, but it wasn’t enough.

Your breath came in short, shallow bursts.

Then, you feel the slip.

Your hood fell back.

And your fox ears – golden-beige, velvet-soft, twitching anxiously; sprang up for all to see. A beat later, your tails unfurled from under your skirt, bristling like a storm.

There was a gasp from someone nearby. And then another.

“Oh my God–”

“What the fuck– She’s a hybrid?”

“Not just a hybrid, a fox.”

Dozens of eyes were on you.

Chan’s hold on you tightened, his body moving immediately to step in front of you so he could shield you.

But you were already running.

You stumbled out the back door, into the cold October night, lungs stinging and vision swimming. Your legs carried you blindly across the lawn, away from the music, away from the party – away from everything.

You didn’t even feel the tears until the wind kissed your cheeks. It was all too much.

The flashbacks. The exposure. The eyes.

Everything you’d spent years learning to manage, to keep hidden – gone in one night.

The autumn chill had transitioned into the beginning of winter, and most students had begun retreating indoors. The group lounges across the benches and stone planters, passing around warm drinks and lazily throwing acorns at each other while waiting for Chan to finish his lecture.

“She hasn’t texted back today either?” Junhui asks, voice lower than usual.

“She left me on read…” Yejin sighs, “At least that means she’s still using her phone…”

“Could be worse, y’know..?” Minghao adds quietly, “At least we know she’s not ghost ghosting us.”

Chan hadn’t said much the past few weeks either. The grief in his silence was loud enough. As much as he wants to help you, as much as the group wants to help, they knew they had to give you the space you needed.

However, Soonyoung seemed to have a different view. He leaned back with scoff, barely hiding the disdain in his voice. “You’re all acting like she didn’t lie to us for months. Hell, like she hadn’t lied to you three for years.”

Yejin blinked, clearly taken back by the wolf’s tone. “Excuse me?”

“She hid what she was. What she is,” Soonyoung said bluntly, voice harder than usual. “You don’t think that’s messed up? She calls you her friends, yet she hid the fact that she’s a fox from you for years.”

Minghao’s brows furrowed. “She didn’t owe anyone that information. Especially when she didn’t feel safe because of the discri–”

“This isn’t about what she owed, Hao,” the older wolf snapped. “It’s about trust. And don’t act like I’m the only one who felt something was off with her from the beginning.”

Junhui frowned, “Soonyoung, come on–”

“You’re a human, hyung,” he interrupts, arms crossed and jaw tensed. “You wouldn’t know the difference between the scent of a human and a hybrid. I fucking knew it. Not only did she smell not-human, she’s always deflecting questions. Jumpy. Always looking like someone’s about to bite her head off.”

Yejin stood abruptly, “So now she’s the villain because she didn’t fit your vibe?”

“No, she’s the bad guy because she played us. Played Chan. Foxes will always be foxes, right? They’re tricky little things. They get close just enough to sink their teeth in.”

Junhui attempts to calm his girlfriend down, urging her to sit down. “Soonyoung, you don’t believe that.”

The blonde wolf shrugged like it was obvious. “She got what she wanted. Attention. Someone to fawn over her, and now that everyone knows what she is, she runs? Doesn’t even bother to explain herself to Chan? Tell me that’s not manipulative.”

“You’re projecting your own bias onto her,” Minghao says sharply. “That’s not fair.”

Soonyoung laughs bitterly. “Am I? Or am I just saying what everyone’s thinking and too polite to say out loud?”

Silence fell over the group.

No one argued.

“Excuse me?”

The group turned in unison at the unfamiliar voice.

Minjae stood a few feet away in a fitted coat and soft scarf, hands buried in her pockets. Her expression was uneasy, like she knew what kind of welcome she might get, but came anyway. “I… I was wondering if any of you have seen ___?” she said carefully. “I-I was told she’s always seen with you and I haven’t been able to find her since the party.”

Yejin stood back up. “What the hell do you want from her?”

“I just… I want, need, to apologise to her,” Minjae replies. “It’s… It’s long overdue, but I really feel awful about it and I–”

Minghao cuts her off, “Apologise for what?”

She swallowed, “I was awful to her back in middle school.”

“So… You bullied her?”

Minjae’s silence confirmed it. There was a heavy pause, like the air itself had frozen.

“I know it sounds cliche, but I didn’t know any better back then. I just… She didn’t deserve what I did to her, and looking back, I realise that I shouldn’t have let discrimination or stigmas cloud my judgement of a person’s character or who they really are. ___ was really a sweet girl and I–”

“She looked like she saw a monster,” Yejin cuts in. “Even I couldn’t recognise her with how terrified she looked.”

Minjae tried to speak again, this time more subdued. “Look, I’m not here to make excuses for my actions. I really do want to make things right. If she wants me to leave her alone forever, I will. I just… I want to at least tell her I’m sorry for the hurt I’ve caused her.”

Yejin chews on the inside of her cheek before exhaling sharply. “We’ll pass on the message and she’ll reach out if she does feel like talking. Until then? Stay away.”

Minjae gives a small nod, slowly backing away.

As she walks off, Chan appears from the other end of the courtyard, catching only her retreating form. “...Who was that?” he asked, brows furrowed.

“No one important,” Yejin answered, turning to the younger wolf. “Let’s head inside. I’m freezing my ass off out here.”

You can hear your phone vibrating non-stop on the coffee table of your apartment. You didn’t need to check who it was – you knew it was your friends (and boyfriend) texting and calling to check up on you.

They’ve been trying to reach you for weeks.

Ever since the Halloween party.

Ever since your panic attack.

Ever since your secret was placed under the spotlight for everyone to gawk at.

You’d made it home that night on autopilot, barely remembering the run, only the sting in your lungs and the cold on your cheeks. Then came the sickening ache in your chest when you realised what had happened.

What everyone had seen.

People started to whisper about you whenever you walked by, the looks they gave you were enough to have you quickening your pace and averting your gaze. Hell, you even pretended the world was something you could mute.

But your phone didn’t stop.

Chan calls the most. You hear it in the way the vibrations stretched longer because he’s always letting it ring until it goes to voicemail. Sometimes you pick up your phone just to watch his name light up on the screen.

Channie ❤️ is calling…

You don’t answer.

You can’t.

Because deep down, no matter how many times Yejin tested “we miss you” and now matter how soft Minghao’s voice had been the last time you answered a call, only to hang up halfway through–

You saw the look in Soonyoung’s eyes.

You’d heard what he said. Not directly, but word travels fast when the gossip involves a fox hybrid who “tricked” her way into a circle of wolves.

“Foxes will always be foxes.”

You’re not even sure who repeated it to you. Maybe it was overheard, or whispered. Either way, it echoed, over and over, even now.

That’s why you’ve stayed away from them.

Because maybe Soonyoung wasn’t the only one who thought that way. Maybe the others were just better at hiding it.

And maybe… maybe even Chan was, too.

You curl tighter into the blanket wrapped around you, as if it could shield you from the thoughts clawing at your chest.

It’s not that you don’t miss them. You do.

You miss him.

But your silence has become a wall now – cold, thick, and possibly safe. If you break it, you’re not sure what you’ll find on the other side.

A few days later, you find yourself standing in front of the SVT frat house, your heart lodged somewhere in your throat. The winter air bit at your skin, and your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your sleeve. It was the same house – loud, warm, alive. But to you, it felt like standing on the edge of something you weren’t sure if you were still welcomed.

It took you 15 minutes of mental debate to finally raise your hand and knock on the door. The sound was softer than you thought – hesitant, almost guilty. A few seconds passed, then the door swung open, revealing a very surprised Junhui. He blinked at you like he wasn’t sure you were real, mouth parting slightly in disbelief.

“___?”

You give him a small, anxious wave. He takes a step aside, giving you an assuring smile to welcome you in. “Come on in, Bambi.”

You scrunch your nose, “Bambi..?”

He chuckles softly, “Your eyes are wide like his with how nervous you are, ___. Can I get you anything? A snack? Maybe a glass of water?”

His hospitality is gentle, the kind that makes your heart ache a little because you didn’t realise how much you missed being treated like you mattered. He doesn’t ask why you ghosted them, doesn’t mention the night of the Halloween party. Instead, he just offers warmth, like a heater in the middle of winter.

“No, thanks,” you give him a small smile. “I… I came to talk to Chan.”

Junhui gestures towards the stairs, “He’s upstairs with Soonyoung and Yeijn.” You nod, taking a hesitant step forward as the heavy weight on your chest threatens to drag you back down.

Just as your foot hits the bottom step, he calls out softly behind you. “I know you’re a good person. It’s unfortunate that stigmatisation is something we have to deal with in this society, but I want you to know that hybrid or not, I believe you aren’t what they’ve labelled you as.”

You freeze mid-step, fingers curling slightly against the railing. His words settled over you like a second layer of comfort, barely enough to silence the storm inside you; but enough to keep you moving.

“Thanks, Jun,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

When you reached the top of the stairs, you realised you had forgotten to ask Junhui which room the wolves were in. As you’re about to try your luck by knocking on the rooms one by one, you hear muted voices coming from one of them.

Approaching one of the doors that was slightly open ajar, the voices became clearer and you wished you hadn’t come by in the first place.

“So what if she’s a fox?” Yejin’s voice was sharp, laced with the kind of anger that came from defending someone she cares about. “That doesn’t suddenly erase everything she’s done or the kind of person she is!”

“She lied, Yejin!” Soonyoung shot back. “She lied to all of us! You think that doesn’t matter? She’s exactly like how foxes are!”

“She didn’t lie, hyung,” Chan’s voice came then, low and controlled, each word carrying weight. “She’s protecting herself. It’s not the same thing.”

You stood frozen just outside the door, heart hammering against your ribs. It was… surreal, to say the least. Your name – your identity, being dissected out in the open. As though you were no longer a person, just a debate.

“Foxes are deceitful! She literally lied to us, to you! Need I mention their unfaithfulness? Their tendencies to jump partners?” Soonyoung’s voice was raw with something between bitterness and conviction.

“Stop.”

Chan’s voice was so cold it sent a shiver down your spine.

“Hyung, as much as I love you, you’ve gone too far. ___ may be a fox, but she is not someone for you to project your biased views onto. You don’t get to talk about her like she’s some kind of warning label.”

“Lee Chan, are you fucking serious right now?” the elder barked, anger bubbling over. “Foxes aren’t like us wolves! We’re bound to one partner for all eternity while foxes can barely–”

“You don’t know her! I do, and she’s not like that!”

“Lee Chan!” Soonyoung warned, voice rising in pitch.

“Just because you were cheated on by Jihye means ___ would do it to me!” Chan’s voice cracked like a whip.

Yejin rises from the bed, “Okay, both of you, that’s enough–”

But it was too late.

Soonyoung’s eyes blew wide with rage as he marched forward, grabbing Chan by the collar of his shirt with both hands. “Don’t you fucking bring that name up,” he growls out, breath hot and trembling with fury.

“Soonyoung, let him go–”

“Then stop questioning my girl’s loyalty,” Chan bit back, unflinching despite the tension snapping between them like a live wire.

“Boys-” Yejin’s voice came again, edged with panic.

But it was Minghao’s voice that cut through everything.

“___? What are you doing here?”

All heads turned in an instant, towards the doorway where you stood frozen – fox ears flicked upwards but flattened just as quick, wide-eyed and trembling, like a prey caught in the glow of a spotlight. The weight of every stare crushed your chest.

You didn’t wait to see Chan’s face.

Didn’t stay to hear the silence shift into something else.

Because you turned.

And you ran.

Down the stairs, past Junhui’s startled call, out the door. The cold winter hit you once again, but it couldn’t numb the way your heart was racing nor the tears that blurred your vision. Your breath came in shallow bursts, the frantic sound of your footsteps drowned by the thunder in your ears.

You weren’t sure which hurt more.

The fear that Soonyoung could possibly be right…

Or the fact that Chan had to defend you like you were something shameful.

The cold didn’t leave your skin even after you slammed the apartment door shut behind you.

You leaned back against it, chest rising and falling in sharp, uneven breaths. Your hands were trembling – whether from the sprint across campus, the leftover sting of Soonyoung’s words, or the echo of Chan’s voice calling you his girl, you weren’t sure.

You slipped off your shoes, barely kicking them aside before trudging towards the couch. The silence was a cruel contrast to the chaos still ringing in your head. Collapsing onto the couch without turning on the lights, you wrapped your arms around your knees. You hadn’t realised how tightly you’d been gripping your phone until it buzzed.

Flipping it over, the bright screen illuminates your tear-stained cheeks.

Three (3) missed calls from Yejin🐺

Five (5) missed calls from Channie❤️

Then came the messages. So many messages.

You wiped at your face with the sleeve of your sweater, but the tears kept coming. You weren’t even sure what they were for anymore.

Maybe it’s the shame of being seen.

Or the guilt of running.

Or the fear that maybe Soonyoung was right.

Worst of all, the ache in your chest that came with the sound of Chan’s voice defending you. Because part of you… Part of you didn’t think you deserved it.

hao🐺: hey hao🐺: jun caught me up with what happened earlier hao🐺: i can’t justify soonyoung’s actions or words hao🐺: but i just want to say that he’s only looking out for chan hao🐺: and he’s been hurt by a fox hybrid in the past hao🐺: i’ll only say that much bcs it’s not my story to tell hao🐺: but pls take care ok? hao🐺: if you could, at least text or call back Chan

Then, Chan’s name lights up your screen once again. His contact photo, the one Yejin took during the last summer festival, smiling at you like nothing’s changed.

But it has.

channie❤️: baby channie❤️: please pickup the phone channie❤️: or at least answer me channie❤️: idk how much of the convo you heard channie❤️: but pls talk to me

The cursor blinks in the message box.

You could, want to answer. But your fingers don’t move.

Because you’re still trying to figure out if hearing him defend you made things better or so much worse.

You were in the middle of stuffing your face with ice cream, ears flattened against your head and tail thumping sadly. The sound of your doorbell ringing jolts you out of your fog. Pausing the sitcom playing on your TV, you wiped your mouth with a tissue and cautiously padded over to the door. Peeking through the peephole, your breath catches in your throat because on the other side of your door stood Chan – dishevelled, worry etched deep in his eyes.

You don’t answer. Maybe you weren’t ready.

Moments later, the doorbell rings again.

“Baby?” His voice was soft, but urgent through the door. “Baby, I came to talk to you… You weren’t answering my calls or texts, and I’m just… I… I just want us to talk, ___.”

Still silence.

He sighs, words slipping under the door like a warm breeze.

“___, I know you’re home and behind the door. I can smell you, y’know.”

A small squeak escapes you before the door creaks open slowly. Relief floods Chan’s face as he sees you standing there, timid and vulnerable. Without hesitation, he stepped inside, removing his shoes, and pulled you into a tight embrace. His hands settled on your waist as he nuzzled into the crook of your neck.

“Oh, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “My sweet baby fox, why’d you hide from me?”

That term had you freezing up momentarily, breath hitching as you pulled back just enough to meet his gaze. “I… I lied to you…” you confessed, voice shaky. “I… I deceived you… Soonyoung was–”

“Fuck Soonyoung and his words,” Chan’s tone was firm as his hands slid up from your waist to cup your face. His thumbs brushed over your cheeks, “___, I know you have your own reasons for hiding the fact that you’re a fox. But that won’t change the face that I love you. I know you love me too, baby.”

“Chan–”

He presses a finger to your lips, “I think you know wolves only have one partner, don’t you? A partner they’ll spend the rest of their lives with – their one true mate.” Leaning in, his lips brushed against yours as he whispered, “And I’ve made up my mind on who my mate will be.”

His words sent a shiver down your spine. “But, Chan–”

Chan captured your lips with his, as though he’s closing the gap between your doubts and his devotion. The kiss was slow, deep and claiming; each movement tender but charged with a quiet promise.

His hands tightened its grip on your waist, fingers digging into the fabric as he pressed closer – his body heat grounding you in the moment. Your tail gave a hesitant twitch at first, flicking once in uncertainty before curling around his left thigh. It trembled just a little, but the way it clung almost possessively revealed betrayed the little faux shyness you had.

You didn’t mean for it to move, at least not consciously, but your body was responding to him – craving his closeness.

You melt into him, heart pounding fiercely, breath hitching as his hands slid lower to pull you flush against him. There was a hunger beneath his touch, patient but it was unmistakably there while he eases you back gently toward the couch.

His strong hands caught you fully before you could fully settle onto the couch, his fingers tracing the curve of your body as he pressed you gently back against the soft cushions. You shivered slightly under his touch, but it wasn’t from the cold – it was the anticipation.

“Look at me, ___,” Chan whispered, his voice low and rough with need. He brushes a stray lock of hair from your face, admiring the way your ears twitched as his thumb lingers on your cheek. “You don’t have to be scared, yea? I’m here, foxy. I’m all yours if you’ll have me.”

You meet his gaze, the honesty in his eyes making your chest ache. “I’m scared,” you admitted softly. “After… After everything… What about Soonyoung and the others..?”

He shakes his head, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Forget about them and their opinions. They don’t get to decide who or what you are. You’re you. You’re my girl – clever, strong, the only one I want.”

His fingers trailed lower, sliding beneath the fabric of the oversized sweater you wore with a tenderness that was a complete opposite to the intensity burning behind his eyes. Your gasped softly as his touch found your bare skin, tracing slow and deliberate patterns along your thigh before finally easing inside your panties.

“Tell me if it’s too much, okay? As much as I want to feel you, I also want you to feel safe.”

You nodded, breathless. “I do. Always. With you.”

He presses a kiss to your temple before sliding his hand down fully, two of his thick fingers sinking into your pussy with a groan he tries to bite back. “Fuck, foxy,” he whispers, dragging his fingers through your slick folds. “You’re already so wet and I barely even touched you. Do you get turned on whenever I tell you you’re mine?”

You whimpered – quiet, needy – and arched subtly into his hand. He curls his digits and your tail curls around his wrist like it was trying to hold him there.

His thumb brushes up to your clit, gentle at first – drawing small, slow circles; all while his fingers start to move at a maddening rhythm – curling deep and stroking your gummy walls just right. A startled moan leaves your lips at how quick he found your g-spot.

“There she is,” he purrs, voice dipping into a low tone. “There’s my pretty little fox.”

You shivered. Not from the cold, but from the way he said my. You take notice of the way his eyes darkened whenever he looks at you underneath him, like you were the only thing in the world that could calm the storm inside him – even if you were the cause of said storm.

You clenched around his fingers involuntarily, your face flushed with heat.

“I’ll never take you for granted, baby.” His voice was soft, but his movements weren’t. His pace gradually picked up, still careful and loving, but they were no longer shy. “You’re mine. No matter what they say.”

You gasped as he shifted closer, his hand never stopping their ministration. His thumb rubbed your clit in tight circles now, each rub expertly timed with the thrust of his finger. Your hips bucked, breath stuttering with every pulse of pleasure.

“C-Channie!” you cried out, “You’re making me feel so good!”

“Shit, love the way you sound when I pleasure you, foxy…” He sounds a bit more breathless now. It was a known fact that you both shared a praise kink – you get off when he praises you and vice versa.

“Those sweet little noises you make… Only I get to hear them. You know that, right?

You nodded frantically, eyes already glossy.

“Say it,” he urged, fingers pushing deeper into your squelching pussy. “Say that you’re mine.”

“Yours!” you moaned, hips bucking up only for Chan to press it back down. “I’m yours! Chan, I’m… Oh-Oh God..!”

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice a little rougher. “That’s my girl.”

You cum at the praise, crying out as your body shakes underneath him. Your tail gave a sharp twitch before tightening again around his wrist, clinging as the waves of your orgasms crashed over you. Chan’s hand doesn’t stop, fingers slowing but not stopping, his thumb rolling your clit gentler as he murmurs praises against your skin.

“You’re so beautiful… So good for me… My pretty fox…”

Your tail quivered and wrapped tighter around his arm. Even when the aftershocks of your orgasm faded, he didn't pull away. He just holds you, his fingers still resting inside you, his other hand now moving to stroke the base of your tail, coaxing tiny shivers from your spent body.

“You’re not alone, baby,” he whispers into your hair. “You never will be. I love you. Just as you are.”

You meet his gaze, feeling your heart swell at his affection, and for the first time that day, or even in weeks – you smiled.

Chan’s fingers never leave your tail as you lay there, still catching your breath. He slowly traces the soft fur, his touch featherlight but purposeful, pulling out every tiny twitch and flick from you.

“Can’t get enough of you, foxy.” His hand curls around the plush tail, tugging just enough to make you whine. “Such a pretty tail… So soft… So beautiful…”

You felt your cheeks flush, hips shifting instinctively toward his hand. The tail was yours, but at that moment, it felt like Chan owned it instead. His hands move to your waist, “C’mon, baby, turn over f’me.”

You hesitated for a moment, heart hammering against your rib cage before obeying; rolling over onto your stomach before pushing yourself up onto your hands and knees. Chan’s eyes darkened as he took in the sight, exposed and vulnerable, your tail flicking nervously as he settled behind you. You hear the sounds of his pants being undone before he presses himself forward, warm and hard against your slick folds.

“Ready, foxy?”

You nodded and with a slow, steady motion, he pushed inside you, filling you completely. Your tail flicked wildly against his stomach as he started to thrust – slow and deep, matching the pounding rhythm of your heart.

The room was quiet except for the sounds of skin meeting skin and breathless moans as Chan moved behind you at a steady pace. The soft glow of the lamp casts shadows on the wall, dancing across the bare curves of your back, and illuminating the possessive gleam in your boyfriend’s eyes.

Chan had a firm grip on your hips, guiding you back onto his cock with each slow, deep thrust that leaves you gasping and trembling. The stretch was overwhelming but in the best ways possible – filling, grounding, possessive; and you couldn’t get enough – neither can he.

His low groan rumbles from his chest, his head dipping to brush his lips down the nape of your neck as he presses a kiss to your damp skin. “You’re doing so well for me, foxy,” he praises, his voice rough and edged with pride. “Pretty little pussy taking my dick so perfectly.”

His fingers trail down your spine until they find the base of your tail and your breath hitches. He raises an eyebrow, gauging your reaction before dipping his head to kiss the back of your neck again, slower this time – sending another shiver down your spine.

“Your tail is sensitive, isn’t it?” he teases against your skin, voice full of dark amusement.

You squirmed weakly beneath him, cheeks burning. “C-Channie~”

Suddenly, in a deliberate motion, Chan wraps his fingers around the base of your tail and gives it a firm tug. Your response was immediate – a strangled cry rips from your throat as your body arched back into him instinctively, your walls fluttering violently around him.

The jolt of pleasure surging through your body was white-hot, sharp. You cum around his thick cock and you barely had time to recover when he gave you a particularly deep thrust, leaking cockhead hitting your g-spot continuously with perfect, practiced precision.

“C-Channie!” you cried out, voice cracking as your vision blurred from the intensity.

Behind you, Chan lets out a dark chuckle, clearly pleased with your reaction. He leans forward, pressing his chest against your back, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You liked that, huh?” he growled softly, a wicked grin on his lips as he gave another tug on your tail, eliciting another high-pitched moan from your throat. “You’re so sensitive here, foxy… So responsive.”

Your fox ears flicked up in excitement before flattening shyly against your head, a clear sign of how overwhelmed and sensitive you were from the pleasure. His teeth grazed your clothed shoulder as he bit down lightly, anchoring you as he thrust into you harder this time, rougher – making your arms tremble beneath you as you struggled to hold yourself up.

“Say it,” he commanded. “Say you’re mine.”

“I– I’m yours,” you gasped, dizzy with need. “Only yours, Channie–”

“Louder.”

His pace grew erratic and you knew Chan was close too. The thought of him filling you up with his cum has you tightening around him, and he keeps slamming his cock into your sopping cunt with the goal of making you gush all over him.

“I’m yours!” You sobbed out, feeling another orgasm approaching. “Please! Please, Channie, I–”

His hand leaves your tail to find your clit, two fingers rubbing it in tight little circles as he continues to drive his aching cock into your sensitive pussy. “Cum for me, my pretty fox. Cream all over my cock with this sweet pussy of yours.”

The way he praises you and how his tip grinds against the spongy spot inside you was all it takes to have your orgasm crash over you. With your tail still tingling from the earlier tugs and his name on your lips like a prayer, you came hard – body trembling beneath him. Your moans echoed through the room as Chan fucks you through it, riding out your orgasm with a groan as he chases his own.

Your pussy clenches and unclenches rhythmically as Chan buries himself to the hilt, cock throbbing as he shoots his hot load inside your cunt. You mewl softly when you feel hot ropes of cum filling you up to the brim, some of it already dripping out your stuffed hole.

Chan stays close behind you, his hands gently sliding up your sides, wanting to ground your trembling frame. His touch was no longer urgent – just warm and tender.

“Are you okay, baby?” he asks, voice full of concern. He leans over, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades. You nod faintly, still catching your breath as you rested on your forearms, muscles loose and spent. “Y-yeah… I’m okay, Channie…”

He shifts carefully, his dick still lodged inside you, keeping you plugged up. He slides an arm underneath your body to pull you up and cradle your body against his stomach. His hand comes to gently stroke the skin of your stomach.

“I… I didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” he murmured, nuzzling into your hair. “I just… I love you, ___. All of you.”

Your fingers found his, lacing them together.

“I know, Channie,” you whispered back, exhausted but safe. “I love you too.”

Chan smiles against your shoulder, holding you just a little tighter as the room settles into a peaceful hush – nothing but your soft breaths and the quiet hum of affection.

The gossip of your revelation as a fox hybrid finally died down. But of course, there are still those that would test your loyalty.

The campus open study area buzzed with low chatter, and your focus was on the assignment that was handed out yesterday.

“Well, well, looks like I found the famous fox hybrid. I hear you’re not as fierce as they say.” The words slid from Jaemin’s lips, coated with false charm as he stepped close, trying to read your reaction. Several students nearby paused, a few leaned in closer to whisper amongst themselves.

You felt the familiar prickle crawl up the back of your neck – the attention alway came with a sharp edge, like waiting for someone to prod just hard enough to see if you’d fight back.

“Maybe you just need a friend… or something more.”

The words hung in the air like a trap disguised as flirtation.

Your eyes narrowed, seeing right through his attempt. A low, guttural growl escaped from deep in your throat, wild and warning. The room froze and Jaemin’s smirk vanished, replaced by a startled flush of unease. His brows shot up in genuine surprise, “Whoa, okay. Didn’t expect that.”

You bared your teeth just enough and fixed him with a cold glare, “I’m not who they made me out to be.”

The space quiets down as the male takes a hurried step back, swallowing hard. “Right. Noted.”

You straightened, calming your breathing as the adrenaline faded. Everyone got the message – you weren’t some heat-crazed fox for them to mock or flirt with just to see if you’d fold. It was clear that your loyalty wasn’t something anyone would ever question again.

The familiar buzz of SVT’s frat house buzzed through the air as you stepped inside, Chan’s hand firmly holding yours. Your heart hammered against your ribcage, every step feeling heavier than the last. You stayed close to him, hiding just a little behind his broad frame, the comfort of his presence keeping you together from falling apart at the anxiety clawing at your insides.

Chan’s eyes met yours, giving your hand a reassuring squeeze. “You can do this, okay? I gotchu.”

The room fell momentarily silent when the group noticed your arrival. Junhui’s eyes grew wide, Minghao’s lips parted in shock, Yejin’s expression softened; but Soonyoung’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. You take a shaky breath, summoning every ounce of courage.

“I… I’m sorry,” you start, voice small and hesitant. “I… I didn’t mean to ghost you all. I… I’m sorry for not answering your calls or texts. I wasn’t ready.” Your eyes darted nervously between their faces, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and regret. “I didn’t mean to worry or hurt any of you.”

Junhui steps forward, his tone gentle but firm. “There’s no need to apologise, ___, really. We get it, things have been complicated. But you don’t have to face it alone anymore.”

Yejin nodded, a warm smile breaking through. “We missed you.”

The attention shifts to Soonyoung as he steps forward, his usual confident stance replaced by something more vulnerable. He ran a hand through his hair, avoiding direct eye contact at first. “___,” he greets.

You swallowed the lump in your throat, “Soonyoung…”

“I… I want to apologise, ___. For what I said and how I acted.”

He finally meets your gaze, the emotions in his eyes sincere. “I let my past and my pain get the better of me. I know that’s no excuse, but… I understand now that it wasn’t fair to take it out on you. You didn’t deserve that, and you don’t deserve to be treated like an outsider.”

He takes a deep breath, the tension in the room slowly melting away.

“Chan’s really important to me, and when my suspicions were confirmed… I thought… I thought that maybe you’d hurt him the way I was hurt before. But you’re not that person, I see that now. I’m sorry for doubting you, for being harsh.”

You blinked, clearly taken aback by his apology and earnestness. The air between you shifted, heavy with relief. Taking a steadying breath, you managed a small smile. “Thank you, Soonyoung. That… That really means a lot.”

The mood in the room shifted as the group rallied around you, eager to shake off the silence from the past few weeks. Junhui clapped his hands together with a bright grin. “Alright, enough heavy talk. Let’s celebrate having Bambi back!”

Yejin turns to her boyfriend, “Since when have you started calling her Bambi?”

He shrugs, “With those wide eyes, the answer is pretty obvious.”

Minghao pulls out a small box of cupcakes he’d bought, handing them around with a smile. “Welcome back party! Let’s go!”

Laughter fills the room as snacks are passed and music starts to hum softly from the speakers. You feel a comforting warmth surge through you, not just from the food, but from the genuine smiles and open arms around you.

As the night deepens, the noise and chatter starts to overwhelm your senses again. Quietly, you slipped away, making your way to the safety of Chan’s room. You sink into his bed, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with the woodiness of the room.

Your tail flicked lazily beneath the covers as your ears twitched at the muffled sounds from the party outside.

A few minutes passed before the door creaked open.

“Baby?” Chan’s voice called out gently, and when he saw you all curled up on his bed, he exhaled like he’d been holding his breath the whole night. “There’s my pretty fox.”

He closed the door behind him, crossing the room in a few long strides. The bed dipped as he took a seat beside you, reaching out to brush a few strands of stray hair away from your face.

“You okay?”

You hum, “Just… Just needed to take a breather…”

He smiles softly, slipping under the covers next to you. He wraps his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. You buried your face into the crook of his neck, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

“I missed this,” you whispered.

“Me too, baby,” he murmured, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head. “I’ll hold you for as long as you need.”

[thedensworld]

hitman vernon?

please, for the love of god, check in on your vernon biased friends today.

[thedensworld]

Favorite Cat | k.mg

Pairing: Basketball Player Mingyu! x Roommate Reader!

Genre: Roommate to lover au!

Type: fantasy, fluff

Words Count: 14k

Summary: After being roommates for years, Mingyu finally see 'your' cat for the first time—and it's not technically a cat.

Mingyu pushed open the door to his apartment, the weight of the crutches under his arms feeling heavier than his own body. His right leg, wrapped in a brace, ached with every small movement, a dull reminder of the career-threatening injury he had suffered during practice. The air inside was still, silent—too silent. Usually, he wouldn’t have noticed, but tonight, the quiet felt suffocating.

The moment he stepped inside, reality hit him all over again. No more training. No more games. No more adrenaline-pumping moments on the court. He had spent years building his life around basketball, and now, with one wrong landing, it was all on pause.

His lips pressed into a thin line as he forced a breath through his nose. Positive mindset, positive mindset… at least, he would have a year to rest. A whole year to recover, reset, maybe even enjoy things outside of basketball. But who was he kidding? His life revolved around the game. The thought of sitting on the sidelines, of watching his teammates push forward without him, gnawed at his chest like an open wound.

With a grunt, he shuffled further inside, his good leg bearing most of his weight. But just as he adjusted his crutches, his left crutch suddenly slipped, and his balance wavered. A sharp jolt of panic shot through him as he struggled to keep himself upright.

“Shit!” he hissed, his grip tightening just in time to prevent himself from crashing down. He glanced at the floor, only to see a crumpled wet tissue stuck beneath his crutch—the likely culprit. His brows furrowed as he glared at it, frustration bubbling in his chest.

You. You must have left it there before heading out.

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have given it a second thought, but right now? He couldn’t even bend down to pick up a damn tissue. With a defeated sigh, he leaned against the wall, swallowing the bitterness rising in his throat.

That tissue was staying there until you got home. And when you did, he was going to make sure you heard about it.

Mingyu lowered himself onto the couch with a groan, adjusting his injured leg carefully on the cushion. The dull ache was a constant reminder of everything he had lost—at least for now. With a sigh, he grabbed his phone and started typing out a message to you.

Mingyu: Got injured. Won’t be playing this season. Basically jobless now, stuck at home 24/7.

Mingyu: Except for when I have to stay in the hospital for surgery. Yay, fun.

Mingyu: Anyway, just letting you know before you freak out or something.

He hit send, then leaned back against the couch. But before he could even set his phone down, he heard a familiar notification sound—from the kitchen.

Mingyu’s brows furrowed. That wasn’t his phone.

Slowly, he turned his head, spotting your phone sitting abandoned on the kitchen counter. His lips parted in disbelief before he let out a long, exasperated sigh.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered.

Of all the times for you to forget your phone, it had to be now? He shook his head, rubbing his temple. How could you be clumsier than him? At least he had an excuse—he was injured. But you? You were just naturally chaotic.

Six years ago, you and Mingyu met at a volunteer project for an animal rescue club. You—a self-proclaimed cat lover—had eagerly signed up, hoping to spend your time caring for rescued kittens. Mingyu—a very proud dog person—joined with equal enthusiasm, but for the dogs. Naturally, the two of you had nothing in common.

That was until fate decided to be cruel.

On your first day, you were assigned to work together. Not with kittens. Not with puppies. But with snakes.

Both of you despised snakes. Yet there you were, forced to clean their enclosure, standing stiffly at opposite ends of the room, watching the creatures slither while pretending to be unbothered. That pretense lasted all of five minutes before Mingyu nearly tripped over his own feet, sending you shrieking into a corner. From then on, your dynamic was set—filled with bickering, sarcastic remarks, and the occasional truce when neither of you could deal with a particularly terrifying task.

Fast forward a few months, and somehow, your lives became even more tangled.

Mingyu’s dorm contract was expiring, and he was scrambling to find a new place. Meanwhile, your landlord had suddenly hiked up your rent, making it impossible for you to afford the place on your own. The solution was painfully obvious. So, despite your history of playful feuds, you reached out to him with an offer—split the rent and become roommates.

Mingyu agreed.

And, surprisingly, living with you wasn’t as bad as he had expected. You cooked, you cleaned, and you practically ran the apartment while he was barely home, only crashing on his rare days off. When he did have free time, he’d find you deeply immersed in your work as a linguistic researcher—something he never quite understood, no matter how many times you patiently explained it. But over time, he started noticing little details about you.

One, you loved meditation.

Your yoga mat was always neatly rolled up in the corner, and the scent of aromatherapy candles lingered in the apartment. Some mornings, he’d wake up to the sound of soft instrumental music playing from your room—peaceful, calming, something he’d never admit he actually found nice.

Two, you enjoyed tea and reading.

The kitchen cabinet had an entire shelf dedicated to neatly arranged tea bags, and your mug collection was surprisingly excessive for one person. Whenever Mingyu came home early, he’d often find you curled up on the couch, book in hand, a warm cup of tea beside you. You looked so at ease in those moments that even he, someone who never had the patience to sit still for long, could appreciate the tranquility of it.

Three, you had a cat. Or at least, you claimed to.

This one, however, was a mystery. Mingyu had never seen the cat. Not once. And yet, there was a litter box, a food container labeled with a cat’s name, and bags of cat food neatly tucked away in the cabinet. It didn’t make sense. If you had a cat, where was it? Was it hiding? Was it imaginary? At this point, Mingyu was starting to wonder if you were messing with him.

Mingyu was about to scroll mindlessly on his phone when his ears suddenly caught a faint sound—a soft, whimpering noise coming from right beside him.

His brows furrowed. That was... a cat?

Before he could process it, the blanket next to him shifted, a small lump moving underneath. Then, out of the folds of fabric, a white cat slowly emerged, its fluffy body trembling as it cautiously peeked up at him with wide, round eyes.

Mingyu froze.

For months, he had questioned this cat’s existence and now, here it was, staring right at him. His injury, his frustration, the long, miserable day he would be having—suddenly, none of it mattered. The only thing occupying his mind now was how ridiculously cute this cat was.

"Hey..." Mingyu said softly, barely above a whisper, not wanting to startle the tiny creature.

The cat flinched at the sound of his voice, its small body shivering ever so slightly. Mingyu could feel the hesitation radiating off of it, its big, untrusting eyes locked onto him.

"That's okay," he reassured gently, keeping his voice calm. "I'm Y/n’s roommate. I live here too, just like you."

He stayed perfectly still, giving the cat space, hoping it wouldn't bolt and disappear like some kind of spirit again. A tiny part of him—the competitive part—was determined to win this cat over.

Before Mingyu could even think about reaching out, the white cat suddenly bolted.

In a flash of fur, it leaped off the couch and sprinted across the living room with an urgency that made Mingyu blink. He barely had time to react before the cat launched itself at your bedroom door—and to his absolute shock, it jumped up, grabbed the doorknob with its tiny paws, twisted it, and pushed the door open.

Mingyu sat there, mouth slightly agape.

The door creaked open just enough for the cat to slip inside, and then—slam! The door shut from the inside, as if the cat had personally decided that Mingyu was no longer allowed in its presence.

For a long moment, all Mingyu could do was stare at your now-closed bedroom door, trying to process what had just happened.

Then, finally, he muttered under his breath,

“…Is that actually a cat?”

*

"I met your cat, Caty, yesterday," Mingyu announced as he walked out of his room, his voice still thick with sleep.

You barely glanced at him, focused on the eggs sizzling in the pan. "Want some?" you asked.

Mingyu held up four fingers. "Make it four."

"Put some spinach, please," he added, rubbing the back of his neck.

"You ate all of it two days ago," you shot back instantly.

Mingyu rolled his eyes. He had thought there was still spinach left, only to realize that, yet again, he hadn’t gone grocery shopping in months.

As he took a seat at the counter, he leaned forward on his elbows. "By the way, about Caty," he started, a smirk playing on his lips. "She’s not a cat, right?"

You raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"I mean, she immediately bolted when she saw me," Mingyu said, his tone half-exasperated, half-amused. "Then she—get this—jumped up, twisted the doorknob with her tiny paws, and slammed your bedroom door shut in my face."

He leaned back, laughing at the memory, his deep chuckle filling the kitchen.

"She hates people," you said simply, placing his plate of eggs in front of him. "Especially you."

Mingyu scoffed, clearly offended. "Excuse me? That was the first time she saw me—how could she hate me already?" He crossed his arms dramatically. "Girls will be girls, I guess."

Rolling your eyes, you placed a pair of chopsticks beside his plate before untying your apron and hanging it up.

Mingyu's gaze flickered to your outfit—plaid shirt, sweater, and your signature gray glasses resting on your nose. His brows furrowed. "You're leaving again?"

"I have work," you replied, slipping your bag over your shoulder. "Unlike someone who’s injured and stuck at home for a year."

Mingyu scowled. "That was uncalled for." But then he perked up, grinning. "Still, at least I met your cat."

"Whatever, Mingyu. Caty hates you—just like I hate you. I’m going."

Mingyu burst out laughing. "You love me!" he called after you.

"The opposite!" you yelled back, slamming the door behind you.

Mingyu never thought an injury could slow him down this much. Being forced to stay home, get plenty of rest, and eat healthy, home-cooked meals felt like a punishment at first. But to his surprise, the food was actually good.

He never realized you were this skilled in the kitchen. Sure, he knew you could cook—he had been eating your leftovers and stealing bites from your plates for years—but now that he was home for every meal, he was truly appreciating it. His days were suddenly filled with steaming bowls of soup, neatly arranged side dishes, and hearty meals that made recovery feel a little less miserable.

And the more time he spent at home, the more he realized just how little he actually knew about you.

You had always been the "mystery roommate" in his life—someone who was just there whenever he came back after a long day, quietly keeping the apartment running while he was off chasing his own schedule. But now, with nothing to do but observe, he found himself studying you.

Your routine—or rather, your lack of a consistent one—was oddly amusing to him.

One morning, you were up at dawn, doing yoga on your mat with soft meditation music playing in the background. The next day, you barely rolled out of bed on time, rushing through breakfast while half-asleep.

Some evenings, you came home and immediately sat at the dining table, sipping tea and reading quietly like some calm, sophisticated scholar. Other nights, you collapsed on the couch face-first, dead asleep within seconds.

It was as if you didn’t live by a routine at all—just a collection of habits that changed depending on your mood.

Is that even considered a routine?

But what entertained him the most was just how much you slept.

After work? Nap.

After dinner? Nap.

Before bed? Another nap.

If he were to break down your day, at least 70% of it was spent sleeping.

Mingyu had never met someone so committed to maximizing every second of rest. You woke up exactly one hour before your commuting time, never earlier. Sometimes, you even set multiple alarms just to squeeze in a few extra minutes of sleep.

And the funniest part? Now that Mingyu was home all the time, you started making breakfast for him, too.

Not because you wanted to. But because if you didn’t, Mingyu would guilt-trip you.

"You forgot about my existence, Y/n?" he would dramatically gasp over the phone if he caught you sneaking out without feeding him first.

"You have hands," you would grumble.

"But you make it better," he would whine, and somehow, that always worked.

A week after his first surgery, Mingyu was lazily scrolling on his phone, booking a cab for his rehab appointment when you suddenly spoke up.

"You have rehab today?"

He glanced up, surprised that you even remembered. "Yeah," he mumbled, still tapping at his screen.

"I'll drive you," you said casually.

Mingyu froze mid-scroll.

"You have a car?" he asked, staring at you as if he had just discovered a whole new side of you.

"Yeah?" you replied, confused.

His mouth fell open. "You're rich…"

You snorted. "It's my dad’s."

Mingyu clutched his chest dramatically. "And you're driving me? You’re—" he gasped. "You’re personally escorting me? This is love, isn’t it?"

You rolled your eyes and grabbed your keys. "Just hurry up," you muttered.

Mingyu grinned, slowly getting up from the couch, his movements sluggish as he adjusted his crutches. You waited by the door, watching as he hobbled over at a painfully slow pace.

"This is taking forever," you muttered.

"You try walking with one leg," Mingyu shot back.

Still, even as he struggled, even as he whined the whole way down to the car, he couldn't wipe the grin off his face.

Because, for the first time in forever, you were driving him somewhere. And for some reason, that made his day.

*

During dinner, Mingyu brought up something that had been bugging him for weeks.

"It's been two months, and I still haven’t seen Caty since that first time," he complained between bites, setting his chopsticks down dramatically.

You barely looked up as you reached for a piece of the chicken dish—one that Mingyu had proudly insisted on making that evening, just because he had groceries delivered in the afternoon.

"Why are you so obsessed with my cat?" you asked, popping a bite into your mouth. To your surprise, it was actually good.

"This is good," you admitted, pointing at the chicken.

Mingyu’s lips curled into a smug grin. "Of course it is."

You shook your head at his self-satisfaction and returned to eating, but Mingyu wasn’t about to drop the real conversation.

"Caty is so cute. Her eyes are huge, and her fur is so fluffy. I want to bite her," he said with a dreamy sigh, as if he were talking about some mythical creature he had only encountered once in a vision.

"You saw her just once," you deadpanned.

"And I want to see her again." He leaned forward eagerly. "Come on, where is she? She’s in your room, right?"

You hummed, neither confirming nor denying it, but your head shook slightly. "Caty is a very solitary creature. She doesn’t like company. She doesn’t even like my calm and reserved company."

"Maybe she likes mine," Mingyu said nonchalantly, as if that were the most logical thing in the world.

You rolled your eyes. "Good luck with that."

The conversation drifted to other things as the two of you finished dinner. Later, as you plopped down on the couch, stomach full and ready to unwind, you flipped through the channels until you landed on an animated movie.

Mingyu, with nothing better to do, joined you, stretching out comfortably on the other end of the couch. The movie followed a boy who lived apart from his parents, only for tragedy to strike when they unexpectedly passed away.

A quiet moment settled between you both as you watched. Then, out of curiosity, you asked, "Do you miss your parents?"

Mingyu didn’t hesitate. "Sometimes," he said, his voice casual but thoughtful. "But they don’t live too far. I visit them sometimes."

You nodded, keeping your eyes on the screen, but something about his answer stuck with you.

Mingyu had always been surrounded by people—friends, teammates, fans. Yet, for someone who thrived on companionship, he never really talked about his family.

And for the first time, you found yourself wanting to ask more.

"How was your childhood, Mingyu?" you asked, your voice light but curious.

Mingyu didn’t even hesitate. "I’ve always been a bright child. Very likable, very—"

"Noisy," you muttered under your breath.

Unfortunately, he heard it.

"Hey," he shot you a look, placing a hand over his chest as if you’d deeply wounded him. "I call it opinionated, sweetheart. And my parents were very lovely with their children, by the way."

A small smile tugged at your lips. "I can tell."

Mingyu turned to look at you then. He didn’t like how the atmosphere had shifted. Talking about his sunshine-filled, warm family was natural for him, but it was almost as if… you couldn’t relate.

He wanted to ask.

He wanted to know more about you.

But instead, he changed the subject. "How did you meet Caty?"

You let out an exaggerated sigh, fingers pressing against your temple. "Not with Caty again!"

"Why not? Caty is your family, right? I'd like to know!"

You exhaled through your nose, arms crossing over your chest as you stared at the screen. "Caty..." you started, your voice unusually soft. "Caty has always been there. She's always been there with me."

Mingyu frowned slightly. "She doesn’t look old."

"We age like fine wine. It’s in our DNA."

Mingyu snorted. "So, she’s your daughter?"

You smiled, but instead of answering, you turned your head back to the movie.

And for the first time, Mingyu really looked at you.

The soft glow from the TV illuminated your face, casting shadows along your features, highlighting the curve of your cheek, the way your lips curled ever so slightly, the way your eyelashes framed your eyes.

You were beautiful.

Like, very beautiful.

And what surprised him the most… was that he had never really noticed before.

*

One night, Mingyu noticed that you hadn’t come out of your room since the afternoon. You hadn’t even touched your dinner. He remembered you mentioning your latest research paper and how much of a pain it had been, but he found it annoying how focused you could get—so much so that you skipped meals without a second thought.

Grabbing his crutch, he slowly made his way toward your door, knocking gently before calling your name.

"Y/n, you haven’t had dinner," he said, eyeing the takeout he had ordered for you hours ago, now cold and untouched.

Silence.

"Y/n?" His voice softened, worry creeping in. "You okay? I'm coming in, alright?"

But when he carefully pushed the door open, he was met with an empty room.

His brows furrowed. You had gone out? Without a word?

He was about to leave when something caught his eye—a small, curled-up figure on your bed, rising and falling gently with each breath.

A white furball.

Caty.

Mingyu's heart skipped a beat. He had been waiting months for this moment.

He stepped inside, moving as quietly as he could, marveling at the sight of the elusive cat finally in the flesh. "Caty…" he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, afraid of startling her.

The cat stirred, her ears twitching as she opened her wide, curious eyes. But the moment she realized who was approaching, she immediately scooted away, eyeing him with distrust.

Mingyu huffed, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "Don't be afraid, Caty. I’m Y/n’s friend. Y/n, your owner, who, by the way, left you all alone tonight. Can you believe that?"

His gaze wandered, and his frown deepened when he spotted her food bowl—completely empty.

"Ah, no wonder you’re grumpy," he muttered, shaking his head.

Determined, he hobbled toward the cabinet where he had seen you store Caty's food before. It took some effort, balancing on one crutch while scooping out the dry kibble, but as soon as he poured it into the dish, Caty sprang to life.

She ran straight to the food, brushing past him as if he was nothing more than an inconvenient obstacle in her path.

Mingyu blinked, then grinned. Progress.

His heart softened as he watched her eat eagerly. "How dare you leave her hungry, Y/n," he mumbled under his breath.

Carefully, he reached out, fingers hesitating just above her fur before finally making contact.

Soft. So soft.

Caty stiffened for a moment but, to Mingyu’s utter delight, she didn’t run. Instead, she let out a quiet purr.

Mingyu clapped a hand over his mouth, barely stopping himself from squealing.

"Oh my god," he whispered, eyes shining. "You’re my favorite cat. Can’t believe Y/n’s been gatekeeping you from me."

Caty continued eating, completely indifferent to his excitement.

Mingyu smirked, scratching behind her ear. "Your loss, Y/n," he murmured smugly. "She's mine now."

*

Mingyu had been grumpier than usual lately—you noticed. Maybe it was the cabin fever from being stuck at home for so long, but he seemed to get irritated over the smallest things.

Your hair strands on the couch? A crime.

Dishes left unwashed? He huffed.

And the worst? When he held up a piece of your underwear he found in the laundry machine with an unimpressed look, only for you to sprint across the room to snatch it from his fingers.

So, when you saw him sprawled on the couch, aimlessly scrolling on his phone, you decided he needed a change of scenery.

“Wanna come with me?”

Mingyu barely looked up. “Where?”

You shrugged. “A field visit. Secluded area, about two hours of driving and an hour on the ferry.”

That got his attention.

His ears perked up, eyes lighting up at the mention of a ferry. “Wait, on a ship?”

You nodded.

He sat up immediately, his boredom vanishing in an instant. “I’m coming. Wait for me.” Without another word, he grabbed his crutch and hobbled toward his room to change.

Not long after, the two of you were on the road, Mingyu comfortably settled in the passenger seat as you drove. You let him choose the playlist, and he happily took on DJ duties, filling the car with upbeat tracks.

As the music played, Mingyu danced along, his upper body swaying dramatically to the beat. You chuckled, half-focused on the road, occasionally singing along to the lyrics you knew.

“Ohhh, you actually know this one?” Mingyu teased, turning up the volume.

“Shut up.”

He grinned, throwing his hands in the air as the chorus hit, and for the first time in days, he looked genuinely happy.

As the road stretched ahead, the rhythm of the music and the hum of the engine filled the space between you. Mingyu was busy drumming his fingers on the dashboard, nodding along to the beat, when you glanced at him and asked,

“How’s rehab going?”

Mingyu blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift in conversation. “Oh. It’s… fine, I guess.”

“You guess?”

He sighed, rolling his shoulders. “It’s just slow. Feels like I’m barely making progress. They keep telling me to be patient, but it’s frustrating.”

You nodded, understanding. “You’re used to moving all the time. Must be hard to slow down.”

Mingyu exhaled through his nose, staring out the window. “Yeah. Feels like I’m stuck.” Then, after a pause, he mumbled, “I kinda hate it.”

You didn’t rush to respond, letting his words settle. Instead, you reached over and gave his knee a small pat before putting your hand back on the wheel.

“You’ll get there,” you said simply. “You just need time.”

Mingyu turned to look at you, and for a moment, he didn’t have a smart remark or playful retort. He just watched you, as if he were seeing you in a different light.

Then, shaking off the weight of the conversation, he suddenly leaned forward and cranked up the volume.

“Alright, no more sad talk. Sing this part with me.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help laughing as he dramatically belted out the next lyrics, completely off-key.

The salty breeze whipped through your hair as the ferry glided across the waves, the rhythmic rocking of the ship creating a slow, lulling motion. You leaned against the railing, gazing out at the endless stretch of water, while Mingyu stood beside you, adjusting the strap of the bag he had insisted on carrying for you.

He glanced over, eyes squinting slightly against the sunlight. “So, what exactly are we doing when we get there?”

You turned your head, watching as seagulls circled above. “Just an interview with an old woman for my paper,” you replied. “She has a lot of knowledge about oral traditions in the area.”

Mingyu nodded thoughtfully before grinning. “And after that? We can go sightseeing and eat, right?”

You smirked. “You just want food, don’t you?”

“I always want food,” he declared shamelessly. “You know this.” Then, tilting his head, he asked, “You like seafood, right?”

“Of course. I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t.”

Mingyu hummed, clearly pleased. “Good. Because I’m eating everything.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Try not to bankrupt me.”

“No promises.”

A comfortable silence stretched between you as you both looked out at the open sea. The horizon blurred where the sky met the water, and the sound of waves slapping against the ship’s hull was oddly soothing. Mingyu exhaled, rolling his shoulders.

“This is nice,” he admitted. “Feels like a reset.”

You glanced at him. “You needed a break.”

He nodded. “Yeah. More than I realized.”

You didn’t say anything, but you understood. The months of being stuck at home, of forced stillness, had been suffocating for someone like Mingyu. But now, with the wind in his hair and the vastness of the sea stretching ahead, he looked lighter. More like himself.

“You’re lucky to have work that takes you places,” he mused, watching a fishing boat in the distance.

You smiled. “I think so too.”

Mingyu turned to you then, studying you for a moment. “You really love what you do, huh?”

“I do.”

He hummed in approval before nudging your shoulder lightly. “Alright, then. Let’s get this interview done quickly so we can feast.”

You laughed. “Deal.”

The village was exactly as you had imagined—quiet, nestled between lush green hills and the vast blue sea. The scent of saltwater mixed with the earthiness of the damp ground as you and Mingyu stepped off the ferry, your shoes crunching against the wooden dock.

Mingyu took a deep breath, stretching his arms. "Alright, lead the way, researcher-nim."

You rolled your eyes but smiled, leading him through the narrow streets where elderly locals greeted you with warm smiles. The air buzzed with the faint sound of waves in the distance, children’s laughter echoing from somewhere unseen. Mingyu, ever the curious one, peeked into open storefronts, his eyes lighting up every time he spotted something new.

Your interview with the elderly woman took place in a small, traditional house with wooden floors and the scent of dried herbs lingering in the air. Mingyu, despite not having much to do, listened attentively from the side, nodding along as the woman spoke of old myths and stories passed down through generations. At one point, you caught him staring at you instead, watching the way you took notes, the way your brows furrowed in focus. He quickly looked away when your eyes flickered to him.

When the interview was over, the two of you explored the village, wandering through small paths that led to breathtaking cliffside views. Mingyu took photos, claiming it was for "memories," but he sneakily snapped a few of you when you weren’t looking.

Lunch was a feast—freshly grilled fish, buttery scallops, spicy seafood stew. Mingyu ate with the enthusiasm of a man who had been starving for days, humming in delight with every bite.

“You’re going to cry over food again,” you teased, watching as he closed his eyes in exaggerated bliss.

“I might,” he admitted, stuffing another piece of fish into his mouth. “This is happiness.”

By the time you both decided to head back, the sky had turned a soft shade of orange, the sunset casting golden hues across the water. The ferry ride home was quieter, more peaceful. Mingyu sat beside you, his shoulder brushing against yours every time the ship swayed.

“Thanks for bringing me today,” he said suddenly, his voice softer than usual.

You turned to him, surprised by his sincerity. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy it this much.”

Mingyu chuckled. “Me neither. But I did. A lot.”

The warmth in his voice made something stir inside you, but you pushed it down, nodding as you turned back to the sea.

By the time you reached home, it was already late. The apartment was dark except for the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the window. You both kicked off your shoes near the entrance, exhaustion settling into your limbs.

You yawned. “That was a long day.”

Mingyu hummed in agreement, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, but a good one.”

You nodded, reaching to switch on the hallway light when suddenly—

Mingyu grabbed your wrist, turning you toward him. Before you could process what was happening, he took a step closer, his presence overwhelming, warm, familiar in a way that made your stomach flip.

His eyes flickered down to your lips for just a second before he whispered, almost to himself, “I really want to kiss you right now.”

And then he did.

The kiss was slow, unhurried—like he was memorizing the way you felt against him, the way your lips fit together perfectly. His hand slid up to your cheek, his touch gentle yet firm, as if he had been waiting for this for a long time.

You were speechless.

Even after Mingyu pulled away, even after he chuckled softly and rested his forehead against yours, even after the warmth of his lips lingered on yours—you couldn't find a single word to say. Your mind was blank, your heart hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

Mingyu, on the other hand, had a million thoughts racing through his head.

He hadn’t planned this. He hadn’t even thought about kissing you before today, at least not consciously. But now that he had, now that he knew what it felt like—soft, warm, and entirely too natural—he didn’t know how to go back.

Because this was you. His friend. The person who had let him crash at her place, who had cooked him meals, who had dealt with his grumpiness and his boredom. You, who he had always seen as someone steady in his life.

And yet, at some point, that steadiness had become something more. He hadn’t realized it until now, until he kissed you and felt the undeniable pull in his chest.

Mingyu swallowed, suddenly feeling like he had crossed a line he wasn’t sure he could retreat from.

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, stepping back slightly, giving you space. “You okay?”

You blinked up at him, lips parted slightly, still trying to process everything.

Mingyu forced a small laugh, trying to mask the sudden conflict waging inside him. “You’re looking at me like I just spoke in an alien language.”

You exhaled sharply, shaking your head as if to clear it. “I just… I didn’t expect that.”

“Yeah…” Mingyu shoved his hands into his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Me neither.”

Silence stretched between you, the air thick with something neither of you dared to name just yet.

Mingyu glanced at you one more time, his expression unreadable. Then he cleared his throat. “You should get some rest. It’s been a long day.”

You nodded numbly, still dazed.

And as Mingyu walked off to his room, closing the door behind him, he let out a quiet sigh, running a hand through his hair.

Because for the first time, he wasn’t sure if he could keep pretending that what he felt for you was just friendship anymore.

*

Mingyu barely got any sleep. The kiss kept replaying in his mind, over and over, as if his brain was determined to dissect every second of it. Was it the right thing to do? Did he just ruin everything? The moment had felt so natural, so inevitable, yet now, in the morning light, doubt clung to him like a shadow.

He sat on the couch, his crutch resting beside him, his fingers drumming against his knee. Normally, by now, he would hear the soft sounds of you moving around—your sleepy footsteps padding into the kitchen, the clatter of dishes as you made breakfast. But today, there was nothing.

His brows furrowed as he glanced at your door. Still shut.

Mingyu pushed himself up, walking over to knock softly. “Y/n?” His voice was gentle, but there was a hint of concern beneath it.

No response.

He frowned, knocking again. “Y/n, you awake?”

Silence. A familiar unease crept up his spine. Don’t tell me you already left?

He hesitated before slowly pushing the door open. And sure enough, your room was empty.

Caty was in the middle of it, lazily sprawled out on your bed, her fluffy tail flicking. The place was messier than usual—blankets half-tangled, papers scattered on your desk, as if you had rushed out in a hurry.

Mingyu sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You really left without saying anything?” he mumbled to himself, glancing around the room.

Caty, now realizing she had an audience, stretched and let out a tiny chirp before hopping off the bed. She trotted towards Mingyu but got distracted halfway, swatting at a fallen pen instead.

“Caty,” Mingyu called, shaking the kibble container to get her attention. The second she heard the sound, she perked up, immediately scampering toward him. He walked to the kitchen, pouring some food into her dish, watching as she eagerly began eating.

He crouched down, gently rubbing behind her ear. “I see Y/n forgot to feed you again…” he muttered, shaking his head with a small sigh. “She was really in a rush, huh?”

Caty purred under his touch, completely unbothered by the absence. Mingyu, on the other hand, couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling in his chest.

You left without waking him up. Without a single word.

Did it have something to do with the kiss?

Mingyu didn’t like the way that thought made his stomach twist.

He exhaled heavily, leaning against the counter as Caty purred beside his hand, rubbing her head against his fingers like she had finally accepted him as an ally.

“At least you don’t hate me,” Mingyu muttered, scratching under her chin.

*

That week, Mingyu finally ditched the crutch—a massive milestone in his recovery. It felt liberating, almost like reclaiming a piece of himself he hadn’t realized he’d lost. But as he walked into the apartment, feeling lighter than he had in weeks, he noticed something else.

You were on the couch, curled up with a book, a steaming cup of tea in your hand. The sight was so... normal. A stark contrast to the avoidance act you had been pulling lately. If Mingyu counted correctly, he had seen Caty more than he had seen you this past week—a fact he wasn’t sure he wanted to categorize as progress or not.

"Hey," he greeted, setting his keys down.

You looked up, meeting his gaze, and for the first time in days, you actually smiled at him. "You're walking now," you noted, putting your book aside, your attention fully on him.

Mingyu smirked, stepping further into the room. "Not just walking," he said, twirling on the spot with exaggerated grace. "I can even ballet."

It was meant to be a joke, an attempt to break through the strange tension hanging between you two. But even as you let out a small chuckle, neither of you could ignore how much thicker the silence had become.

The kiss still lingered in the space between you, unspoken but impossible to forget.

Mingyu hesitated for a moment before finally lowering himself onto the couch beside you. He didn’t sit too close, giving you space, but he was near enough that you could feel his warmth. The silence between you stretched, thick with unspoken words.

He cleared his throat. "So…" He drummed his fingers on his knee, glancing at you before looking away. "About that night."

Your grip on your cup tightened slightly, but you said nothing. Mingyu caught the shift in your expression, the way your lips pressed together as if bracing yourself. He didn’t want to make you uncomfortable, but he also didn’t want to pretend nothing had happened.

"I don’t want to pressure you or anything," he said carefully, his voice softer now. "I just… I don’t regret it, you know?" He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. "I don’t want you to think it was just some impulsive thing that didn’t mean anything to me. Because it did."

Your fingers traced the rim of your cup, eyes fixed on the steam rising from your tea. "Mingyu…" You started, then stopped, as if searching for the right words.

He didn’t rush you. He just watched, waiting.

"I just didn’t expect it," you finally admitted, still not meeting his gaze. "And I don’t know what it means for us."

Mingyu nodded slowly. That was fair. You had been friends, living under the same roof, never crossing that line—until now. "I don’t know either," he admitted with a small chuckle, leaning back against the couch. "But I do know that I like you."

This time, your eyes snapped up to his. Mingyu smiled, not teasing, not playful—just honest. "And I’m okay with figuring it out together. No pressure. No rush."

He could see the conflict in your eyes, the thoughts racing through your mind. But he also saw something else—something softer, something hesitant but not entirely unwilling.

Your amusement faded as quickly as it came. You set your cup down on the table, fingers lacing together in your lap as you exhaled slowly. "Mingyu… you shouldn’t like me."

His brows furrowed, the lightness in his expression fading. "What do you mean?"

You hesitated, pressing your lips together. There was a part of you that wanted to let this happen, to let yourself believe in the warmth he was offering. But you couldn’t. Not when you knew that if he found out the truth, he would regret ever feeling this way.

"There are things about me you don’t know," you said quietly. "Things I can’t tell you."

Mingyu frowned but didn’t interrupt. He was patient—he always was with you.

You swallowed, keeping your gaze fixed on your hands. "If you knew… if you found out, you’d regret this. You’d regret ever letting yourself feel that way about me."

Mingyu’s jaw tightened. "That’s not fair," he said, voice firm but gentle. "You’re deciding for me how I’d feel without even giving me a choice."

You finally looked at him, and he saw it—the fear in your eyes, the weight of something you were carrying alone. "Because I know what it would do to you," you whispered.

Mingyu shook his head. "Y/n, whatever it is, I—"

"You don’t," you cut him off, standing abruptly. "You don’t know, Mingyu. And I can’t—" You ran a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. "I can’t let you get caught up in it."

He stood too, searching your face, his frustration evident. "You don’t get to decide that for me."

"But I have to," you said, voice barely above a whisper. "Because I’d rather be the bad guy now than let you hate me later."

Mingyu stared at you, his heart pounding. He didn’t know what you were hiding, but he knew one thing for sure—you were terrified. Not of him, but of whatever secret you were keeping.

And that only made him more certain.

"I’m not walking away," he said, his voice steady. "No matter how much you try to push me away, I’m not going anywhere."

You looked at him, eyes conflicted, torn between hope and fear. But before you could say anything, Mingyu stepped back, giving you space. "I won’t force you to tell me," he said softly. "But I hope one day, you trust me enough to let me in."

And with that, he turned and walked toward his room, leaving you standing there with your heart pounding and your carefully built walls cracking just a little.

*

You sat at your desk, staring at the open document on your laptop, but the words blurred together, refusing to make sense. Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, unmoving. Your head ached from the lack of sleep, your body felt sluggish, and your mind was stretched thin from everything—your workload, the constant deadlines, your barely functioning routine, your health that you hadn’t been taking care of, and most of all… Mingyu.

You pressed your palms against your face, exhaling shakily. Everything was piling up, suffocating you. The late nights, the skipped meals, the self-imposed isolation—it was all catching up to you, and now Mingyu, with his unwavering presence, his persistence, his feelings, was another thing you didn’t know how to handle.

You shouldn’t have let it get this far.

Your chest felt tight as you leaned back in your chair, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling. Mingyu wasn’t supposed to look at you like that—with warmth, with patience, with something deeper that you weren’t ready to name. He wasn’t supposed to tell you he liked you. He wasn’t supposed to fight to stay when you were doing everything to push him away.

And yet… he was still here.

You knew he was in the next room, probably watching something on his phone or reading messages in the group chat. You could hear the occasional shuffling, the sound of video played on his phone. It was comforting, but also suffocating in its own way. Because you wanted to believe in the comfort, but you couldn’t afford to.

Not when you were already breaking under the weight of everything else.

You ran a hand through your hair, gripping the strands in frustration. Your schedule was a mess, your health was deteriorating because you barely had time to take care of yourself, and your work wasn’t slowing down. The pressure was relentless. And now Mingyu—Mingyu, with his steady eyes and his stubborn heart—was making it harder to keep things in check.

A part of you wanted to walk into the living room and tell him everything. To let yourself lean on someone for once. But you couldn’t.

Because if you did, you wouldn’t be able to stop. And you couldn’t afford to fall apart.

Not now.

Your breath was shallow, uneven. The weight pressing against your chest refused to ease, your hands trembling as you clutched your desk for stability. The walls of your room felt like they were closing in, suffocating you with the pressure you had been trying so hard to suppress.

No. Not now. Not this.

You pushed yourself up, pacing in an attempt to ground yourself, but your legs felt weak, and the buzzing in your head only grew louder. You needed water—maybe that would help. Maybe if you cooled down, if you just focused on something else, the panic wouldn’t consume you.

Your steps were unsteady as you walked out of your room, hands gripping the edge of the kitchen counter as you reached for a glass. The water was cold against your lips, but even as you gulped it down, it did little to ease the storm inside you.

And then, you felt it.

The dizziness. The telltale warmth flooding through your limbs. The sensation that always preceded the shift.

No. No, no, no.

Not now. Not here. Not with Mingyu in the apartment.

You gripped the counter tighter, willing your body to stop, to fight it, but it was too late. The overwhelming sensation crashed into you, your vision blurring, your balance giving out. You barely registered the sound of the glass slipping from your fingers, shattering against the floor, before your body gave in.

The last thing you saw before everything went black was Mingyu.

Standing at his door.

Eyes wide.

Mouth slightly open.

Frozen in place.

Watching as you—

Became Caty.

*

Mingyu jolted awake, gasping for air as he found himself lying on the cold floor. His head pounded, his heart racing in his chest. What the hell just happened?

He blinked rapidly, trying to make sense of the moment before his eyes landed on the small figure sitting beside him.

Caty.

The white-furred feline stared at him with wide, unblinking eyes, her fluffy tail curling neatly around her paws. She looked normal—just a cat, nothing out of the ordinary.

But that was the problem.

Mingyu let out a strangled, surprised noise and immediately scooted back, his body dragging against the floor as he put distance between himself and the animal. His breath was uneven as his mind scrambled for explanations.

Was it his medication? Had the lingering effects of his painkillers messed with his head? No—he hadn’t taken them in days. Was it exhaustion? A hallucination? But he had quit drinking. Why would he be seeing things now?

His eyes darted toward the kitchen. The shattered glass glistened under the dim lighting, water pooling around the broken shards. His gaze then shifted to your bedroom—wide open, empty.

He was sure you had been there.

He was sure he had seen you.

And then—

Mingyu swallowed hard, eyes flickering back to Caty.

Was it real?

Had he really seen you shrinking—morphing—into a cat?

Was Caty… you?

Mingyu swallowed the lump in his throat, staring at Caty like she might suddenly start speaking. His mind screamed at him that this wasn’t possible, but his gut told him otherwise. He had seen it—hadn’t he?

Slowly, he sat up, never taking his eyes off the small creature. He needed to confirm it somehow.

"Y/n…?" His voice was hoarse, hesitant. "If—if that’s really you, can you… meow?"

Silence.

Caty blinked once but didn’t move.

Mingyu exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Okay. Uh, can you—jump?" He pointed at the couch, waiting, hoping for any kind of response.

Nothing.

Caty just sat there, tail twitching slightly, ears perked.

Mingyu frowned, his frustration growing. He had to be losing his mind. "Alright, what about sitting? Oh, wait—you’re already sitting," he mumbled to himself, rubbing his temples. "Fine, then. Blink twice if you’re Y/n."

Caty blinked.

Once.

Mingyu held his breath.

Caty licked her paw and started grooming herself.

Mingyu let out a strangled groan, slumping back against the floor. "Oh my god, I’m losing it," he muttered, staring up at the ceiling. "This isn't real. This isn’t happening."

But no matter how much he tried to convince himself, his eyes kept drifting back to Caty—who sat there, unmoving, watching him with those all-too-familiar eyes.

Mingyu sighed as he crouched down, carefully picking up the shattered glass pieces from the kitchen floor. The mess was everywhere—your discarded clothes near the counter, the spilled water, the broken glass. It felt surreal.

Above him, Caty sat perched on the kitchen counter, watching his every move. Her tail swayed lazily, but her eyes never left him. It was unsettling.

Mingyu exhaled, shaking his head as he reached for the broom. "Okay, so let’s go over this again," he muttered, mostly to himself, but also to the silent feline observer. "You were standing here. You tried to drink water, and then—bam! You turned into a cat."

Caty’s ears twitched.

Mingyu dumped the glass shards into the trash and wiped his hands on his sweats. He glanced at the pile of clothes on the floor—the ones you had been wearing just minutes ago. His face heated up at the realization.

"Oh my god, this is insane," he whispered, running a hand through his hair. He turned to Caty, pointing at her. "So all this time… you were Caty?"

Silence.

Mingyu let out a breathy laugh, though there was no humor in it. "You’ve been sleeping on the couch. Sitting on my lap. I even fed you tuna last week!" He groaned, rubbing his temples. "Oh my god. Oh my god."

Caty just blinked at him, expression unreadable.

Mingyu leaned against the counter, staring at her. "You know, the least you could do is react. Maybe a guilty meow? A tail flick? Something?"

Caty licked her paw and groomed her face.

Mingyu groaned again. "This is ridiculous. I—I need a drink. Wait, no, I quit drinking." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I need answers."

His eyes met Caty's again, and this time, there was something different—something knowing.

"You really are Y/n, aren’t you?" he whispered.

Caty finally did something. She blinked. Twice.

Mingyu let out a deep sigh, staring at the ceiling as Caty—you—sat comfortably on his stomach. He had never been a cat person, but here he was, hosting the biggest secret of his life on his body, staring at him with those too-familiar eyes.

"This is insane," he muttered, gently poking your tiny forehead. "I should be freaking out more, right? Like… panicking, losing my mind. But no, here I am, talking to a cat—you—like this is normal."

Caty blinked slowly.

Mingyu groaned, rubbing his face. "You’re not gonna talk, huh?" He tried again, looking at you. "Maybe blink twice if you can understand me?"

You just stared at him.

Mingyu huffed. "Okay. You’re either messing with me, or you really can’t answer like this." He let his head fall back against the couch. "Either way, you’ll probably shift back soon, right?"

That thought struck him suddenly. If you turned back into a human, you’d be—Mingyu’s eyes widened. "Crap, you’re gonna need clothes!"

He carefully moved you off his stomach and onto the couch before rushing to his room. Grabbing a couple of blankets, he returned and draped them over the cushions. "Here. If you shift back while sleeping, just—just wrap yourself in these, okay?"

He pointed at the blankets and then at you. "Inside them when you sleep, alright? Caty? Y/n? Whoever you are!"

You flicked your tail, making him sigh.

"Okay, fine. Ignore me." Mingyu plopped back onto the couch, still watching you with curiosity and concern. His head was still spinning, but there was nothing he could do except wait.

The next morning, Mingyu stirred awake to the soft glow of sunlight seeping through the curtains. He stretched, muscles stiff from sleeping on the couch, before something caught his attention.

There, curled up under his blankets, was you.

Not Caty. You.

Mingyu stilled. His breath hitched as he sat up, staring at your peaceful face. The blanket was wrapped securely around you, your hair a little messy from sleep, but there was no doubt—you had shifted back.

It was real. All of it.

Mingyu leaned back against the couch, exhaling slowly. "Holy shit."

Caty had been you all this time.

*

You sat on the couch, a human-sized bundle of blankets, while Mingyu stood in front of you like a detective who had just uncovered the most absurd case of his life. His arms were crossed, his jaw slightly dropped, and his eyes were scanning you as if expecting you to sprout whiskers at any moment.

"So… you are Caty?" he asked slowly, as if hoping he had misheard himself.

You nodded, peeking up at him from the cocoon of warmth.

"You shift into a cat," he continued, his voice a mix of disbelief and exhaustion. "Am I right?"

Another nod. This time, you kept your gaze firmly on the coffee table.

"So you're human… but you can also turn into a cat?"

You nodded again, bracing yourself.

Mingyu opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again—like a fish trying to form words but failing. And then, as if his brain short-circuited, he let out a loud, exasperated groan and ruffled his hair so aggressively it looked like he’d been caught in a wind tunnel.

"You should’ve just told me it was all a dream!" he burst out, pacing the living room. "Or that I was hallucinating! That I was seeing things! Y/n, what the hell?! How—why—how does a human just shrink into a—into a cat?!"

"I'm sorry," you mumbled, pulling the blankets tighter around yourself like they could somehow shield you from his meltdown.

Mingyu let out another deep breath, his hands on his hips. He turned away for a second, mumbling something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like "I quit drinking for this?" before whipping back around to face you.

"Okay, wait. You said it happens when you're stressed?"

You gave a small, pitiful nod.

Mingyu blinked, as if this somehow made less sense than before. His brows knitted together in deep thought before he squinted at you suspiciously.

"So… all this time, when I was talking to Caty… was that you? Were you ignoring me on purpose?"

Your eyes widened, and you shook your head frantically. "No! That was Caty! I—I can't control myself when I shift. It’s like… I become the cat version of me, but I don’t remember anything when I change back."

Mingyu opened his mouth again, closed it, rubbed his temples, and then let out a long sigh as he dropped onto the couch beside you.

"This is insane," he muttered, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers to his problems.

You swallowed hard, watching him carefully. He looked like he was either going to burst into another round of questions or possibly combust.

Then, after a long, heavy pause, Mingyu exhaled deeply, shook his head, and mumbled, "Of course the girl I like turns into a damn cat."

Mingyu sat there in stunned silence, his brain slowly piecing everything together like a detective in a crime drama—except the crime was you being a cat.

He turned to you, eyes narrowing in deep concentration. “Wait a minute.”

You tensed. “What?”

His gaze scanned you like he was seeing you for the first time. Then, his mouth fell open as realization hit him like a truck. “Oh my God.”

You blinked. “…What?”

Mingyu shot up from the couch, pointing at you like he had just solved the biggest mystery of the century. “It all makes sense now!”

You pulled the blankets tighter, suddenly very nervous. “…What does?”

“All of it! Your hobbies—meditating, reading, and drinking tea—you do everything to reduce stress. And your sleeping habits!” He started pacing. “You nap all the time, and you hate waking up early. You curl up in the weirdest positions when you sleep—like a cat!”

Your jaw dropped slightly. “I—I do not—”

“Oh, you do!” Mingyu pointed an accusatory finger. “And your attitude—how you act all distant sometimes, but the next moment you’re affectionate? Total cat behavior! And don’t even get me started on how you disappear for hours and then show up like nothing happened!”

You sank deeper into the blankets, heart pounding. He was way too good at this.

Mingyu continued, voice getting louder with every revelation. “You love warm places! You always complain when it’s too cold, and you sit next to the heater like your life depends on it!” He gasped. “And the hair! The random strands of hair I keep finding on my clothes—it was you!”

“I mean—technically, it was still my human hair—”

“And the way you stare at me sometimes, like you’re silently judging me but won’t tell me why! That’s such a cat thing to do!”

You opened your mouth to argue but… well. He wasn’t wrong.

Mingyu groaned, running his hands down his face. “How did I not see this sooner?”

You bit your lip, guilt creeping in. “I—I wanted to tell you, but—”

He spun around, eyes wide. “Oh my God. I bathed you.”

You winced. “Oh. Really?”

He pointed at you again. “I carried you like a baby after you fell asleep on my lap! I let you sleep in my bed!”

“…You must had volunteered that one.”

“I THOUGHT YOU WERE A REGULAR CAT, Y/N!”

You shrank under his intense stare, whispering, “I was a regular cat at the time…”

Mingyu let out a strangled noise, like his brain was overheating. He collapsed back onto the couch, staring at the ceiling. “I need a minute. Or maybe ten.”

You hesitated before mumbling, “…You still fed me tuna.”

Mingyu groaned into his hands. “I fed you tuna.”

Silence stretched between you before he finally peeked at you through his fingers. “Okay. So you turn into a cat when you’re stressed. But why? How?”

You sighed, tugging at the blanket. “It’s… complicated.”

Mingyu exhaled sharply. “Y/n, everything about this situation is complicated.” He tilted his head at you, still processing. “But somehow… it still makes sense.”

You blinked. “It does?”

“Yeah.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “It’s weird, but it’s you. And honestly, the cat thing explains a lot.”

You stared at him, heart stuttering in your chest. After all this—after watching you shift, realizing you had basically been living a double life, learning he had bathed and fed you tuna—he was still sitting here, talking to you like you were just… you.

Maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t the worst-case scenario after all.

*

From that day on, Mingyu became obsessed with monitoring your stress levels.

It started small—like when you reached for your morning coffee, and he immediately snatched it away.

“Caffeine increases stress,” he said, squinting at you like a scientist observing a volatile experiment. “You could shift if you get too anxious.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Mingyu, I won’t turn into a cat just because I drink coffee.”

He didn’t look convinced. “I don’t know, Y/n. You shift when you're stressed. What if caffeine speeds up the process?”

“Mingyu—”

He grabbed a tea bag and handed it to you. “Just to be safe.”

You glared. “I don't want tea.”

“You don't want shifting in front of me more.”

You wanted to argue, but… fair point.

Then it escalated.

Every time you sighed even slightly too heavily, he’d whip around like you had just announced you were about to combust.

“Are you stressed? Are you shifting? Should I get a blanket?”

“I just sighed, Mingyu.”

“Yeah, but was it a regular sigh or a cat-inducing sigh?”

“Oh my God.”

At one point, he even started doing random check-ins.

“You good?” he’d ask, mid-lunch, mouth full of food.

“Yes, Mingyu.”

“You sure? No tiny paws incoming?”

“I swear to God.”

Even when you were peacefully reading, he'd suddenly lean in, staring suspiciously at you. “You seem tense.”

“I am tense,” you deadpanned, “because you keep asking if I’m tense.”

“So you are stressed?”

“Mingyu.”

He hummed in thought. “Should I get some chicken? Maybe chicken will help.”

You threw a pillow at his face.

And the worst part? You actually started feeling stressed because of him.

At work? You were fine. Dealing with your schedule? Manageable. But Mingyu constantly watching you, gasping dramatically whenever you so much as blinked too hard?

That was starting to become a real problem.

One night, after yet another "Are you feeling shifty?" question, you groaned and flopped onto the couch, burying your face in a pillow. “Mingyu, I swear, if I shift into a cat, it’s going to be your fault.”

Mingyu gasped. “So I am stressing you out?”

“Yes!” You shot up, glaring at him. “You’re so paranoid that I’m going to turn into a cat that you’re actually making it more likely to happen!”

His eyes widened like he had just uncovered a terrible truth. “Oh my God.”

“Oh my God, what?”

Mingyu clasped his hands together. “So what you’re saying is… I’m your trigger?”

You blinked. “That’s not—”

His face lit up. “Does this mean I have power over your shifting?”

You groaned, throwing yourself back onto the couch. “I give up.”

Mingyu, now grinning like a kid who had discovered a new toy, leaned over you. “Don’t worry, Y/n. I promise to use my powers wisely.”

You peeked up at him. “If you ever use this as an excuse to mess with me—”

“I would never,” he said, hand over his heart. Then, after a beat, he smirked. “But, you know… if I ever need a cute little furball to do my bidding—”

“Mingyu.”

He laughed, dodging the second pillow you threw at him.

Mingyu was out grocery shopping when something in the pet accessories aisle caught his eye—a delicate, silver cat collar with a tiny pendant hanging from it.

He picked it up, examining the details. It wasn’t just any collar; it had an adjustable strap and a small locket that could be opened to store a tiny piece of paper inside.

"You can adjust the size, sir," a salesperson said, approaching him with a polite smile. She took the collar from his hands and demonstrated how it worked.

Mingyu nodded, intrigued. It was simple but elegant—something you would probably like.

"How old is your cat?" the salesperson asked casually.

Mingyu blinked. Well. Technically, you and Caty were the same age, and there was no way in hell he was about to blurt out, Oh, she’s 27, actually.

"Uh… four?" he answered, hoping that was a reasonable number.

The salesperson beamed. "Oh, how sweet! This locket is great for adventurous cats. You can write their name inside—or even a personal contact number, just in case they like to wander off."

Mingyu nearly laughed. You liked to wander off. You loved adventure. If anyone needed a tag in case they went missing, it was you.

As ridiculous as it was, he suddenly found himself imagining slipping this around your neck—not just when you were Caty, but even as yourself. It would be a little secret between the two of you, a playful reminder that he knew your real secret.

Yeah. This would make a great gift.

Grinning to himself, he grabbed the collar and headed toward the cashier.

*

During dinner, Mingyu suddenly reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box, sliding it across the table toward you.

“I got you something,” he announced, leaning back with a smug grin.

You looked at him suspiciously before picking up the box and opening it. The moment your eyes landed on the contents, you froze.

"You got me what?"

"A collar," Mingyu repeated, as if it was the most normal thing in the world.

You blinked at him. “Mingyu. I’m human.”

He nodded, completely unfazed. “And also a cat.”

You groaned, closing the box with an exaggerated sigh. "Not this again."

“Hey, listen—it's adjustable! And I got one with a little pendant so I could write my number inside. Y'know, in case you ever shift outside and get lost.”

You shot him a deadpan look. “You seriously think I’m going to wake up in an alley one day and some stranger will check my collar for your number?”

Mingyu shrugged. “It’s just a precaution. Plus, it was pretty expensive, so you better appreciate it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Where did you even find this?”

“Hm…” He scratched his chin, pretending to recall. “You know, at—” He paused for dramatic effect. “—E-Mart.”

You let out a scoff. “So you just casually browse the pet aisle for gifts now?”

“Only for my special cat-human hybrid roommate.”

Rolling your eyes, you tried to push the box back toward him, but Mingyu was already reaching over. Mingyu’s fingers brushed against your skin as he adjusted the collar, the cool metal of the clasp briefly pressing against the nape of your neck before he fastened it in place. His touch was light—careful, almost reverent—as if he didn’t want to startle you, as if this ridiculous gesture somehow held more weight than either of you had expected.

When he finally leaned back, his gaze lingered on you, a slow smile stretching across his face. There was something different in the way he looked at you—not just teasing amusement, but something softer, something unreadable.

The air between you shifted, quiet and thick with unspoken things. The usual banter was missing, the jokes fading into something more uncertain. Mingyu wasn’t laughing. He wasn’t even smirking. He was just looking at you, his brown eyes warm, thoughtful, studying you in a way that made your pulse stutter for a second.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself.

Your breath hitched.

It was just a word, a casual compliment, but something about the way he said it made your stomach flip. Maybe it was the sincerity in his voice, or the way his gaze softened ever so slightly, like he had never really looked at you like this before. Like he was seeing something new—something more.

You swallowed, suddenly hyperaware of the collar resting against your skin, the weight of it foreign yet oddly grounding. “It’s—” Your voice wavered, and you cleared your throat. “It’s just a collar, Mingyu.”

He grinned, the spell breaking just slightly, but his eyes never lost that unreadable glint. “Yeah. Just a collar.”

And yet, as you sat there, your fingers brushing the pendant absentmindedly, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something between you had changed. Even the air felt different—charged, expectant.

You had spent so long keeping a distance, so long making sure that Mingyu never got too close. But now, sitting here with his warmth still lingering near you, with the way his gaze held just a fraction too long, you wondered if maybe—just maybe—it was already too late.

The moment Mingyu pulled your wrist, you barely had time to react before his lips were on yours. It wasn’t rushed or playful like you would have expected—it was slow, deep, and entirely consuming. His hands found their way to your waist, grounding you as he leaned into you, his body warm and solid against yours.

Without thinking, your arms lifted, slipping around his neck as he crouched down to meet you properly. The chair beneath you felt distant, the dinner forgotten. All you could focus on was the way his lips moved against yours—gentle yet insistent, like he was memorizing every second of it.

His fingers curled slightly against your waist, and a shiver ran down your spine. There was no hesitation in the way he kissed you, no uncertainty—just quiet, deliberate affection. It wasn’t like the first time, the one that had left you confused and shaken. This time, there was no doubt.

Mingyu was kissing you because he wanted to. Because he meant it.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, both of you slightly breathless. His hands stayed on your waist, thumbs tracing absentminded circles against the fabric of your shirt.

Your eyes fluttered open, meeting his gaze. His brown eyes were darker now, filled with something you couldn’t quite name but felt all too clearly.

“You…” You swallowed, trying to gather your thoughts, but the words felt tangled in your throat.

Mingyu exhaled a soft laugh, his breath fanning against your skin. “Yeah.” His voice was quieter than usual, almost tender. “Me.”

Your heart pounded, but this time, you didn’t want to run. Not when his hands were still holding you close. Not when his lips were still tingling against yours. Not when, for the first time, you felt like maybe, just maybe, this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

The moment your fingers tightened around the collar of his shirt and you pulled him back in, Mingyu knew—dinner was over. The food, the conversation, the playful banter about the ridiculous collar—it all faded into the background.

His lips met yours again, and this time, there was no hesitation. Mingyu took it as a sign, as permission, as everything he had been waiting for. His hands moved instinctively, one sliding up to cup your face, the other pressing against your back, pulling you closer. The chair scraped slightly against the floor as you shifted, molding into him, deepening the kiss like neither of you could get enough.

Mingyu wasn’t gentle anymore—not because he wanted to rush, but because he needed you, and he was finally letting himself show it. The way your fingers tangled in his hair, the way your breaths mingled between kisses, the way your body leaned into his—it sent his heart into overdrive.

He barely registered how he had lifted you, how your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist as he carried you away from the table. The scent of dinner was still in the air, but all he could focus on was you. The way your lips never left his, the way your hands explored, the way his name came out in whispers between breaths.

By the time he reached his bedroom, both of you were already lost in each other, in the heat, in the pull, in the undeniable truth that this had been building for far too long.

Mingyu wasn’t thinking anymore. He was feeling. And right now, he felt like he needed you more than anything else in the world.

Mingyu’s breath was warm against your skin as he hovered over you, his lips brushing against your cheek before trailing down to your jaw. His voice was barely above a whisper, but every word sent a shiver through your body.

“I like you,” he murmured, his lips ghosting over your ear. “I want you… I need you.”

Your heart pounded so hard you were sure he could hear it. His words weren’t just words—they were filled with something raw, something real. The weight of his body against yours, the way his fingers traced slow, deliberate patterns on your skin, the way his gaze held yours with an intensity that made it impossible to look away—it was overwhelming.

You swallowed hard, your fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt. Mingyu noticed, his lips curving into a soft, almost teasing smile as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips. “Are you nervous?”

You exhaled, trying to steady yourself, but the truth was, it wasn’t just nerves. It was him. The way he made you feel—like he could unravel you with just a look, like he was seeing all of you and still wanting more.

Mingyu leaned in again, his forehead resting against yours. “Tell me to stop, and I will,” he whispered, his voice low and thick with restraint.

Your breath hitched, panic creeping into your veins as your body tensed beneath him. The warmth of Mingyu’s touch, the weight of his body pressing into yours—it was too much. Not in a bad way, but in a way that sent your heartbeat into overdrive, your nerves firing off alarms you couldn’t ignore.

You could feel it happening.

The shift.

Your skin prickled, a deep sensation rolling through your bones, telling you that your body was about to betray you at the worst possible moment.

“Mingyu—” you gasped, trying to warn him, trying to push against his chest, but he was too lost in you. His lips dragged over the sensitive skin of your neck, down to your collarbone, his grip firm as he held you in place, his breath heavy with desire.

“You’re beautiful, Y/n,” he murmured against your skin, voice thick with emotion.

Don’t say that, Mingyu… You clenched your eyes shut, your head spinning. Your stomach twisted, your blood rushed too fast, too hot. It was coming. It was coming.

You barely managed to shove at his shoulder before it happened.

Your world tilted. Your limbs curled inward. The familiar dizziness hit you like a freight train, and before you could even process it—

Poof.

The weight of the blankets suddenly felt ten times heavier. The warmth of Mingyu’s body was gone.

And in his place?

A very, very stunned man, now lying chest-down on the mattress, his arms empty where you had just been.

“...What the—?” Mingyu blinked, slowly lifting himself up, eyes searching the space where you had been seconds ago.

And then, finally, his gaze landed on the small bundle of fur now tangled in his sheets.

Silence.

Pure, deafening silence.

Mingyu sat there for a long moment, his brain clearly short-circuiting. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

Then, after what felt like forever, he exhaled, voice flat.

“You have to be kidding me.”

*

The morning light streamed through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the room. You stirred awake, your body stretching instinctively against the soft sheets—only to realize, with a jolt, that you were naked. Your breath hitched as your fingers clenched around the blanket, pulling it tighter around you. The air smelled like Mingyu—like warmth, like home.

Then, a voice, teasing and low—

"Awake, kitty cat?"

Your head snapped toward the doorway, where Mingyu stood leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching you with barely contained amusement. His dark eyes gleamed with something unreadable, but his smirk told you everything.

Your mind raced, trying to piece together what had happened. The last thing you remembered—Mingyu, his hands, his lips, the way your body reacted to him, the way your nerves got the best of you—oh god.

Mingyu pushed off the doorframe and walked over, sitting on the edge of the bed, his gaze never leaving yours. Instinctively, your arms tightened around the blanket, shielding yourself from the weight of his stare.

"I still can't believe it," he mused, shaking his head. "Caty really did that." He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before giving you a pointed look. "Do you have any idea how traumatizing it is to be cockblocked by a cat? A cat that just so happens to be you?"

You swallowed, cheeks burning.

Mingyu let out a soft chuckle, reaching over to gently tug the blanket away from your face. His fingers brushed through your hair, a quiet tenderness in the way he touched you.

Then, his voice dropped, turning serious. "After last night…" He hesitated, his thumb grazing your temple. "You know we can’t just go back to being friends, right?"

Your heart pounded in your chest.

"I like you, Y/n," he confessed, his tone unwavering. "So much that I wanted you. And I could feel it last night—you wanted me too. But you were nervous." His hand cupped your cheek, his touch warm, grounding. "And then you shifted."

Shame curled in your stomach, and you lowered your gaze. "I'm sorry…" you whispered.

But Mingyu shook his head. "No, don’t be sorry. I get it now." He exhaled, his hand moving down to grasp yours. "But please—tell me you want this too. Tell me we’re together."

The vulnerability in his voice made your chest tighten. He wasn’t just asking for an answer—he was asking for you. And you knew, despite everything, despite the chaos, despite the impossible nature of what you were—you wanted him too.

"But Mingyu… I'm a cat," you whispered, your fingers gripping the sheets tighter. "I can shift anytime—just like last night. And..." Your voice wavered as you swallowed hard. "I can't even communicate with you when Caty takes over. You don’t understand how—how frustrating that is. How helpless it feels."

Mingyu sighed, his fingers tightening slightly around yours as if afraid you'd slip away—not just figuratively, but literally. His brows furrowed as he looked at you, deep in thought, but there was no hesitation in his expression.

"So?" He said simply, tilting his head.

You blinked. "So?"

"So what if you’re a cat sometimes?" He shrugged, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "I mean, yeah, it’s insane. But you think that’s enough to make me not want you?"

You bit your lip, eyes flickering downward. "Mingyu… I shifted right in the middle of—of that last night. That’s not normal. I can’t control it. What if it happens again?"

Mingyu dragged a hand down his face, exhaling heavily before leaning closer. "Then we deal with it," he said, voice softer now. "We figure it out. And maybe next time, we make sure you’re not stressed, huh?"

You frowned. "You stress me out most of the time."

Mingyu gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "Me?! No way."

You shot him a flat look, but he only grinned, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. "Look," he continued, "it’s a little complicated, sure. But Y/n, I like you. Whether you’re human or a cat, whether you ignore me as Caty or let me kiss you as Y/n—I like you."

Your breath hitched at his words, your heart tightening in your chest.

"Besides," he added, flashing you a lopsided smile, "if you shift again, I’ll just put your little collar on. That way, if you run away, at least people will know you belong to me."

Your mouth fell open. "Mingyu!"

He burst into laughter as you smacked his arm, but the warmth in his eyes never faded. You wanted to argue, to tell him how ridiculous this all was, how dangerous it could be. But the way he looked at you—like shifting into a cat in the middle of making out was just another small inconvenience, like it didn’t change the way he felt about you—made you wonder.

Maybe this wasn’t so impossible after all.

*

Mingyu came home after practice, greeted by an unsettling silence. The apartment was dark, save for the faint glow from the city lights seeping through the curtains. He stepped inside, his muscles aching from the long day, and made his way to the bathroom. After a quick shower, he changed into his pajamas, slipped on his wedding band, and went to find you.

It was already past ten, but the quiet felt unusual. You were a night owl, always awake, always up to something. Yet tonight, not even the hum of the TV or the soft clatter of your late-night snacking filled the space.

“Babe, where are you?” Mingyu’s voice echoed slightly in the stillness, laced with growing concern. He checked his phone, scrolling through his messages—he had texted you earlier, letting you know he’d be late because of practice. No reply.

A frown settled on his face. "Did she go out?" he muttered, not liking the idea one bit. The thought of you wandering around alone, pregnant, made his stomach twist.

It still amazed him how much life had changed. When he first met you, he never imagined falling this hard. But after months together, he knew—he knew—you were the one. Through all the ups and downs, his knee surgery, his return to the team, he always came back to you. Marrying you was the easiest decision he’d ever made.

Meeting your family, however, had been chaotic. He would never forget the way your father—so nervous about meeting his future son-in-law—had turned into a cat right in front of him. Then there was your brother, Wonwoo, who had also shifted into a sleek black cat the moment he found out you were pregnant before marriage. Mingyu had nearly lost it. But somehow, after all that madness, things smoothed over, and now, he was officially part of the cat family.

And now, with you seven months pregnant, he was counting down the days until he could hold his baby girl. Though, he did have a sneaking suspicion that one day, she too might randomly turn into a cat.

But that was fine. Mingyu had long since accepted that cats—especially you—were cute.

"Baby?" His voice carried through the apartment as he checked the master bedroom. Empty. The nursery? Empty. His frown deepened. Where the heck is she?

Feeling increasingly uneasy, Mingyu perched on the barstool and dialed your number. The moment he hit call, he heard a faint rustling noise. His head snapped toward the pantry.

A breath of relief escaped him. There you are.

But when he opened the pantry door, he didn’t find you.

Instead, he found Caty.

A very pregnant Caty.

Mingyu groaned, rubbing his temples as his gaze shifted to your phone and the pile of clothes discarded beside her.

"Not this again," he sighed, exasperated but unsurprised.

Shaking his head, he scooped Caty into his arms, along with your things, cradling the small, fluffy body of his very human wife-turned-cat.

"You just had to stress yourself out, didn’t you?" he murmured, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of Caty’s head as he carried you back to bed.

“What was it this time? Did you watch a sad movie? Did Wonwoo say something weird again? Or was it me? It’s me, isn’t it?”

Caty—you—only flicked an ear in response.

Mingyu huffed, shaking his head. “I should’ve seen this coming,” he muttered, glancing down at your small, round belly. “You’re literally seven months pregnant, Y/n. You can’t just shift like this every time you panic.”

But deep down, he knew you couldn’t control it. The stress, the hormones, the whole being-pregnant-and-turning-into-a-cat thing—it was a lot.

Mingyu gently laid you down on his pillow and covered you with the blanket, careful not to make you feel trapped. Then, he sat beside you, rubbing his face tiredly.

“We really need to figure out a way to stop this from happening,” he mumbled to himself. Then, he side-eyed you. “What if you shift during labor? Am I gonna have to explain to the doctor why there’s a cat in the maternity ward?”

Caty blinked.

“Oh my god,” Mingyu groaned, flopping onto the bed. “I’m gonna be a dad and a cat owner at the same time. This is a nightmare.”

Despite his complaints, his hand found its way back to stroking your fur. He sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “At least you’re cute.”

He yawned, exhaustion from practice finally catching up to him. He wasn’t sure when you’d shift back, but until then, he’d just have to wait.

“Just don’t go into labor while you’re still a cat, okay?” he mumbled sleepily. “I don’t think I can handle that.”

With that, Mingyu let his eyes drift shut, one hand still resting protectively over you.

*

Mingyu woke up to the sound of soft shuffling beside him. His arm instinctively reached out, landing not on soft fur but warm skin. His brows furrowed as his fingers flexed against the familiar shape of your waist. Slowly, he cracked one eye open.

And there you were—back in your human form, sitting up in bed, stretching with a yawn, his oversized pajama top slipping off one shoulder.

Mingyu blinked blearily. Then, his mind caught up.

“Oh, thank God.” He groaned dramatically, flopping onto his back. “I thought I’d have to raise a kitten instead of a baby.”

You scoffed, pulling the blanket over yourself. “I was planning to wake up in human form before giving birth, you know.”

Mingyu sat up, rubbing his face with both hands. “Yeah, well, forgive me for being concerned when my pregnant wife disappears and a pregnant cat magically appears in her place!” He dropped his hands to his lap, staring at you pointedly. “You really gotta stop doing this to me, babe.”

You bit your lip, feeling a little guilty. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know,” Mingyu sighed, reaching over to tuck a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, thumb brushing against your cheek. “You scared me, though.”

Your eyes softened, fingers playing with the hem of your sleeves. “I’m sorry…”

Mingyu exhaled, then suddenly pulled you into his arms, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.

“You should be,” he muttered against your hair, his grip tightening. “I lost at least five years of my life because of you.”

You giggled, snuggling into his embrace. “You’ll be fine. You still have, like, a hundred years left.”

Mingyu snorted, pulling back just enough to look at you. His hands rested on your belly, thumbs rubbing small circles over the bump. “I guess we should start preparing for the fact that she might inherit your little condition.”

You groaned, flopping back onto the pillows. “I really hope she doesn’t.”

Mingyu leaned on one elbow, gazing down at you with a knowing look. His fingers traced absentminded circles over your belly as he asked, “Is that what you were stressing about last night? The fact that she might inherit the cat DNA?”

You hesitated, then sighed, covering your face with your hands. “Okay, maybe…”

Mingyu let out a short laugh, amused but not mocking. “Babe.” He pried your hands away gently so he could see your face. “You really think that’s gonna make me love her any less?”

You pouted. “It’s not just that, Mingyu… What if she suddenly shifts for the first time at daycare? Or what if she can’t control it, just like me? What if—”

Mingyu pressed a finger to your lips. “Then we’ll figure it out. Together.”

You blinked up at him, and his expression softened. “You think I haven’t already prepared myself for this? I married into a literal cat family, Y/n. I knew what I was signing up for.”

You exhaled, feeling some of the weight lift from your chest. “You’re really okay with it?”

Mingyu grinned. “Are you kidding? I think it’d be adorable if our kid turns into a tiny furball. She’s gonna be the cutest kitten and the cutest baby.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, some of your worries melting away. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And you’re stuck with me,” Mingyu teased, pressing a kiss to your forehead. Then, with a smirk, he added, “But for real—should we get her a tiny collar? Just in case?”

“Mingyu!”

Your husband only laughed as you smacked his arm, his affection and lightheartedness making it impossible for you to stay worried for long.

Mingyu smirked, leaning over you, his nose brushing against yours. “Well… if she does, at least she’ll be a very cute kitten.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t help the smile that crept onto your face as Mingyu kissed you softly, his warmth melting away the last remnants of your stress.

The end:)

[thedensworld]

The Margin | J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au! Words Count: 23k Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.

The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.

A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.

There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.

The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.

You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.

Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.

No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.

But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.

Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.

So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.

At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.

Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day

When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.

Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.

But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.

“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.

Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.

“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.

Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?

*

He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.

That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.

He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.

Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.

And then — he met you.

One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.

You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.

You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.

There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.

A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.

He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.

“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.

Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.

You knew this face better than your own.

You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.

“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.

His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.

“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.

“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”

He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.

“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.

The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.

“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.

“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”

You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.

“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”

Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.

You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.

You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.

You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.

Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.

“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”

He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.

You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.

Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.

He blinked once. Twice.

The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.

His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.

His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.

Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.

Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.

“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.

He didn’t know at all.

*

It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.

You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.

Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.

The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.

He was too human to ignore.

You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.

But sleep didn’t save you.

Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.

He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.

“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

*

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

*

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

*

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

*

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.” 

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back. 

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.

*

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness. 

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

*

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

*

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you��d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

*

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

*

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

*

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

*

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

*

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

*

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

*

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

*

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

*

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel. 

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

*

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

[thedensworld]

Duty Finished | C.Sc 

Pairing: Duke Seungcheol x reader Genre: Noble House Au! Type: Romance, Angst, Smut (mdni!) Word count: 22k Summary: The wife and the son of Choi's house went missing one night. 

“Sir…”

Seungcheol didn’t bother lifting his head right away. He was halfway through a glass of aged whiskey, the ice barely clinking as he swirled it in his grip, eyes still scanning the reports on his desk. His office—sleek, dim, and built like a vault—reeked of silence, save for the sharp interruption of his right-hand man’s voice.

When Mingyu barged in, slamming the door open with the kind of recklessness he should’ve known better than to display, S eungcheol finally glanced up. His gaze was frigid. Controlled. The kind that made men squirm and executives sign whatever he wanted just to escape it. Mingyu stood just inside the threshold, his breathing tight, jaw clenched like he was trying to bite back a disaster. He didn’t speak right away, which meant only one thing—this wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he placed the glass down on the leather blotter. “This better be worth the noise,” he said, voice smooth but carved with warning. “Or I’ll personally remind you of protocol.”

Mingyu swallowed. “It’s… your wife. And your son.”

That got a reaction. Barely. One brow ticked upward. Seungcheol’s mind flicked briefly, vaguely, to you. And the boy. When was the last time he saw either of you? He had to think. It all blurred together. Boardrooms. Contracts. Private jets. Endless handshakes. The house was his base, not his home. You were part of the arrangement—an accessory that came with it. And the child? A product of timing. Nothing more.

He left both of you in the care of his mother, the Duchess. But you never complained. Not seriously, anyway. You knew what this marriage was. Five years of luxury, power, and cold silence. You got the title. He got the freedom. That was the deal. A marriage crafted from ink and strategy, not affection.

An arrangement.

The Choi family’s wealth was forged—literally—in fire and steel. Their legacy built on the backs of blacksmiths, blades, and the unyielding rhythm of iron mines. For centuries, they supplied the royal army with weapons and armor, their influence woven into the very skeleton of the kingdom.

But not all legacies are immune to decay.

Twenty years of mismanagement had nearly bankrupted the family. Lavish galas, failed ventures, and an aging patriarch too obsessed with tradition to adapt—it had all but dragged the Choi name through the mud. The empire of steel had rusted.

And then came Seungcheol. Sharp. Surgical. Unforgiving.

He returned from his education abroad not with fanfare, but with a scalpel in hand—cutting out inefficiencies, dismantling old loyalties, and selling off sentiment piece by piece. The boy they once dismissed as too cold, too ambitious, had become the man who would not flinch while setting fire to his own house just to build it back stronger.

He didn't save the family for pride. He did it because he hated failure. Now, the Choi name gleamed again. Polished. Feared. Powerful.

The silence that followed Mingyu’s words was weighted. Heavy. Not with grief—Seungcheol didn’t operate in emotions—but with calculation.

“What happened,” he asked at last, voice like chilled steel.

“They were kidnapped.”

Kidnapped.

The office door opened again, this time more cautiously. Seokmin stepped in, still in uniform, dust clinging to the hem of his coat and sweat slicking his brow. He looked like he had run—like he had failed.

“Sir,” he said, breathless.

Seungcheol didn’t raise his head. “You were assigned to her today.”

Seokmin froze in the doorway. “Yes, sir. I—I was. I didn’t leave her side… until West Gwanrae.”

A beat passed.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his hands together. “Explain.”

“We stopped by a boutique. Lady Choi wanted to try on a dress. She was with her lady-in-waiting. I checked the perimeter twice. There were no signs of threat—nothing. But when I came back inside, the store was empty. Everyone gone.”

“You lost them in a boutique?” Seungcheol’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Seokmin flinched. “The store was a front. We’re looking into the workers now, but the boutique was staged. There were no real records of the staff. The surveillance cameras were wiped clean. Whoever planned this… they were prepared, sir.”

Silence followed, thick and brutal.

Seungcheol stared at the unopened letter on his desk. His jaw ticked once.

“And the boy?”

Seokmin swallowed. “They took him too.”

Still no emotion. Not visibly. Not in his face, not in his posture. Just a colder shift in his gaze, like steel icing over.

Mingyu stepped forward, holding something in his hand. “A letter arrived at the estate,” he said. “No return address. It was hand-delivered through a driver—anonymous. The staff didn’t question it. They thought it was routine.”

He passed the envelope across the desk.

“They used paper,” Mingyu added. “No traceable signal. No digital footprint. If this is a kidnapping, sir… it’s a careful one.”

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. He stared at the envelope—ivory, expensive paper, sealed with red wax. Old-fashioned. Deliberate.

“This was a move,” Seungcheol muttered, almost to himself. Then, finally, he broke the wax seal.

The letter inside was handwritten. Cursive. Expensive ink. “If legacy is all you care about, we’ve taken your future.”

No ransom. No demands. Just a warning. Who dares to warn Choi Seungcheol?

Seungcheol didn’t pace. Pacing was for the uncertain. He stood behind his desk like a statue carved from winter stone, fingers drumming against the glass surface with chilling precision. One beat. Two. Three.

“Find out who’s behind this,” he said, his voice smooth and flat like polished obsidian. “The ones who’ve been sniffing around our territory. The ones who smiled too long at that last summit dinner. I don’t care if it’s a silk-suited investor or a sewer rat with a grudge—dig them out.”

Mingyu stood straighter, but something in his shoulders betrayed him. A delay. Barely noticeable—unless you’d spent a decade watching a man read war tables like bedtime stories.

Seungcheol’s gaze slid to him, a flick of ice under shadow. “You’ve got names in mind already,” he said, not asking. “Start there.”

Mingyu opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat moved with a slow swallow. “Understood.”

The air tightened between them like an old wound reopening.

“Good,” Seungcheol muttered, already turning away, as if dismissing both the man and the moment. “And Mingyu—”

He paused at the window, eyes cast toward the distant skyline, where the horizon bled rust and coal smoke.

“If someone thinks they can take what’s mine, make sure they understand the cost.”

The silence that followed rang louder than any threat.

Mingyu nodded once, firm—but when he left, his steps weren’t as sharp. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t head straight for the security floor. He took a detour. Past the portraits no one dusted. Past the closed doors where your laughter used to echo before it fell into absence.

And when he stopped, it was in front of one painting. Yours. Just for a second. Then he kept walking.

*

“What’s going on, Seungcheol? My birthday is in a week, and your wife and son went missing? Are they insane?”

His mother’s voice pierced through the marble halls of the estate like a thorn catching on silk—sharp, persistent, unwelcome. Seungcheol barely glanced at her as he passed, his coat still dusted with the chill of dusk, jaw clenched with exhaustion. The Choi household, once a fortress of routine and elegance, had descended into chaos. Guards scrambled across city districts. His right hand, Mingyu, was stretched thin with investigation routes. And Seungcheol—he was running out of patience.

“If only your late father had been in his right mind,” his mother continued, trailing after him in her usual designer heels. “That marriage—what good has it brought? Nothing but problems. Look where it’s led us. And now, of all times—before my birthday party!”

He stopped at the base of the grand staircase, one hand gripping the railing tighter than necessary. His mother caught up, her perfume too sweet for his senses, too loud for the grief she pretended to wear. Her expression faltered when she met his gaze—cold, unreadable, and far too silent for comfort.

“I’m sorry, son,” she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to sound rehearsed. “I’ve just… been lonely lately. Your father’s gone. Your wife never cared for me, and the boy—he avoids me like I’m a ghost. And now they’re missing. I only wanted someone to talk to. Someone to understand.”

She folded her arms, her sorrow wrapping around her like a well-tailored coat. A performance—quiet, pitiful, tragic.

Seungcheol took a breath, long and steady, his eyes drifting past her to the portrait of his father hung above the hallway. A man with vision but no spine. A legacy he had to rebuild with blood and bone.

“I understand, Mother,” he said at last, voice controlled, cold. “But right now, I need silence. And space.”

He turned away again, leaving her standing at the foot of the stairs in her designer grief.

Seungcheol passed your room on his way to his own, but his steps faltered at the familiar curve of the mahogany doors. Without a thought, he turned, hand reaching for the ornate brass handle. The door creaked softly as it gave way under his push.

He stepped inside.

A scent lingered—soft, distinct. Yours. That subtle blend of lavender and something sweeter, something warmer. It hadn’t even been ten hours since you vanished, but the room still breathed you in every corner. It was as though the space had been carved around your presence—crafted to cradle only you.

He walked further in, letting his eyes sweep over the room he never truly looked at. Not until now. He had never wandered here—not out of curiosity, not even out of care. Usually, if he needed you, he came to your bed. If he needed to speak to you, he summoned you to his library. Cold, efficient. Just like him.

But now, he noticed the details.

The delicate lace curtain that fluttered slightly with the wind. The vanity table with brushes still holding strands of your hair. The books stacked haphazardly beside your bed, half-read. A teacup on the nightstand, still stained with lipstick.

"It’s her favorite color."

A voice broke the silence.

Seungcheol turned. Minyeong stood by the doorway, hands folded tightly in front of her apron. She had served your family for decades, and had been assigned to you ever since your wedding. Her gray hair was pulled into a neat bun, and though her body was aging, her eyes were as sharp as ever.

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped briefly to the soft lilac sheets before meeting hers again. “I suppose you have something to say to me?”

His tone was flat—too calm. It was the calmness before a blade struck, laced with something colder than anger. Minyeong bowed, trembling faintly.

“I failed, sir. I should have protected the lady and the young master.”

“That’s exactly what you were meant to do, Minyeong. And yet—they’re gone.” His voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it pressed against the room like a storm cloud. “Do you know if my wife ever received any threats? Any enemies she failed to mention?”

Minyeong looked hesitant, her brow furrowing. “It’s hard to say, sir. The lady rarely entertained guests. She barely had friends in society. Most of the time, she stayed here… or in the garden.”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked as he scanned the room once more.

“Then someone must’ve watched her from the outside,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Minyeong wrung her hands tightly, her knuckles whitening. She stepped forward, her voice trembling as she fell to her knees in front of Seungcheol.

“Please, sir… you must find her. The lady—she may not speak much, but I see things.”

Seungcheol's eyes didn’t waver. He watched her with the same stillness he offered his enemies in negotiation—silent, unreadable.

“She bore the weight of this marriage without complaint,” Minyeong continued, eyes brimming with guilt. “Never once did she dishonor the Choi name.”

His gaze flickered at that, just slightly.

“She never asked for anything,” Minyeong whispered. “Not love. Not affection. Just safety. For herself. For Jiho. And I failed to give her even that.”

Seungcheol looked down at her—an old woman who had watched over your days like a silent guardian, now crumpled before him. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t speak words of comfort. But his voice, when it finally came, was low and steel-edged. “Get up, Minyeong. I’ll find them. That’s a promise.”

And when he turned, his footsteps carried something heavier than usual—a crack in his otherwise flawless control. As Seungcheol stepped out of your room, his shoes silent against the marble, the lingering scent of you clung to the air like smoke after a quiet fire. Lavender and something faintly citrus—he never bothered to ask what you used. He just knew it had always been there, soaked into the sheets, the curtains, the collar of his shirt when he walked too close to you.

He hadn’t intended to think of you tonight. But something about the silence of your room, the untouched comb on your vanity, the faint imprint on the armrest where you used to sit and read—unsettled him. Not in grief. Not in worry. In disturbance. Like a room missing its weight. A system missing its balance.

You’d entered his life five years ago—unwanted, inconvenient, and needed. A solution. Your family’s downfall had brought you to his door like a merchant pushing damaged goods wrapped in silk. He hadn't wanted a wife. He wanted leverage. Political gain. A calm household. A woman who wouldn’t scream. Instead, you had the gall to challenge him.

You walked into the Choi estate in that faded navy hanbok, spine straight, eyes sharp, and mouth far too honest. You questioned everything—the contract, the house rules, even the arrangement of his schedule. You moved through his life like a storm in slow motion, unraveling the stiffness in his perfect world.

He hadn’t liked you. But he hadn’t hated you either. You were just… noise. Eventually, like all things, the noise faded.

The storms dulled. Your voice softened. The fire in your chest smothered itself into embers. He watched it happen gradually—arguments turned into nods, sharp words into silence, protests into polite compliance. You stopped decorating your days with resistance. You stopped speaking unless spoken to. You became still.

And Seungcheol—he thrived in stillness.

He never told you to change. He never needed to. Your defiance melted the longer you stayed, and what remained of you was quiet, predictable, peaceful. He didn’t love you. He didn’t hate you. You were just… there. Like furniture that fit the room too well to be noticed.

You gave him peace without touching him. You gave him space without absence. And that was the closest thing to comfort Seungcheol had ever known.

Then the child came.

Jiho. A small, soft echo of you. A boy with your eyes and your uncanny quietness. At first, the sound of his laughter grated him. Too alive. Too human. But one night, Jiho had fallen asleep on his office couch, book in hand, head tilted back. Seungcheol had watched him for minutes without understanding why. He didn’t touch the boy. Just stood there.

Now… that boy was gone. You were gone. And peace was cracking at the edges of his life again.

He reached the study, fingers grazing the edge of his mahogany desk, his reflection staring back from the glass of the scotch bottle he didn’t touch. Seungcheol didn’t mourn. He didn’t fear. 

But the quiet wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was hollow.

Seungcheol woke with a violent jerk, breath caught sharp in his throat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, soft and silver, illuminating the untouched side of the bed beside him.

It was just a dream.

But the phantom weight of your body still clung to his arms—limp, warm, then terrifyingly cold.

In the dream, you had curled into him after the haze of an intimate moment, skin bare against his, your voice still hoarse from whispering his name. His hand had rested on the dip of your waist, fingers tracing the soft line of your spine, when he felt something wet. Sticky.

He pulled his hand back. Crimson.

He remembered shouting your name, once—twice—his voice breaking the peace of the room. You had turned your head slowly, eyes glassy, your lips moving without sound before your body slumped against him. Blood soaked through the sheets like spilled ink, blooming across white cotton in uneven circles.

Then Jiho appeared. Small feet pattering against the wooden floor.

“Appa!” His voice cracked. 

“Appa!”

The boy’s tiny frame stumbled into view, hands outstretched, his nightclothes soaked in blood up to his elbows. Not yours. His. He was crying but not sobbing—just calling, repeating the word like a broken hymn.

Seungcheol reached for him— And the dream shattered.

Now, in the stillness of his room, the air felt heavy, oppressive. He sat up, elbows on his knees, dragging both palms across his face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare. His heart wouldn’t calm down. It thudded with unnatural rhythm, out of sync with the silence around him.

He looked at the empty side of the bed again. The pillow still held the faintest indentation of where you used to sleep, as if your absence had weight.

The scent of your skin, the softness of Jiho’s voice—he could still feel it in his bones.

Was it guilt? Fear? Loss?

Seungcheol didn’t know. He didn’t care to name it.

He stood, slowly, quietly, as if afraid the wrong sound might call the dream back. He moved to the window, looking out over the dark courtyard, the lights of the estate flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.

Somewhere out there, you were breathing. Alive.

At least, he told himself that.

And somewhere out there, someone was playing with his mind. Twisting his fears into letters. Into silence. Into images that crept into his dreams like poison.

He would find you. He had to. Because if the nightmare ever became real— He wasn’t sure there would be a man left in him to crawl out of it.

*

The ballroom shimmered under a thousand crystal droplets, chandeliers glinting like stars caught mid-fall. Music swelled, delicate and distant, barely cutting through the sound of expensive laughter and clinking glasses.

Seungcheol stood with a glass of aged champagne in hand, sharp in a tailored navy suit embroidered with fine gold thread that curled like ivy across his lapels. The suit was commissioned weeks in advance, as always. His presence alone demanded perfection—and he delivered.

Then you arrived.

A soft blue dress, simple in its silhouette. No jewels. No embroidery. No lace, no drama. It barely touched your ankles, and the neckline was too modest to flatter. Next to him, you looked like a shadow of yourself—muted, out of place, and hauntingly quiet.

He had turned to say something that night. Something biting. The words were already in his mouth: “You’re underdressed.”

But he said nothing. Not because he approved. Because he didn’t want to argue. Not there. Not now.

Still, the memory of your first ball played in his head like an echo—louder than the orchestra. You had stormed into his study with silk swatches and sketches, your arms full of fabrics, babbling about tone and fit and social expectations.

“It has to match,” you’d said with bright insistence. “You in dark navy, and me in silver. Or black. Or deep emerald—something with character, Seungcheol. People talk about these things. I won’t have them saying your wife dresses like an afterthought.”

You were alive then. Not just breathing, but burning. And now… you dressed like a ghost. Clothes dull. Accessories absent. Hair always pulled back in the same low bun, practical, forgettable.

“Do you think my wife has an enemy?” Seungcheol asked, his voice low and steady as the car rolled through the city, tinted windows blurring the passing world into streaks of gray.

Mingyu, seated beside him, turned slightly in his seat. The silence between them had lingered for most of the ride until now.

“She was a bit vocal,” Mingyu said carefully, “but watching her all this time… I don’t think there’s anyone who would hate her. Not truly.”

Seungcheol arched a brow, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you sure?” His tone held weight. “No one in the house? Among the servants?”

Mingyu hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. “Your wife baked everyone cookies last winter.”

The words pulled Seungcheol’s gaze toward him, his expression unreadable. “Cookies?”

“Mm,” Mingyu nodded, lips twitching faintly. “I got one too. Peanut butter and cinnamon. They were pretty good.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his seat, letting his elbow rest against the car window as he stared out. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it pulled tighter.

“I didn’t receive any.”

Mingyu glanced at him. “You were buried with the railroad project, remember, sir? You barely came home that month.”

The car went quiet again, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between them. Seungcheol didn’t respond—not immediately. But his jaw tensed, and a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.

He hadn’t even known you baked.

Seungcheol stepped into his office with the weight of a storm dragging behind him. The heavy doors shut with a soft thud, muffled by the thick carpet covering the marble floor. The space was cold as ever—sleek black furniture, sharp-edged shelves lined with files and books no one dared touch unless permitted. The glass windows stretched wide behind his desk, revealing the smoky outlines of Gwanrae’s skyline blurred by early morning fog.

Before he could sit, Seokmin entered quietly, his presence firm, respectful.

“Sir,” he said, approaching with something folded carefully in his gloved hand. His face looked drawn, strained.

Seungcheol turned halfway, eyes narrowing as Seokmin held it out.

A flash of red.

It didn’t need unwrapping. Even from a distance, the fabric bled familiarity. Seungcheol’s steps slowed as he approached, gaze fixed on the item like it might vanish if he blinked.

The scarf. Your scarf.

Worn and soft from use, it still carried the faint scent of your perfume—floral with a hint of musk. Years ago, he’d given it to you without much thought after he noticed how you tugged at your collar to hide the bruises he'd left the night before. It wasn’t an apology, not quite. It was possession disguised as protection.

Now it was evidence.

“Who else knows about this?” Seungcheol asked, his voice quiet but sharp, a blade hidden in velvet.

“Just the search unit. They haven’t spoken to anyone.”

He gave a single nod, eyes still fixed on the red scarf in his hand, thumb grazing a fraying thread near the hem. His mind flickered—your neck wrapped in that scarf, your voice low against his chest, your hand twitching in sleep as you pulled it tighter around yourself.

Seungcheol’s fingers paused mid-fold.

There, at the very tip of the scarf—just above the frayed hem—faint ink bled into the threads. It was subtle, like it had been brushed in haste or with something barely permanent. He squinted, bringing the fabric closer to the pale morning light.

A line of handwriting.

Almost delicate in its curve. Almost playful.

“So beautiful but this scarred? Can’t wait to take off more than this scarf.”

The ink was uneven. Someone had written it quickly, perhaps without care—or maybe with too much pleasure. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Not yours. Not Seokmin’s. It wasn’t the neat, meticulous penmanship of his staff or the strict, cold lettering from official documents.

Personal.

Seungcheol’s chest tightened with a sick heat, as if something vile had begun to churn slowly under his ribs.

He read the words again.

So beautiful.

But this scarred?

Who had seen you up close enough to write this?

The scarf had hidden a bruise, a bite, a scar—one left by him. He remembered that night. How you turned your face away as you buttoned your blouse. He hadn’t apologized, and you hadn’t asked him to.

But someone else had noticed. Someone who had looked. Touched. Written this message.

The fury came like a low flame, slow and silent. It didn’t need a burst to burn—it simply simmered, eating through logic and restraint, until his fingers curled tightly around the fabric.

Not only were you taken. Someone had been near enough to you to leave this behind. Near enough to humiliate him, to provoke him. To mock him.

This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was a challenge. A message dressed as a taunt.

His reflection glared back at him in the glass of his office window—sharp suit, expression like stone, eyes void of softness. For a man known for never flinching in courtrooms or boardrooms, something now stirred within him. Something ancient. Primal.

He looked down at the scarf one last time before slipping it into his inner coat pocket. Not like a keepsake. Like evidence.

Whoever wrote that message had no idea what they'd started.

*

A week had passed since your disappearance, yet rumors swirled like wildfire—fanned further by his mother’s lavish birthday party, held defiantly even as family members vanished without a trace. The glittering ball went on, but Seungcheol arrived burdened, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders.

He stepped through the grand doors with the weight of sleepless nights pressing down on him, every movement heavy. His plan was simple: greet his mother, offer the obligatory birthday wishes, and retreat swiftly to his office to bury himself in the endless updates about you and Jiho.

Choi Jiho—his son. The name still felt strange on his tongue, foreign yet tethered to his heart in ways he didn’t fully understand. After Jiho’s birth, your world had shifted. Your attention poured into your son with a fierce protectiveness that left little room for him. Seungcheol’s role was clear-cut: provide. Make money. Supply everything you and Jiho could need.

But sometimes, when work allowed a brief reprieve, he caught glimpses of Jiho wandering into his home office. The boy would settle himself on one of the leather couches with surprising ease, fingers busy sketching on scraps of used paper strewn about. No words passed between them—just presence. Quiet companionship.

Those moments peeled back years. They reminded Seungcheol of the early days of their marriage.

You, sitting patiently on the couch nearby, engrossed in a book or your journal, brows furrowed in thought. He remembered the way your eyes would occasionally flick up toward him—focused, calm, sometimes weary. A stark contrast to his own sharp, guarded expression.

And every time his gaze fell on Jiho, it was as if he was looking at a perfect carbon copy of you: the same gentle concentration, the same subtle intensity. In those moments, the cold, ruthless man he was softened, caught off guard by the echo of your presence in his son.

“Seungcheol.”

He turned slightly to find Hong Jisoo—an old friend of yours—approaching from behind a marble column. Impeccably dressed in a muted gray suit, the heir of the Hong family from East Gwanrae always carried an air of soft elegance. His eyes, though gentle, now bore a solemn weight.

“My deepest condolences,” Jisoo said quietly once he was close enough. “I heard about Y/n and your son. I… I can’t imagine the weight you're carrying.”

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Didn’t nod. He simply returned the gaze, still and unreadable. The golden light made his tired face look sculpted from cold stone—sharp, shadowed, untouched by grief in any conventional sense.

“Thank you,” he replied, voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

Jisoo hesitated, then offered, “If there’s anything I can do—my men in the East are reliable. If you permit me, I’ll send them to sweep that side of Gwanrae. Discreetly.”

There was a pause. A thin, sharp one.

Seungcheol’s expression didn’t shift. “I appreciate the offer,” he said with practiced politeness. “But I prefer to handle my family’s matters internally.”

Jisoo studied him for a moment, as if trying to read what lay behind the cool surface. But Seungcheol gave him nothing. No worry, no despair—only poise carved out of discipline and restraint.

“Of course,” Jisoo replied after a beat, offering a small bow. “Should you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

Seungcheol inclined his head once, and watched as Jisoo disappeared into the sea of well-dressed guests. The noise of the party returned in full as the space between them widened, but inside Seungcheol, everything remained quiet. Still.

Because wavering now would be a crack in the foundation—and if he cracked, the whole house would fall.

“Seungcheol…” his mother began, catching his arm just as he approached to greet her.

“Everyone’s talking about your wife and your son! This is my party!” she hissed through a tight smile, her voice kept low behind her glass of wine as Seungcheol offered nods to her circle of well-dressed friends.

“I told you to postpone it,” Seungcheol replied, his tone measured and calm, but with the faintest edge of warning.

His mother scoffed softly, brushing imaginary dust from her sequined sleeve. “Remind me to punish your wife once she returns. This level of disrespect toward the Choi family can’t go unchecked. I’ll speak to her family personally.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The weight of her words sank heavier than usual tonight. Something about the way she spoke—so cold, so performative—rubbed against the unease already nesting in his chest. He cleared his throat, a silent attempt to dispel the building discomfort.

“I think you’ve said enough, Mother,” he said, voice clipped with restraint. “Perhaps you should enjoy your party. I won’t be staying long.”

Before she could respond, Seungcheol bowed politely. “Happy birthday,” he said simply, then turned on his heel, walking past the soft glow of chandeliers and champagne flutes, out of the suffocating warmth of the ballroom—and toward the silence of his office, where duty and dread awaited him in equal measure.

The scent of paper and aged mahogany greeted Seungcheol as he entered his office—a sanctuary from the shallow glitter of the ballroom. He barely had time to close the door behind him when his eyes fell on something out of place.

A single envelope. It sat in the center of his desk like it had been waiting.

His gaze swept the room with calculated precision, eyes narrowing slightly. Every item seemed untouched, precisely where he left it. Yet the letter’s presence felt like an intrusion. Quiet, deliberate, and too bold.

Without removing his coat, he pressed the intercom.

“Mingyu. My office. Now.”

He didn’t sit. He stood before his desk, gloved fingers pulling the envelope open in one slow motion. The paper inside was thick, almost luxurious, as though it were meant to mock him in its elegance. But it was the handwriting that made his breath pause—neat, feminine, unfamiliar.

“He looks exactly like you. Do you know he’s mute?”

The words didn’t strike—they clawed.

A slow-burning fury flickered in Seungcheol’s chest, tempered only by years of discipline. His eyes darkened, and when the door creaked open behind him, he turned sharply, holding the note up.

“What is this supposed to mean?” His voice cut through the silence, firm and low.

Mingyu paused at the threshold. His expression faltered—not from fear, but hesitation. “Sir…” He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Seungcheol’s tone remained steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Mingyu lowered his gaze to the floor, exhaling quietly. “Jiho… Your son... he’s barely spoken.”

Seungcheol’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His fingers clenched the paper tighter. All those moments—Jiho silently watching him, quietly doodling, smiling without sound—they flooded his mind in sharp, disjointed flashes.

The air in the room felt heavier. He slowly lowered the letter to his desk and turned toward the window, eyes distant, yet sharpened with a quiet storm.

The letter still sat open on his desk, but Seungcheol’s gaze had drifted toward the couch across the room.

That old leather seat, worn smooth at the edges, once held a different kind of weight—your weight. Now, he saw Jiho in your place. His small figure curled up, legs barely reaching the edge, papers sprawled before him. A single crayon tucked behind his ear, his little fingers busy sketching something only he understood. His head would tilt, brows furrowed just so, lips parted ever so slightly in concentration.

He didn’t make a sound. He never did.

And yet Seungcheol saw you.

Five years ago, it was your body stretched across that couch, draped in a silk robe or one of your too-large knits. Your legs would swing lazily, a journal balanced on your lap, your pen tapping the pages as your thoughts spilled freely. You used to talk then. A lot.

“Seungcheol, don’t you think this room needs better curtains? Or should we get one of those antique globe bars?”

“I saw Lady Jung’s daughter wearing canary yellow at the ball—do you think I’d look good in that shade?”

You were bold, curious, utterly unfiltered. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he didn’t. But he had always heard you.

It was strange. At the time, he thought you were exhausting. Always pushing at boundaries, filling silences he once treasured. Yet now, in the stillness, all he could think about was how much color you had brought into this room. Until that color faded.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was after Jiho was born. Maybe it was before that.

Your voice softened. Your steps grew quieter. You stopped suggesting changes to the curtains. You stopped speaking about colors and dresses and opinions. You simply… adapted.

You scribbled in silence. You waited in silence. You moved through the house like a shadow he had grown used to but never truly studied.

“Journal…”

The word left his lips in a whisper, as if spoken too loudly, it would break the thread of memory he was clinging to.

He remembered it—faintly—seeing a book on your vanity. A worn leather-bound journal, the corners soft from years of turning, its spine slightly cracked from frequent use. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Just another one of your habits. Another thing you kept close.

But now, it felt urgent. He rose from his chair with a suddenness. His strides were long, purposeful. The echo of his shoes down the hallway broke the house’s stillness, like a force too large to be quiet anymore.

The bedroom still smelled faintly of you—of jasmine and the warm, almost nostalgic scent of dried lavender. It hadn’t changed in the past week. Everything remained untouched, as if time itself was reluctant to erase you from this space.

And there it was.

Sitting right where it always had—on the vanity, beside your untouched bottle of perfume and a silver hairpin he bought you years ago in Vienna. The journal.

He reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish. His fingers hovered just a second longer before making contact, brushing over the soft cover. It was warm from the afternoon sun slipping through the lace curtains. He held it in both hands, staring.

You wrote. Every day, almost. He remembered catching glimpses of it—your hand furiously scribbling after arguments, after dinners, even on lazy mornings where you stayed curled in bed long after he had left. You used your journal like a vault, locking pieces of yourself away when you couldn’t say them aloud.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the bed—your side. The weight of the mattress sank just as it used to when you lay there. He cracked open the journal, pages filled with your looping script, so familiar and yet so distant now.

His breath caught when he read the first line on the open page. Seungcheol’s eyes traced the words again, but this time, their meaning twisted deeper into his chest.

“I sold all the accessories my husband had given to me this morning. But I failed to hide the new dresses. She got mad.”

*

“You know where my wife is…” Seungcheol said, voice low and tight, the moment the last servant slipped out and the door clicked shut behind them.

His mother barely lifted her gaze, swirling her tea as if his words were no more significant than idle gossip. “What nonsense are you talking about, Seungcheol?”

But there was nothing nonsensical about the storm building in his chest. The weight of guilt, disbelief, and a boiling rage pressed down on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Seungcheol remained still, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides, fists curling and unclenching.

“I think you’ve hidden them—my wife, my son.” His tone was calm, but every syllable was laced with something sharp, jagged. Accusation.

His mother let out a soft chuckle, amused. Amused. It made his stomach turn. “You’ve lost your mind, my son.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed, the muscles twitching. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared, as sentence after sentence from the journal echoed relentlessly in his head.

“She hit me again today for making her go to the ball instead of me. She met her enemy: Duchess Kim.” “Minyeong has treated my wound, but it was still hard to sleep last night.” “She put Jiho in the cupboard. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I’m sorry, Jiho.”

His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles whitened, veins visible beneath his skin. Guilt gnawed at his gut like rust. All this time, he had thought he was protecting you by providing, building an empire so you and Jiho would never lack anything. But while he was drafting deals and signing contracts, you were being dragged through hell under the same roof. By his own blood.

“You lost your mind hitting my wife behind my back,” he said, voice as brittle as cracked glass.

She lowered her cup then, finally sensing something in his tone. Her eyes narrowed. “She told you?” Her voice was low, disbelieving. There was no remorse—only the offense of being exposed. “How dare she,” she muttered, her lips curling.

The air thickened between them, tense and suffocating.

“I don’t know her whereabouts,” his mother snapped, lifting her chin. “Maybe she went somewhere. Maybe she was kidnapped. Either way, she deserves it. That woman was a pain in this family.”

Pain.

The word echoed in his chest. What she called a pain—he now knew as suffering. Suffering you endured in silence, under his roof, while he turned a blind eye.

He turned his back to her, not because he was retreating, but because he couldn’t look at her anymore without feeling sick. His voice dropped into a tone colder than stone. “Say that again, and I’ll cut your funds immediately.”

She gasped behind him, rising from her seat. “My son, don’t let a woman’s tantrum undo your reason. You forget how she came here—she wanted our money. Her parents sold her, and I suppose she’s no better than they were.”

His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing on the marble floor as he walked toward the door.

Every word she said now sounded like static in his ears. His body felt hollow and burning all at once, his heart pounding like a war drum. He had failed you. He had failed Jiho.

He paused at the door and turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the disdain now written in his eyes.

“From today,” he said, “your accounts are frozen. Until my wife and my son are back, not a single coin will reach your hands.”

Then he stepped out, not looking back—not for her, not for excuses, not for explanations.

Ten days since you were gone.

The world kept turning—ballrooms were lit, contracts passed hands, and the morning sun still crept through the windows of the Choi estate. But for Seungcheol, everything had stopped. Days blurred into nights, and the silence of your absence grew louder with every tick of the clock.

His work was a mess.

Documents piled on his desk, untouched. Reports sat unanswered. Meetings were postponed, calls ignored. He couldn’t sit through briefings without seeing your face flash in the expressions of strangers. Couldn’t look at maps without wondering if you were somewhere cold, scared, or worse.

He couldn’t even think straight. Every time someone knocked on his door, a violent hope bloomed in his chest—that it was you. That someone had found Jiho.

But it was never you.

Never.

Seungcheol sat slouched in his office chair, eyes hollow, staring blankly at the open folder in front of him. He didn’t even know who the client was anymore. Their voice on the speaker was just noise.

When the man across the table mentioned “transport,” Seungcheol flinched.

“You say something about moving her?” His voice was suddenly sharp.

The client blinked, confused. “I was talking about coal—shipping routes to the West—”

Seungcheol stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. Mingyu rushed in before he could throw the folder across the room.

“You think I care about coal when my wife and son are gone?” he barked, eyes bloodshot. “Why are you all still talking about shipments and investments like this is normal?!”

The man stammered an apology before fleeing the room. Mingyu stayed quiet, closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh.

Seungcheol pressed his hands into the desk, head hanging. His breath was unsteady, raw with exhaustion. A man who once commanded fear with composure now looked like a soldier losing a war no one else could see.

“I can’t do this, Mingyu,” he muttered. “I can’t even look at people without wondering if they had something to do with it. I sit in front of allies and I wonder if they betrayed me. I see enemies and I can’t decide if they’ve hidden her out of spite.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming but empty. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

*

It was five months into the marriage when Seungcheol pushed open the bedroom door without knocking, only to find you brushing your hair in front of the vanity. You looked serene, like a painting—but he knew better. You were always eerily quiet when you were angry.

“You didn’t leave the room all day,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “I assume the bed’s more interesting than our entire estate now?”

Without looking at him, you replied, “I didn’t realize I needed to submit a movement report.”

“I’m your husband. I think I’m allowed to ask.”

You let out a low chuckle. “Since when do you ask anything without sounding like it’s an interrogation?”

He stepped into the room. His eyes caught the reflection of your face in the mirror—expression calm, but your tone cut like glass.

“You’re mad at me again.”

“No, Seungcheol,” you said, finally turning to look at him, “this is just my face. Turns out five months of marital bliss leaves me glowing.”

He ignored the jab. “I’ve been patient with you, Y/n. But I come home and find you locked up in here like some moody debutante. What do you want from me?”

“Oh, you want honesty tonight?” you quipped. “Interesting choice.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I think I’m pregnant, Seungcheol.”

The words fell heavy—but not soft.

He blinked. “You think?”

You shrugged. “Unless nausea and crying at toothpaste commercials is just a charming new hobby of mine.”

Seungcheol stared at you for a moment. His reaction was unreadable, which only fueled your irritation.

“Right. There it is,” you said bitterly. “You look more panicked than when the market crashed.”

“I’m just... processing.”

“You mean calculating,” you snapped, standing up. “You’re already thinking about how this messes with your timeline, your quarterly goals, or—God forbid—your public image.”

“I never said that,” he said, jaw tight.

“You didn’t have to,” you shot back. “You speak in silence better than you do with actual words.”

“And you don’t speak at all unless it’s laced with attitude.”

“At least it’s real.”

The room buzzed with tension—resentment, sarcasm, the ache of two people who couldn’t stop clashing because they both refused to bend first.

Still, as always, it ended the way it always did: your bitterness crashing into his restraint, your fingers eventually finding his shirt collar, his hand gripping your waist too tightly. No solution. No apology. Just another night pretending friction meant intimacy.

Seokmin barged into the office, breathless, eyes wide. “Sir—they found her. Your wife and son are on their way to the estate. They were spotted in East Gwanrae market.”

The room froze for a split second before it snapped into motion.

Seungcheol shot up from his seat, already reaching for his coat. Mingyu was two steps behind, phone pressed to his ear, barking instructions as they stormed down the hallway.

“Driver!” Seungcheol shouted. “Pull up the car. Now.”

The black vehicle cut through the city like a blade. Inside, silence hovered thick between them, save for the low murmur of Mingyu speaking on the phone with Seokmin.

Seungcheol’s hand rested on his knee, knuckles pale. His voice broke the silence, low and rough. “What did Seokmin say? Is she okay?”

Mingyu hesitated—just for a second. Too quick for most to catch, but Seungcheol noticed. His eyes darted toward his right hand, waiting.

“They looked like they were… escaping someone,” Mingyu finally said, his voice carefully measured. “Your wife was with Jiho. She was holding him close, keeping low in the market crowd. Someone recognized her and followed the trail. They were scared. Hungry, probably. But alive.”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed. “Escaping?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu said, avoiding eye contact. His jaw tensed faintly. “Seokmin thinks they were trying to run from the person who had taken them.”

The words lingered in the air, cutting deeper than Seungcheol expected. He leaned back against the seat, staring at the blur of the road outside, expression unreadable.

But Mingyu didn’t speak again. He only tightened his grip on the phone, as if holding in something more.

Something he wasn’t ready to say.

*

Seungcheol didn’t wait for the car to stop completely. As soon as the estate’s iron gates creaked open, he pushed the door and ran—feet heavy, breath sharp. The guards barely had time to bow before he was past them, storming through the halls he built but never cared to live in.

In his mind, you were collapsed in a corner. Maybe barefoot, trembling. Your clothes torn, hair matted, Jiho sickly pale and clinging to you for warmth. That image had haunted him for days—kept him up, fed his guilt like a slow poison.

But what he saw when the door opened made him freeze in the doorway.

You were sitting on the bed.

Clean. Dressed in a simple beige dress, hair slightly tangled but tied loosely at the back. Jiho curled against your side, his small hand holding your scarf like a lifeline. You were whispering something to him, too soft to hear. Both your eyes turned to the door at once.

And in that moment, Seungcheol felt like a ghost standing in his own home.

You weren’t the broken image he had imagined. You didn’t look like a victim of some wild, tragic escape. No bruises on your face. No desperation in your posture.

But there was something in your eyes—tired, aged, older than the woman he married. A hollow sort of peace. Like someone who had already buried too many things inside herself to count.

“Y/n…” his voice cracked before he could stop it.

You blinked slowly, saying nothing.

“You’re… okay,” Seungcheol breathed, as if trying to convince himself.

“I’m here,” you replied, voice calm. “We both are.”

But you didn’t stand. You didn’t run into his arms or cry or scream or ask where he had been. You just looked at him, as if he was a stranger at the edge of your door.

And for the first time since this madness began, Seungcheol didn’t know what role he was supposed to play anymore—husband, father, or something far more irrelevant.

“Do you want a doctor? Food? I can call someone—” he started.

You shook your head once. “We ate. We’re not sick.”

He nodded slowly, unsure. Everything he imagined saying, every question and command, shrank in his throat.

You weren’t what he expected.

Seungcheol approached slowly, as if afraid that the moment would vanish if he moved too fast. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes dropped to Jiho, small and still, curled against your side with one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

The boy looked peaceful, untouched by the storm Seungcheol had imagined—but that only stirred more chaos in him. His gaze shifted to you. You were watching him, chin slightly lifted, as if measuring his intentions. Without speaking, his hand reached out, hesitating before his fingers gently traced your cheek. It was still soft, full, with that natural flush you always had when you were annoyed or caught in the middle of a sarcastic remark. Alive. Still you.

“You’re okay?” he murmured.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes unreadable. “Why? You worry?”

There was a teasing lilt to your voice—subtle, sharp, the same tone you used when you knew exactly how to push his buttons. But your eyes didn’t match it. They were colder. Distant.

Seungcheol bit his lip, gaze dropping. Was it worry? Or curiosity? He wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that something clawed at his chest the moment he saw you again, like he’d been underwater for too long and just found air again.

“I…” He paused, swallowed. “I couldn’t think straight.”

You looked at him with a slight teasing glint, voice soft but tinted with edge. “Why?”

“You disappeared.”

“And?” Your tone was flat. Testing.

“Jiho too.” His eyes flickered to the child again, still fast asleep against your side.

You hummed faintly, tightening your arms around Jiho’s small frame. It was a protective gesture, but it also told him everything he needed to know—you didn’t trust him yet. Maybe never had.

“Someone took you.”

You bit your lips, your jaw tightening. Then, a sigh escaped. “What are you trying to say, Seungcheol?”

He let out a long, shaky breath, fingers gripping his knees. “I… I’m glad you’re fine, but… I’m angry. I’m furious at the people who took you, and I promise you—I’ll catch them. I’ll make them pay.”

Your brow quirked. “You’re acting odd, Seungcheol. The fact that you were running in here like a madman, with this look on your face, is odd.”

His lips parted, but you cut in before he could explain.

“You never ran for me before,” you added coolly, eyes locked on his. “Not when I cried. Not when I begged you to talk to me like I was a person. But now—suddenly—I disappear, and it’s like you remembered I existed?”

There was no venom in your voice, but it stung worse than any shout would’ve.

He flinched. “That’s not true.”

“No?” You raised a brow, blinking slowly. “You said you couldn’t think straight. Is it because you missed us? Or because you lost control?”

His mouth opened again, but nothing came out. You’d hit the mark, and he knew it.

You exhaled deeply, your tone softening only slightly. “We were surviving, Cheol. Me and Jiho. Out there, with no money, barely any food, and always looking over our shoulders. Do you know how many times I had to lie just to keep him safe?”

His jaw flexed.

“And now you’re here, talking about revenge,” you said. “But you weren’t the one suffering. You weren’t the one hiding bruises, or calming down a mute child in the middle of a nightmare.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“You didn’t ask.”

That landed like a punch. The silence stretched. Thick. Bitter. But still, you didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t stand up.

Because somewhere beneath all the resentment and ruined intentions, something lingered—small, quiet, broken. Something still tethered.

*

You heard from Minyeong that Jiho had accidentally knocked over your mother-in-law’s favorite vase that afternoon. The moment her words reached your ears, a cold dread climbed up your spine. You knew how she was—unyielding, cruel when it suited her. And you knew what that meant for Jiho.

Without thinking, you bolted through the halls of the estate, heart pounding like a war drum. You burst into the room where they said Jiho was, only to find him wailing—his tiny body trembling in the arms of unfamiliar servants, his face streaked with tears and fear.

“Get my son down, right now!” you shouted, your voice raw with panic and rage. You stepped in only to freeze—halted by the icy presence of your mother-in-law, seated calmly in the armchair as if the chaos around her were just a matter of inconvenience.

“Not until his mother learns how to educate her son,” she said coldly, standing with deliberate grace to approach you.

You tried to keep your voice from breaking. “Stop this. Please… I beg you.” Your knees wobbled as your eyes locked onto the small cupboard where Jiho had just been shoved. The servants had locked him inside, and the sound of his muffled cries—sharp, panicked, and unrelenting—cracked your heart in two.

Your mother-in-law’s lips curled into a twisted smile as she watched you collapse to your knees, the humiliation like a crown she placed upon your head.

Then came the sting. A slap, hard and merciless, sent your head snapping to the side. Your cheek burned, and tears spilled from your eyes—not just from pain, but from helpless fury.

Still trembling, you didn’t have time to recover before she gripped your hair and yanked your face upward to look at her. Her gaze was icy. Unforgiving.

“You and your son better learn some lessons, Y/n,” she hissed. “Do you know how easily you can be replaced? You and that unfortunate, mute child of yours.”

Her words sliced through you sharper than any blade.

“First, you tried to hide those dresses my son sent you—expensive things, meant to honor this family. I told you to give them back. I told you to stop wasting his generosity.” Her voice dripped venom with each word.

“And now,” she gestured toward the cupboard, where Jiho’s sobs still echoed, “your little beast breaks my most treasured vase.”

She shoved you backward, and you stumbled to the floor as she turned to the servants.

“Lock them in here,” she ordered coldly. “No food until dinner tomorrow. Let them reflect on their behavior.”

You cried out, but the door had already slammed behind her.

And in that moment, with your son trapped and your body aching, you knew: no one was coming to save you—not even your husband.

You married Choi Seungcheol not out of love, but out of necessity—at least, that’s what you used to tell yourself.

Your family, once noble and revered for their long-standing loyalty to the Choi family, had fallen into disgrace. Years of quietly aiding them behind war lines and political tides came to nothing when your father’s business collapsed into bankruptcy. Reputation meant survival, and survival meant sacrifice.

So your parents turned to the Choi estate, heads bowed with desperation, asking for a marriage alliance to preserve what little dignity your bloodline had left. You were the offering. The last, obedient daughter of a once-great military household.

You didn’t protest. In fact, you thought of it as an escape.

A way out of your father’s suffocating expectations, the cold lines on his face drawn deeper every time you dared to speak for yourself. You thought marriage to Seungcheol—Choi Seungcheol, the heir with a good name and a better record—would at least mean gentler days. He was calm, level-headed, generous when it mattered. Not once had you seen him raise his voice. A respectable man, people said. One of the best this generation could offer.

And for a while, you believed it. Even in the early months of your marriage, he was attentive in his own reserved way. He didn’t try to love you, but he didn’t hurt you either. That, in itself, was a mercy.

When Jiho was born, everything changed.

The cruelty didn’t come from him—not at first. It came from your mother-in-law, the regal matron of the house with eyes colder than marble. She said it started because of your attitude. Because you were “spirited.” Because you were "too free" for a woman who should’ve been grateful to be saved from ruin.

The abuse began with a slap—one sharp sting across your cheek when you failed to greet her with the right tone. Then came the days without food, long hours in the nursery with Jiho where no one entered. The isolation. The servants looking through you like you were something to be tolerated, not served. You weren’t allowed to step outside the estate without her approval. Even your letters to Seungcheol were filtered. Some were likely never sent.

Seungcheol never knew—because he was away.

Your mother-in-law believed your "rebelliousness" would one day convince Seungcheol to cut the financial cord. That you would poison him against his duty. She believed that if she broke you, caged you, tamed you—then you’d stop trying. Then you’d surrender to the role they assigned you. And Seungcheol, their golden heir, wouldn’t be distracted from the real goal: protecting the name.

You were awakened by the sound of the door unlocking. A quiet click in the dark, but enough to jolt your senses. Eyes wide, you scanned the room—Jiho was still curled up inside the cupboard, the space too small for a child, his soft breaths uneven from earlier cries.

Your heart lurched.

Without thinking, you shot up and sprinted barefoot through the hall. The cold marble bit into your feet with each step, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t even know where you were going—only that you needed someone. Anyone.

You collapsed against the corridor wall. A tall figure came running to you. Surprised and worried.

“What’s wrong, Lady Choi?” Mingyu asked, crouching beside you. His voice softened at the sight of your shaking figure, your palms scraped and dirty from crawling.

“My son…” your voice was barely a whisper, “Jiho… they locked him in the cupboard. He’s still inside. Please, Mingyu. Help me…”

Mingyu’s expression changed. Just a flicker. Concern replaced courtesy, and for a second, something else—fury, maybe—flashed through his eyes.

“I’ll get him,” he said, standing up. “Stay here.”

And you could only nod, pressing a hand to your chest as your breath fought its way in and out—because for the first time in so long, someone had heard you.

*

You held Jiho close to your chest on the bed. His small frame trembled in your arms, his fists curled into your shirt, though the tears had long since stopped. The silence between you was heavy, but not empty. You could feel it in his breathing—shallow, uneven. In the way he clung to you like a lifeline. He didn’t cry anymore. But you were his mother. And you knew.

This child—your child—carried too much for a body so small. Too many things he didn’t know how to name. Pain. Fear. Confusion. He had grown up in a house where love was spoken like a foreign language. A house where his parents barely looked each other in the eye, where tension hung like fog. His grandmother’s cruelty had only carved the wounds deeper, branding trauma into him before he even learned how to defend himself. Before he even learned how to speak.

And now, he doesn't speak at all.

Muted—not by choice, but by trauma. And no one seemed to understand. 

You gently ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the crown of his head as your heart ached. You asked yourself—again and again—what was best. For him. For you. For both of you.

Was staying here a form of protection? Or just a slower kind of destruction? You didn’t know. But you knew you had to keep trying. Because Jiho deserved more than this silence. He deserved safety. He deserved love.  Even if you had to crawl through fire to give it to him.

The night after Jiho’s trembling subsided and he finally drifted into sleep—still curled tightly against your side—you sat in the dark and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Eyes wide open, heart numb.

You had cried all you could. It was no longer grief that kept you awake. It was resolved. Something in you broke that night. Or maybe, something in you finally woke up. You had to get out. Not just you—but Jiho. He deserved more than a prison guarded by tradition and cruelty. And you… you deserved a life where you didn’t flinch every time a door opened.

One morning, you waited in the garden until you saw him.

Mingyu.

He was one of the few people in this house who had always looked at you with a trace of human decency. Loyal to Seungcheol, yes. But not blind. Not heartless.

“Mingyu,” you whispered from the corner of the rose wall. “I need your help.”

He looked hesitant at first, glancing around. “Is something wrong?”

You stepped forward, showing him the bruises you had covered the night before. Not with pride, but with desperation. And when you said, “It’s not just me. It’s Jiho, too,” something in his expression shifted.

Still, he hesitated.

“I serve your husband, Lady Choi. You know I—”

“I’m not asking you to betray him,” you cut in softly. “I’m asking you to help a mother protect her son. That’s all I’m asking, Mingyu. Please.”

He stared at you. At your trembling hands. By the way your eyes, even when dry, screamed for help. And then… he nodded. It was the smallest gesture, but it changed everything.

Together, the plan began. Fake kidnapping. Enough to throw the house into chaos. You’d vanish without a trace. Just gone. Long enough for Seungcheol to search, for his mother to squirm, and for you to slip far beyond the reach of this gilded prison.

You needed one more piece. So you wrote a letter. With careful words and shaking hands.

“Dear Jisoo, I hope this finds you well. I have no time to explain everything, but I need you more than ever. I’m trying to escape with my son. I know this is asking a lot, but if you ever saw me as your friend, please—help me disappear. With all my heart, Y/n.”

Jisoo had been your friend from the years before marriage. Gentle, quiet, kind-hearted. He had always seen past your mask. Past your name. The kind of friend who noticed sadness even when you smiled.

The response came swiftly—disguised in a box of imported tea.

“Tell me when and where. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

No one will find you. You clutched that letter to your chest the night it arrived.

You didn’t just want to leave. You wanted them to feel it. You wanted the Choi family to suffer in confusion, to twist in paranoia. To question their power, their security, their control over you. You wanted Seungcheol to see what happened when he turned a blind eye. You wanted his mother to choke on her arrogance.

They thought you were weak. They mistook endurance for submission. Mistook silence for obedience. But you had been watching, learning. Smiling at every slap. Bowing after every insult. Playing your part—until it was time for the curtain to fall.

Mingyu swallowed hard. “You’re colder than I thought.”

You smiled darkly. “Yes, this is who I've been the whole time.”

You disappeared in silence. Like a shadow slipping into dusk.

That night, you imagined Seungcheol pacing the estate in rage. You imagined his mother screaming at the staff, flipping porcelain in hysteria, all while you sipped tea in a warm cabin nestled deep in the property Jisoo owned.

“They’ll lose their minds,” Jisoo said calmly, reading your expression.

You leaned back, watching Jiho chase butterflies through the window.

“I want them to,” you replied, smiling without warmth. “I want her to think someone took me the same way she took everything from me.”

Jisoo stared for a moment. “And Seungcheol?”

You sipped your tea and set it down gently. “He doesn’t get to play the victim. He left me there for four years. If guilt’s what haunts him now, let it grow roots. Let it rot.”

Your tone was soft. But your words were razor sharp.

You hadn’t run to be free. You had vanished to make them remember you in fear.

And when the time came—if it ever came—you wouldn’t return as the girl they once tried to break.

You would return as the ghost that taught them how it feels to lose everything.

*

The Duchess Choi stepped into the room like a queen returning to her throne, the smug curl on her lips unmistakable. Her heels clicked on the polished floor, every sound like a warning bell. Jiho’s small fingers tightened around yours, and you could feel his pulse racing—just like yours. You gently shifted him behind you, body instinctively shielding his.

"Nice to see you come back," she began, her voice honeyed but hollow. "I finally can breathe."

You didn’t say a word. You just looked at her—truly looked. She was thinner, her cheekbones sharper, and the usual glint of superiority in her eyes had dulled slightly, just slightly. Ten days without Seungcheol’s money must have felt like ten years in exile for a woman like her.

You had learned a lot in those ten days.

That fear could turn to fury. That silence could scream louder than words. That a journal—carefully placed on a vanity Seungcheol would pass by—could rewrite the entire narrative.

Even if you sprinkled salt into the wounds, embellished the bruises, and emphasized Jiho’s silence as irreversible, your husband wasn’t the type to fact-check a bleeding truth. He would feel it. And it was his feelings you counted on. The man who once watched you from a distance was now looking too closely for comfort.

Before your mother-in-law could raise her hand—as she had so many times before—you beat her to the blow.

"My husband wouldn’t like it," you said sharply, voice low but sure, "if he knew you hit me again. Would he?"

The words cut the air like a dagger. And for the first time, her hand faltered mid-air.

The duchess laughed—a dry, unimpressed sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bold, are you?” she scoffed.

You tilted your head, smiling just faintly. “No. Just smarter.”

You stepped forward, careful but steady. Jiho clung to the back of your dress, and your voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her.

“Now we wouldn’t want the court hearing things about what’s been happening behind closed doors, would we? Or the charity ladies you love so much.”

Her jaw tightened. The way her fingers curled at her sides told you she wanted nothing more than to hit you, but the risk outweighed the impulse.

“I don’t know what nonsense you fed my son,” she hissed.

“You raised him to swallow a good story.” You stepped back with a shrug, “I just wrote a good story.”

Her voice slithered back into the room like a shadow that refused to leave.

“I shaped him, Y/n,” she said, one heel pivoted against the marble, eyes gleaming with poisonous pride. “Do you think I can’t unmake him?”

You froze only for a breath. Jiho’s head tucked against your side, his small fingers still curled around your dress, a living reminder of what she once tried to break.

Your lips twitched into a cold, almost amused smile. You stood tall, one hand protectively on Jiho’s back.

“You shaped a puppet,” you replied, your voice calm but laced with steel. “But I raised a soul. One you never understood.”

Her jaw clenched. You saw it. That flicker of fear that she was losing control. The very thing she thrived on was slipping through her fingers.

“I won’t let you,” she whispered, venom behind each word.

You stepped forward, not backing down. “You’ve already tried. For years. With silence, with fear, with violence.”

You bent slightly, meeting her gaze at eye level.

“And yet—here he is. Still standing. Still whole.”

That silenced her.

She turned with a dramatic sweep of her gown, fury stiffening her spine. But before she left, she paused at the door and glanced at Jiho. His wide, scared eyes met hers.

“You’ll regret this,” she said coldly.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jiho’s temple. “No,” you murmured, meeting her stare without flinching. “You will.”

And then she was gone.

You exhaled—deeply, slowly—and wrapped Jiho in your arms. His little hands were still trembling, but your body had stopped shaking. 

For the first time in years… You weren’t afraid of her anymore.

*

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, his eyes softening at the sight before him. You were seated on the carpeted floor, a handful of colored pencils scattered around you as Jiho clung to your side, intently focused on the sketch he was making. His small hand moved across the page in childlike strokes, your hand resting gently on his back, steadying him.

It was quiet, peaceful even—too peaceful for what he expected after hearing that his mother had come to see you.

He cleared his throat deliberately, breaking the silence.

Your hand stilled mid-stroke, and you slowly turned toward him. Jiho instinctively leaned closer into your side, his small frame tense again.

Seungcheol stepped in. “I heard my mother was here,” he said, voice unreadable.

“She was.” You didn’t look away as you said it, your tone flat but not hostile. “She left just before Jiho finished drawing this.” You held up the picture—a messy house, two stick figures, a sun drawn in orange rather than yellow. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Jiho always drew the sun in yellow.

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes trailing over the drawing, then back at Jiho. His son didn’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t call me,” he said, watching you.

He crouched down finally, close enough to see Jiho’s trembling lip, though the boy quickly masked it. “Jiho…” he called gently.

But Jiho only pressed his face further into your side. Seungcheol’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“He needs space,” you said quietly. “And time.”

He nodded, understanding. “I came to check on you,” he said after a moment. “Not just because of her.”

“Jiho, Mingyu is outside and he wanted to draw with you in my office,” Seungcheol said, his voice unusually gentle. Jiho turned his head toward you, seeking approval with those quiet eyes of his, still wary—still unsure.

You gave him a soft nod. “Go ahead, sweetie.”

Jiho stood, clutching his crayons, and after a small, almost hesitant glance at Seungcheol, he shuffled out of the room.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and just like that, silence swallowed the room again.

You didn’t move.

Seungcheol remained standing for a beat, as if unsure how to begin. But then his voice came, low and heavy.

“I read your journal.”

Your fingers froze mid-reach toward a colored pencil. You slowly lifted your eyes to him, quiet but unreadable.

He took a step forward. “I don’t know what I was expecting when I found it—maybe anger. Accusations. But not…” He trailed off, brow furrowed. “Not that.”

You tilted your head. “Not what? The truth?”

His jaw clenched. “Some of it,” he admitted. “But you made it sound like I left you here knowing what would happen. Like I… abandoned you on purpose.”

“Didn’t you?” you asked, voice like calm water over a sharp stone. “You never asked. Never checked. Four years, Seungcheol.”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t defend himself. Instead, he let the weight of your words fall where they must.

“I didn’t know.”

“No,” you said. “You didn’t want to know.”

Silence.

He ran a hand through his hair, stepping closer, something burning just beneath his expression. “You made me believe you were okay. You wrote letters, you smiled when I called—”

“Because if I told you, she would’ve hurt Jiho more.” Your words cracked then, the first sign of emotion leaking through. “So I smiled and lied.”

Seungcheol’s face twisted at that. Regret carved deep into his features.

“She told me you hid the dresses I bought for her,” he muttered. “That you were wasting my money. She said you were trying to turn Jiho against the family.”

“And you believed her?” you asked with a hollow laugh. “You believed her over your own wife and child.”

“I don’t anymore,” he said quickly. “Not after reading that. Not after seeing Jiho.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your expression softening—but only slightly. “Then do something. Don’t just stand there feeling bad. You were raised by that woman, Choi Seungcheol. You know what she’s capable of.”

He stepped closer again, his voice lower, almost hoarse. “I didn’t know it would come to this. I—I should’ve protected you.”

Seungcheol’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but there was something different in them now—no longer just regret or guilt. Something quieter. Something breaking.

His voice was softer when he spoke next, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to say it. “Can I…” he paused, his gaze flickering down for a moment before rising again. “Can I hug you?”

Your breath caught, not because you were surprised, but because of how long it had been since he asked. Since he even thought to ask. You looked at him—not as your husband, not as the man the world respected—but as the man who once held your trembling hands on the altar and swore he'd make you feel safe.

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut—threatening to snap.

And then you gave the faintest nod.

He stepped forward slowly, carefully, like you were glass he had shattered and was trying not to cut himself on the edges. When his arms finally wrapped around you, they felt different—not like a husband who claimed, but like a man who begged to be allowed back in.

You stood still at first, tense in the circle of his embrace, memories flashing like scars beneath your skin. But as his warmth bled into you, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart—fast, unsure, human.

And slowly… your hands lifted to rest on his back. You didn’t melt into him. You didn’t collapse. But you let him hold you. And that, after everything, was the beginning.

Your plan has run well so far.

*

Seungcheol felt the small tug at the hem of his coat just as he was about to step out. He turned on instinct, ready to brush it off—but then he saw him.

Jiho.

The boy was in his slippers, hugging a drawing book against his chest with one hand, the other still gripping his coat tightly. His eyes wide, silently pleading.

That silence—it hit Seungcheol like a brick to the chest.

Jiho couldn’t call his name. Couldn’t say “Appa” like other kids might. And yet here he was, tugging him back with all the strength his little body could offer.

Seungcheol glanced at his watch. He was already late. A meeting with regional heads, important people.

But the promise he made to you echoed louder than any ticking clock.

“I’ll change,” he had told you.

So, without a second thought, Seungcheol looked over his shoulder and called, “Mingyu, push the meeting back. Two hours.”

He crouched to Jiho’s height, his voice softer, careful, like something sacred could break between them.

“Jiho… what’s wrong?”

The boy hesitated only a moment before holding out the sketchbook and colored pencils, then pointed toward the garden with a hopeful look.

Seungcheol followed the gesture, noticing the sunlight pouring gently through the windows. The air outside looked crisp and golden.

“You want me to draw with you?” he asked, still unsure if he was reading it right.

Jiho gave a shy nod, his eyes flickering down like he was preparing for rejection.

But Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go to the garden,” he said.

And just as he straightened up, ready to guide Jiho forward, he felt it—small fingers wrapping around his own. A warm, hesitant hand slipping into his.

He looked down, stunned.

It wasn’t much.

But to Seungcheol, that little hand holding his was louder than any word Jiho could’ve spoken.

It was trust. Maybe even forgiveness.

And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol let the weight of work fall away as he stepped outside—not as a chairman, not as a Choi, but as Jiho’s father.

The crayons rolled lazily on the blanket as Seungcheol added a pair of long ears to the rabbit he was drawing. Beside him, Jiho carefully shaded the butterfly’s wings in a bright orange, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. It was peaceful—quiet but warm, like the sun filtering through the trees around them.

Seungcheol leaned back on one hand, glancing at Jiho’s drawing and then back to his own. “I think mine looks like a dog,” he chuckled softly. Jiho looked up and tilted his head, lips twitching like he might have laughed if he could.

But the calm was broken by distant shouts.

“Jiho!”

Seungcheol turned his head, brow furrowing as he caught sight of two figures darting through the hedges—your voice unmistakable, calling for your son. Minyeong was behind you, looking just as panicked.

You skidded to a stop when your eyes finally landed on the garden, where Jiho and Seungcheol were sitting casually on the picnic blanket, surrounded by scattered drawings and crayon boxes.

Your shoulders dropped, relief flooding your face as you exhaled. “Jiho!” you cried, hurrying toward them. “You scared me.”

Jiho’s head whipped toward you, startled by your tone, and he immediately clutched the sketchbook to his chest, eyes wide.

Seungcheol stood, brushing his hands on his pants, still confused. “What’s going on?”

You knelt down beside Jiho, checking him over as if making sure he hadn’t vanished and reappeared. “He wasn’t in his room. He always waits for breakfast after class. No one saw him leave. I thought—” your voice broke off, the worst-case scenarios unspoken but loud in your expression.

Seungcheol’s brows lifted as he finally understood.

You let out a shaky breath, gently tucking Jiho’s hair back. “You can’t just disappear like that, sweetheart. I got scared.” Your voice softened as you held his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

Jiho looked down, guilt plain in his body language.

"He's safe here. You don't need to worry," Seungcheol said, his voice calm, his stance steady.

But his assurance didn’t sink into your chest the way it should have. Not with the image of the Duchess still fresh in your mind—her cruel smirk, her venomous words, the way her shadow still lingered in every corner of this estate. Not with the memory of Jiho's trembling form, locked away and crying for someone who would never come.

You tightened your arms around your son, cradling his fragile body to your chest as if your heartbeat alone could shield him. “He’s too precious,” you murmured, your voice low, heavy with everything you couldn't say. Too precious to be used. Too precious to suffer. Too precious for this house to break.

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He looked at you, at Jiho, at the way your hand cupped the back of your son's head protectively. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “He’s important to me, too.”

You looked up, your eyes sharp and cautious.

Seungcheol stepped closer, dropping to a knee so he was eye-level with the both of you. “Whatever happens,” he said, voice more serious now, “I’ll work hard to protect him… to protect you. So you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to believe him—so badly—but belief wasn’t trust, and trust wasn’t earned overnight. Not after years of silence. Not after years of being left behind.

Last night, the nightmare returned.

The same one that gripped you with icy fingers every time you dared to close your eyes. The same twisted scene that played over and over like a curse etched into your subconscious. You had thought that leaving the estate would quiet it—give your mind the peace to heal—but it only followed, sinking deeper into your bones each night.

It always began the same: silence. A vast, suffocating silence that wrapped around you like a veil.

Then, the halls of the estate. Dim, echoing, endless. You'd find yourself running, barefoot and frantic, the cold stone floors numbing your feet. Your heart thundered louder than your steps.

Then her—Duchess Choi.

Her figure always emerged from the dark, regal and terrifying. Her hands were always red—soaked, dripping. Her eyes gleamed with something inhuman.

And Jiho...

You never reached him in time. No matter how fast you ran, how loud you screamed, you always arrived just a second too late. The final moment always burned itself into your soul: Jiho's lifeless eyes, his small body limp in her cruel arms, as she whispered, "You should’ve obeyed."

You jolted awake, drenched in sweat and breathless, clutching your chest as if it could steady the madness storming inside.

But the room was silent.

Beside you, Jiho slept peacefully, his tiny hand curled into a fist near his face. The innocence of his slumber clashed cruelly with the horror that still lingered in your veins.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead and laid back down, eyes wide open, unwilling to risk sleep again. You couldn’t. Not when the nightmare was always the same, and the ending never changed.

Your mind whispered over and over: What if the dream was a warning? What if it wasn’t just a dream at all?

Seungcheol’s voice cut through the heavy silence, gentle but firm. He noticed the weariness etched into your face—the dark circles beneath your eyes, the distant glaze that made you look like you were somewhere far away.

“You should rest, my wife,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Leave Jiho to Minyeong for a while. Let yourself breathe.”

His words carried more than just concern; there was a quiet insistence, a promise that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion weighing down your lids, and for a brief moment, you almost wanted to say yes. To give yourself permission to stop fighting, even if only for a little while.

But the nightmare still lingered behind your eyes—the bloody hands, the silent screams.

*

The door creaked softly as Seungcheol stepped into your room. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a dim wash of moonlight that etched pale shadows across the floor. The air was still, thick with silence. You were curled up beneath the covers, your body barely moving, your eyes open and distant—staring at nothing.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, just watching. You looked so small like that, fragile in a way that struck him in the gut. His chest ached. He wondered how long you’d been surviving in this half-state, quietly unraveling while he stood blind beside you.

“You haven’t slept again,” he murmured, voice soft as cotton.

You didn’t answer—just turned your head ever so slightly in his direction. The motion was slow, like it took effort.

He approached the bed and sank gently onto the edge, careful not to startle you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything more. His hand lifted, tentative at first, before his fingers brushed beneath your eye, tracing the bruised hollows of exhaustion there. Then down to your cheek—warm, familiar, trembling.

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Are you just here to touch me?” you asked, your voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but with an edge of bitterness beneath it.

Seungcheol’s brows pinched, his thumb ghosting over your temple.

“I’m here because I want to carry what you’ve been carrying alone,” he whispered. “I turned my eyes away when I should’ve looked closer.”

Your throat constricted as tears swelled. You bit your lip hard. “I’m already broken, Cheol.” Your voice cracked. “This house… your mother… everything. I—I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I tried to be what you needed, but I’ve only ruined it. You don’t deserve someone like me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight with pain. And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead—delicate, unwavering.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re my wife. Convenient or not. I made vows, and I meant them. I still do.”

A sob shuddered up your throat as your defenses collapsed. The tears you’d swallowed for months broke free.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or full of hunger—it was slow and aching. His mouth moved against yours like he was memorizing you again, trying to soothe every invisible wound. You clung to him, fingers fisting the front of his shirt, desperate for something solid, something real.

There was no need for words anymore.

Clothes slipped off like old armor. His hands didn’t rush—they moved over you gently, like you were something he thought he’d lost. His touch was reverent, worshipful. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the softness of your stomach like they were all parts of a story he refused to forget.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, trembling. “I’m scared,” you admitted into the dark.

“I know,” he breathed against your skin. “But I’m here. I’m here.”

When he entered you, it wasn’t a conquest—it was a return. A slow, desperate need to feel something real between the both of you again. You moved together like the world outside didn’t exist. Like grief and shame and regret could all be held at bay if only you stayed close enough.

Your breaths synced, ragged and warm. Gasps turned into moans, moans into whimpers. The sound of your name on his lips was unlike anything—hoarse, reverent, as if it hurt to say but he couldn’t stop saying it.

You cried through it. Not just from the sensation, but from all the pain that had piled up between your bodies for months. Seungcheol held you through it all, brushing your tears away with his lips, whispering apologies and I love you’s and I’m so sorrys between every kiss.

He whispered your name like a vow. Like a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he breathed over and over, not possessively, but like a truth he clung to. “You’re my wife. You’re mine.”

That night, the bed wasn’t just a place of desire—it became a sanctuary. A fragile, fleeting pocket of warmth where two hearts could find their way back to each other.

Morning crept in quietly, the rain having washed the world into a pale stillness. The sky was soft and gray beyond the curtains, the kind of morning that asked the world to slow down.

Seungcheol stirred beside you, his hand instinctively brushing a lock of hair away from your face. You were still asleep, finally at peace. Something in his chest loosened at the sight. For a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, things were starting to heal.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it lazily, intending to silence it, but froze when he saw the name.

Seokmin. Your personal guard.

The blood drained from his face as he opened the message. The screen burned into his vision. The phone nearly slipped from his hand.

Not kidnapped. Requested. Lied.

His lungs stopped working. He stared at the words, willing them to change, to rewrite themselves, to offer any other meaning. But they stayed the same, cold and damning.

The room shrank. His pulse pounded in his ears. Everything—their night, your tears, your trembling voice saying “I’m already broken”—all of it twisted now. He looked at you lying there, still, peaceful, the soft blankets rising and falling with each breath.

And suddenly, he didn’t know what that peace meant anymore.

He stood from the bed, the sheets pulling slightly as he moved. He was still half-dressed from the night before, hair a mess, lips bruised from kissing someone he thought he knew.

You stirred, frowning slightly at the absence of his warmth. Your voice was sleepy, unguarded. “Cheol?”

He turned, and you saw the expression on his face. The way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes looked at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

“Did you sleep with him?” he asked. The words were low, cold, and jagged.

You blinked, sitting up abruptly. “What?”

“Hong Jisoo,” he repeated, more biting this time. “Did you sleep with him? Is that why you ran off and let me think you were taken?”

“Cheol—no.” You shook your head, panic rising. “I didn’t. I would never—how could you even—?”

“Then what was it?” he snapped. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t betrayal. Don’t tell me you didn’t look me in the eye every day and pretend nothing was wrong while you were planning your escape behind my back!”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Your voice wavered, but you forced the words out. “It wasn’t cheating. It was surviving.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any scream. It cracked through the air between you, full of things neither of you had said for months—maybe years.

His throat worked around the lump forming there. “You lied to me,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “You stood in front of me, wore the ring I gave you, and lied every damn day.”

You stood too now, trembling, bare feet on the floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest like you were holding yourself together. “You neglected me,” you said quietly, but it came out sharp. “You left me to rot in that house, alone. Your mother made me feel like dirt and you—you never even looked at me.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he shouted. “You think I didn’t know how bad she was? You think I didn’t want to fight her? I was trying, but you never let me in! You never told me how bad it got!”

“Because I didn’t think you'd believe me!” you cried. “You kept brushing it off. You said I was being too sensitive. Every time I tried to tell you, you told me to be patient. So I stopped talking.”

“You gave up on us,” he said, venom trembling behind each word. “You chose him.”

“I chose myself, Seungcheol.” Your voice cracked. “I had no one. No one listened. Not you, not your family, not the people I was supposed to trust. So yes—I ran. I asked Jisoo for help because I didn’t want to die in that house.”

His face twisted. Pain and rage warred behind his eyes. “You should’ve come to me.”

“I did,” you said. “You just didn’t hear me.”

He backed away from you like your words physically pushed him.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” you said again, voice quieter, but no less steady. “I lied. I’m not proud of that. But I did what I had to do.”

“You don’t get to rewrite this like you’re the victim,” he muttered bitterly. “You lied. That’s the one thing we swore we’d never do to each other.”

“And you swore to protect me,” you said, eyes burning. “You failed me first.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Two people who once promised forever, now standing in the ruins of misheard cries and emotional silence. Both of you hurt. Both of you right, and both so terribly wrong.

Seungcheol looked away, jaw flexing. “I don’t know how to come back from this.”

And this time, you didn’t answer. Because neither of you did.

*

Seungcheol slowed his steps as the raised voices reached him—fierce, trembling, far too close to a breaking point. He stood just shy of the corridor’s edge, where the marbled hallway met the staircase landing, his hand resting on the wall as if grounding himself from a storm he hadn’t yet seen.

And there it was.

You—face flushed, eyes glassy with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak—stood between his mother and your son. Your arms were slightly outstretched, like a shield. Jiho stood behind your legs, barely visible, clutching his sketchbook tightly to his chest, his small frame tense like a frightened deer in the open.

Seungcheol didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of your voice froze him in place.

“You’ve always blamed him for existing,” you said, each word like a shard of glass cutting through the thick silence. “He’s a child. Not a burden. Not your second chance to twist another soul.”

His mother's lips curled, cold and disdainful. “You should’ve taught him obedience instead of weakness. No wonder he turned out like this. You coddle him like he’s glass—”

“He is!” your voice cracked, but you didn’t waver. “Glass that you keep trying to shatter. He’s traumatized—because of you! Because of this cursed house! You broke every child that passed through your hands and now you want to break him too—”

“Watch your tone,” she snapped.

“Or what?” you challenged. “You’ll hurt me? You already have. But I won’t let you lay a single finger on him.”

Your breath was coming in hard, shallow bursts, your voice trembling with the desperate kind of love only a mother could understand. And Seungcheol—watching from the shadows, unseen—felt something rip open in his chest.

Then it happened.

Jiho, who had been so still, so silent—stepped forward. A tiny hand tugging on your skirt, eyes flickering between the two adults in confusion and fear. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He only wanted to stop the fighting. To reach you. To help.

And Duchess Choi turned. Sharp. Too sharp.

“Don’t touch—!”

Her hand flew in a gesture meant to shove you back—but Jiho was there. Too close. Too small. Her arm struck him across the chest, not hard enough to harm a grown-up, but more than enough to unbalance a child on the edge of stairs.

Seungcheol’s heart stopped.

Jiho’s sketchbook flew from his arms, pages flapping like wings of a broken bird.

And then—time cracked.

Jiho stumbled backwards. One small foot slipped. He tilted.

“Jiho!” Your scream pierced the hallway like a siren, raw and anguished.

Seungcheol was already moving. But he wasn’t fast enough. Jiho fell. Head first, down the staircase. His tiny body bounced off the steps in an unnatural, horrifying rhythm. The final thud—when his head hit the marble—echoed through Seungcheol’s ears like a gunshot.

Everything was silence after that.

You screamed again, louder this time, but it sounded distant in Seungcheol’s head. He sprinted, feet hitting the ground too late. You were already at the bottom, shaking, your hands trembling as you pulled Jiho’s limp frame into your arms.

“Jiho—Jiho, baby, no—” your sobs came in gasps, hoarse and broken, like something inside you was shattering.

Seungcheol collapsed beside you, his hands fluttering uselessly, hovering over Jiho’s blood-matted hair. The boy whimpered faintly, eyelids fluttering, a soft sound that should have been a relief but only deepened the horror—because it meant he was still conscious through this pain.

“Eomma… don't cry.”

“Mingyu,” he said quietly. The butler had already rushed into the hall. “Get the doctor. Then gather the guards.”

“My lord—” the duchess began, but Seungcheol didn’t even look at her.

“You’re no longer welcome in this house,” he said coldly. “Not near me. Not near my wife. And not near my son.”

His mother’s breath hitched. Her mask finally cracked. “I raised you—”

“And you nearly unmade me,” he snapped. “You will not get the chance to do the same to my son.”

He turned back to you and Jiho, kneeling once more, brushing Jiho’s hair back gently as the boy leaned into him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

“Appa…”

*

Seungcheol sat heavily in the armchair, the dim light from the window casting long shadows across his worn face. His eyes, dark and stormy, never left you as you sat on the edge of Jiho’s bed, watching your son sleep. Jiho’s breathing was soft and steady now, peaceful in the fragile safety of the moment—his small face untouched by pain, save for the faint bruises and bandages that marked the night’s horror.

The silence between you was suffocating—thick with everything left unsaid, every wound raw and aching beneath your skin. Your heart pounded in the quiet, the weight of what had happened pressing down like a heavy shroud.

Then, your voice—low, brittle but unwavering—cut through the stillness.

“I knew this was coming.”

Seungcheol’s breath caught a subtle hitch that betrayed the storm inside him. His gaze sharpened, hanging on every word you spoke.

“I dreamed of this,” you said, voice trembling like a fragile thread stretched too thin. “Over and over. How your mother would... harm him.”

Your hand clenched into a tight, desperate fist at your side, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to look weak, not again—not now—but the tremor in your chest betrayed your fierce vulnerability.

“That’s why I turned to Jisoo,” you whispered, the words heavy with bitter truth. “Because my own husband wouldn’t. Because you don’t have the heart to turn your back on your mother. And I understand... because I’m a mother too.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, a war raging behind his eyes—between blood ties and love, duty and desperation, guilt and regret. He felt torn apart, the impossible weight of loyalty clashing with the raw, aching need to protect the family he claimed as his own.

You finally met his gaze, your eyes shimmering with tears you fought to hold back—an ocean of pain, exhaustion, and pleading that spilled over despite yourself.

“Let us go, Seungcheol,” you said, voice breaking but steady. “We’ve suffered enough.”

The words hung in the room like a fragile glass between you—beautiful, sharp, and ready to shatter. It was a plea. A reckoning. A heartbreak that neither of you could deny. For a long moment, the world outside ceased to exist. Only the quiet breaths, the unspoken fears, and the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, healing could begin.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, his breath shallow and uneven. The words you’d just spoken echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He wanted—needed—to say something, anything, to hold on, to fight, but the weight in his chest crushed his voice before it could form.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence hung between you like a thick fog, suffocating and endless.

His eyes, dark and conflicted, searched yours, but no answer came. The battle raging inside him was too fierce—between love, loyalty, guilt, and despair.

Three years later, Seungcheol sat behind the grand oak desk in his government office, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room lined with books, maps, and official decrees.

Now appointed as the regional governor of Gwanrae by the kingdom, he was tasked with ruling a land both vibrant and challenging—a region ripe with opportunity but tangled in its own conflicts and histories.

Papers scattered across his desk demanded his attention: petitions from villagers, reports on trade and security, letters from the palace, and reminders of the delicate balance he must maintain between power and justice.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, feeling the years of lessons pressed into every decision. The role was demanding, each day a test of wisdom, patience, and strength. But Seungcheol carried it with quiet determination, fueled by a desire to forge a future where pain like his family’s could be undone.

Though the past still lingered—ghosts of mistakes and loss—he focused on what lay ahead. His kingdom, his people, and perhaps, one day, the chance to heal the fractures within himself.

Seungcheol sat behind his polished desk, papers neatly stacked but momentarily untouched as Mingyu entered the room with a purposeful stride.

“Mingyu,” Seungcheol greeted without looking up, his tone measured yet weary.

“Sir,” Mingyu replied with a slight bow before standing straight. “I wish to update you on young Jiho. He has recently commenced his studies at the elementary academy in Southeast Gwanrae.”

Seungcheol finally raised his eyes. “Is that so? And how does the child fare? Has he begun to speak more freely?”

Mingyu nodded respectfully. “Indeed, my lord. Though reserved, Jiho has begun to articulate himself with increasing confidence. His progress, while gradual, is promising. He shows signs of resilience reminiscent of your own.”

A faint expression softened Seungcheol’s features. “That is reassuring to hear. It has always been my hope that he would find his voice in his own time.”

“Also, the Ministry of Trade has confirmed your presence at the opening ceremony for the new provincial market in Southeast Gwanrae. It’s scheduled for the second week of the coming month.”

Seungcheol paused in his writing, his pen hovering just above the parchment. “Southeast Gwanrae?”

“Yes, sir,” Mingyu replied, maintaining professional composure. “The region has seen significant growth in recent years. The local business community has funded and organized the new market plaza. You’ll be expected to deliver an address and conduct a ceremonial inspection of the trade facilities.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed subtly, though his expression remained neutral. “And who oversees the business council there?”

Mingyu met his eyes with a steady nod. “The chairwoman is Lady Ji.”

Silence followed—not strained, but still.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands before him. “Did she submit the invitation herself?”

Mingyu hesitated, then answered carefully. “It came through the council secretary, but her name was signed at the end of the official document.”

A long breath filled the room.

“I see,” Seungcheol said quietly, gaze distant now.

Mingyu added, “It’s not a personal summons, sir. It’s a public obligation. The council is aware of your history, but they believe your presence will lend prestige to the event.”

Seungcheol gave a slow nod, eyes shadowed but steady. “Prepare the itinerary. Notify the guards. We’ll proceed with the visit as expected.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Mingyu turned to leave, Seungcheol’s voice called him back—quieter, tinged with something more thoughtful. “Send word ahead. I expect nothing more than a formal greeting. She owes me nothing else.”

Mingyu bowed low. “Understood.”

*

You stood before the mirror, adjusting the silk ribbon at your waist with trembling fingers. The fever had come quietly the night before—subtle aches, a flush that crept beneath your skin. But the ceremony couldn’t wait. Not when months of preparation and the trust of so many local merchants rested on your shoulders.

You dabbed a touch of powder to your cheeks, trying to mask the pallor that clung stubbornly to your skin. The dizziness made your limbs feel like they moved underwater, but you anchored yourself with deep breaths and the steady hum of responsibility.

Outside, the town square of Southeast Gwanrae buzzed with anticipation. Banners hung from the rooftops, merchants lined the stalls with wares, and citizens gathered around the ceremonial platform. The new market was not just a structure—it was proof of survival, of self-reliance. Of rebirth.

You walked slowly toward the platform, Jiho’s small hand in yours. He looked up with curiosity, unaware of the way your steps were measured, your breaths shallow. Jisoo hovered nearby, eyes watchful.

Then you saw him.

Governor Choi Seungcheol. Cloaked in ceremonial robes, his stature even more commanding now. His gaze swept the crowd with practiced poise—until it landed on you.

And it lingered.

You didn’t falter, not outwardly. But your heart tripped painfully in your chest as heat bloomed behind your eyes—not from the fever this time, but from something older. Deeper.

He stepped forward at the cue of the master of ceremonies. Applause rose around him. You bowed your head in respect as protocol demanded, hiding the slight sway in your posture.

He took the podium. His voice, when it came, was steady and regal. But in the middle of his speech, there was a pause—so brief that only those watching closely would notice.

You didn’t look up, but you felt it.

“Was that the Lady Ji he married to?”

“They didn’t even make eye contact.”

“They used to be married, didn’t they?”

You kept your chin lifted, hands folded tightly in front of you to hide the tremor. Jisoo shifted subtly beside you, standing tall, a quiet shield against the public’s prying eyes. Jiho tugged at your sleeve, sensing something even in his young innocence, but you only gave him a weak smile.

The ceremony pressed on. Names were called, the market gates opened, and trade resumed with festive cheer. But around you, eyes still flicked between your back and Seungcheol’s retreating form. Between the woman who had rebuilt from nothing, and the man who had once vowed to build everything with her.

The hotel’s reception hall was lavish but subdued, echoing the tone of formality befitting a governor’s visit. Crystal glasses gleamed under soft golden light, and the long table was dressed in cream linens and lined with carefully arranged refreshments—fine teas, traditional pastries, imported fruits, and small plates that suggested abundance without ostentation.

You sat with practiced grace near the center, across from the Governor himself. Your pale cheeks were touched with a hint of makeup to conceal the fever’s lingering shadow, though the heaviness in your limbs remained. Jiho was safely with Minyeong elsewhere; this part of the evening was no place for a child.

The air around the table buzzed with polite conversation. Influential dukes from surrounding provinces, regional council members, and a few trade lords from the merchant guild sat in a semi-circle. Discussions drifted from recent drought relief efforts to tariffs on imported grain, yet somehow always curved back to Gwanrae’s rapid development under Governor Choi’s new policies.

You remained composed, offering observations when appropriate, your voice even but soft. You noticed how Seungcheol glanced your way only when no one else was looking—quick, unreadable flickers of something unspoken. Perhaps it was memory. Or curiosity. Or guilt.

You couldn’t tell.

“The Lady Ji’s market district in Southeast Gwanrae has seen the highest citizen satisfaction index in the last quarter,” one of the younger councilors noted, smiling at you respectfully. “The property restructuring method she adapted from Sir Hong was a success. Her initiative has inspired the outer provinces.”

A few nodded in agreement.

You inclined your head politely. “We simply provided what people needed—affordable space to grow. Most of the credit belongs to the people who dared to try.”

“Well spoken,” Seungcheol said then, his voice calm but commanding.

It was the first time he had addressed you directly.

The room stilled just slightly—not noticeably, but enough that your spine straightened. You lifted your tea to your lips, hiding the flicker of surprise in your eyes.

And the whispers… started again. Not out loud, not yet. But in glances. In tightened smiles. In the careful politeness that only arose when something unspoken filled the space between two powerful figures.

By the time dessert was served, the room looked orderly again. But beneath it all, the air hummed with possibility—and a tension that even fine porcelain couldn’t mask.

You rose from your seat with the same poise you had maintained all evening, offering a quiet apology to the table. “Please excuse me for a moment,” you said, your voice gentle, unshaken. No one questioned it.

But as you stepped into the hallway beyond the reception hall’s doors, the air shifted.

The soft murmur of noble chatter faded behind you, replaced by the hush of a long, carpeted corridor lit with wall sconces and the distant patter of staff footsteps. You pressed a hand to the wall as your balance faltered—the fever had been steady all day, but now it surged again, making the corners of your vision blur and pulse. Your breath caught. The polished tiles swam beneath your feet, the weight of the night catching up to you.

You leaned your back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, willing the dizziness to pass. Your fingers curled lightly around your stomach, the warmth of your palm a weak shield against the chill pooling in your limbs.

This wasn’t the place for weakness. Not with officials gathered, not with him in the next room.

But your body disagreed.

Your throat was dry, and the soft layers of your hanbok, though elegant and stately, felt heavier with each breath. You took another slow step forward, then another, intending to reach the small powder room at the end of the hall. But your legs buckled slightly.

And that’s when you heard him.

“Y/n—” Seungcheol’s voice, low and sharp with concern, cut through the silence.

You turned your head, just enough to see him striding toward you. His expression had shifted from formal restraint to something rawer, something dangerously close to the man you used to know. His eyes scanned your face, your posture, the way your fingers trembled against the wall.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, instinctively, but your voice betrayed you—it cracked like paper.

“You’re not,” he said, already beside you. His hand hovered at your back, hesitant but prepared to catch you if you faltered again. “You’re burning up.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him, to deny him, but the weakness clawing through your spine left no room for pride.

The world around you dimmed slowly, like a lantern flickering in the wind. Your breath grew shallow, your limbs impossibly heavy. You tried to take one more step, tried to hold your chin high despite the spinning in your head—but it was too much.

Then you heard him.

“Mingyu, prepare a room. I’m going there.”

His voice was firm. Urgent. No longer the voice of a distant governor or a man hardened by time and power—but of Seungcheol. The man who once held you like you were made of glass and fire.

You felt the warmth of his hand wrap around yours, the way it used to, anchoring you. Your knees buckled, and the last thing you registered was the sensation of being caught—his arms solid around you, strong and familiar, just before everything faded into darkness.

*

Seungcheol sat in the armchair beside the bed, a stack of reports resting in his lap—mostly unread. His eyes kept drifting toward your sleeping figure, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers. The doctor had said you were dehydrated and exhausted, the fever pushing your body past its limit. You’d been given a shot to bring it down, and now you finally rested—still, pale, and far too quiet.

The soft creak of the door opening caught his attention. Footsteps—small, hesitant—tapped gently against the floor.

Seungcheol turned, and there stood Jiho.

The boy’s eyes were wide, glassy with worry. He stood frozen in the doorway until he whispered, “Mother…”

The sound nearly undid Seungcheol.

It wasn’t just the word—it was the way Jiho said it, the clarity in his tone. After years of delayed speech and silence, the word shattered something inside him.

Seungcheol rose from his chair, slowly. “She’s going to be fine,” he said gently, his voice low. “She just needs rest.”

Jiho stepped forward, inch by inch, as though afraid that if he moved too fast, it would all disappear. When he reached the bedside, he reached out with a trembling hand and took yours.

“Thank you, Father…”

Seungcheol stood in place, the words echoing in his mind. His heart clenched—not out of pain this time, but something bittersweet and unfamiliar. Jiho’s voice, his gratitude… it was more than he deserved.

He swallowed hard, blinking back the emotion stinging behind his eyes.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “She’s your mother. She’s everything.”

Jiho didn’t answer, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around yours.

And for a moment, in that quiet room filled with the steady sound of your breathing, Seungcheol felt something he hadn’t in years.

A glimpse of what could have been.

Or perhaps… what could still be.

Seungcheol watched Jiho in silence, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy’s small hand wrapped around yours. His chest rose with a slow, heavy breath as something bloomed in him—warm, unfamiliar, and overwhelming.

Jiho had grown.

Not just in height or how he carried himself—but in spirit. The timid little boy who once hid behind your skirts was now standing tall beside your bed, speaking clearly, and holding your hand like he could protect you.

It struck Seungcheol with a force that left him breathless.

He knelt beside Jiho, eye level with him now. “You’ve grown a lot,” he said softly, his voice a bit rough around the edges. “You’re strong… just like your mother.”

Jiho looked at him, his eyes uncertain but bright. “I practiced,” he said shyly. “Talking. Writing. Reading.”

Seungcheol nodded, swallowing the emotion in his throat. “I can tell.”

He reached out, gently brushing Jiho’s hair back, something he hadn’t done in so long it felt like a forgotten memory brought to life. “I’m proud of you, Jiho.”

The boy blinked, stunned, before a small, careful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Will she wake up soon?” he asked.

“Yes,” Seungcheol said, his hand still resting lightly on Jiho’s head. “She just needs rest. You gave her a reason to rest easy.”

Jiho’s small fingers clutched yours a little tighter, his eyes still fixed on your sleeping face. Then, after a pause, he glanced up at Seungcheol—uncertainty flickering in those big, dark eyes.

“Father isn’t here to take me from my mother, right?”

The question landed like a blow to Seungcheol’s chest.

He froze, caught off guard by how quietly it was said, how much fear and understanding hid behind such simple words. Jiho wasn’t asking as a child guessing. He was asking as someone who remembered. Someone who had lived through absence. Through tension. Through loss.

Seungcheol lowered himself again, this time more slowly, until he was eye level with Jiho once more. His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m not here to take you away from her.”

Jiho searched his face for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether he could believe him.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. Not from me. Not anymore.”

Jiho nodded slowly, still watching him. And then—quietly, cautiously—he leaned just a little toward Seungcheol’s shoulder, not quite touching, but not pulling away either.

It was the smallest shift.

*

“Rest…”

Seungcheol’s voice, deep and hushed, wove into the stillness like the final note of a lullaby. It wrapped around you gently just as your eyes fluttered open, lashes blinking against the soft golden light that seeped through the curtains. The scent of chamomile lingered faintly in the air—either from the tea or from the linen sheets recently changed—and for a brief moment, the world felt hushed, like it was holding its breath.

You stirred slowly, your body sore but lighter, the fever that had held you hostage now a fading ache. Disoriented, you mumbled, “Why are you here?”

He was already there—by your side. Sitting on the edge of the bed like he belonged in that room, like he’d never left your orbit. The light caught the edges of his sharp features, softened by fatigue and something quieter. Something more tender.

“Taking care of you,” he said, his voice low, smooth like worn velvet. His hand reached out, calloused yet gentle, brushing against your forehead. Cool skin against warm. The kind of touch that made your heart betray you with its sudden stutter.

“Your fever’s gone down,” he murmured, eyes studying you. “But you still need rest. Are you hungry? I can have something sent up.”

You turned your face toward him, blinking slowly as you tried to anchor yourself. The pillows cradled your head, the comforter tucked around you like arms you couldn’t name. It was your hotel, your room, and yet it felt like he had brought the air with him—changed it just by being there.

“We’re strangers now, Seungcheol…” you said, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if they were meant to remind him or to protect yourself.

A faint laugh escaped his lips—low, breathy, amused in that familiar way that always managed to stir something under your ribs. “Strangers usually call me Lord,” he teased, already pulling out his phone, fingers dancing across the screen.

Your brow furrowed. “This is my hotel,” you muttered, frowning. “You can’t just order people around like you own the place.”

He leaned back slightly, still so at ease. “Their boss is sick,” he said with a sly smile, “so naturally, they should tend to you.”

A quiet hum filled the space between you. The distant clink of silverware being prepared downstairs, the muffled rush of staff moving through the halls, and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. The air was laced with something fragile and unspoken, like the moment before a confession or the second before dawn.

“You’re weird,” you said softly, your eyes not quite meeting his.

Seungcheol’s smile grew—smaller, more personal, like he didn’t want the world to see it. “You always said that when I did something nice.”

“And you always acted like it meant nothing,” you whispered back, your voice thinning, unraveling.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything unsaid, of the ache of almost everything, of a past that still lived in the corners of the room. The kind of silence that made your heart flutter even as it weighed down your chest.

“You’re the chairman of the council,” Seungcheol said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the way your fingers trembled just a bit when you reached for the glass of water. “Yet no one seemed to notice you were sick.”

You gave a soft, rueful smile, pressing the glass to your lips before setting it down again. Your voice came gentle, laced with fatigue and a hint of something more resigned. “The art of noticing…” You let the words settle, your gaze drifting to the window where morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. “It’s not easy. Needs a lot of practice.”

Seungcheol stilled. Something in your tone made his chest tighten—not with guilt, but with recognition. You weren’t talking about the council. Not entirely.

“Jiho came earlier,” Seungcheol said, his voice gentler now, changing the subject. He leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on your face. “He was worried… You shouldn’t worry your son like that.”

A soft breath escaped your lips, not quite a sigh—more like a breeze of guilt brushing through your chest. You didn’t look at him right away, only let your gaze fall to the folds of the blanket between your fingers.

“Hmm…” you murmured, then turned to face him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“You’re far too calm for this situation…” Seungcheol muttered, his voice low and taut with frustration. He wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were fixed on the half-open window, where sunlight spilled lazily across the room.

You tilted your head, watching him quietly. “Why?” you asked softly. “Are you… feeling something, Seungcheol?”

A silence fell between you. Not the comfortable kind, but a loaded pause that felt like holding your breath underwater. He didn’t answer right away—just clenched his jaw, the flicker of emotion twitching behind his eyes.

“Hm… old things,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “But I don’t want to talk about this.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Another silence—quieter this time. The wind outside rustled the trees. Somewhere down the hall, a servant’s footsteps echoed faintly and then faded again.

Then, like a whisper dropped into the stillness, he said, “I miss you.”

Your breath caught in your chest. For a moment, the room felt smaller, like everything folded in around those three words.

These visits became a quiet rhythm over the months—small, almost unnoticed, but impossible to ignore. You were immersed in the latest market expansion reports when Jeonghan appeared, calm as ever, his tablet tucked beneath one arm.

“My lady,” he said gently, “Governor Choi was seen in the lobby again.”

Your pen hovered but you didn’t look up. “Again?” you asked, voice steady but with just a hint of something beneath.

Jeonghan nodded. “His fourth visit this year.”

You said nothing, turning the page deliberately. The room filled with a heavy silence as Jeonghan lingered, waiting for a crack in your carefully guarded composure. But none came.

This pattern repeated over time: subtle visits, thoughtful gifts.

One afternoon, Jeonghan appeared with a small, carefully wrapped package. “Governor Choi has sent painting equipment for the young master,” he said softly.

You accepted it with a quiet “Thank you,” your heart catching briefly before your face smoothed into neutrality. These gifts carried more weight than paint and canvas.

Later, Jeonghan returned, a slight smirk on his lips. “Lord Seungcheol asked for a recommendation on a local restaurant.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Tell him the best place is the one he hasn’t discovered yet.”

Jeonghan’s knowing smile lingered as he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Month after month, these quiet reminders arrived—unspoken words and careful gestures, threading their way through your days, stirring memories you tried not to name.

It was near sunset when Jeonghan entered again, the golden light casting long shadows across your office floor. He stood with both hands behind his back, his voice as composed as ever.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “Lord Seungcheol has asked… if he could take the young master for a stroll around the city.”

You looked up from the correspondence in your hand, eyes resting on him a second longer than usual.

The question hung in the air like incense—unexpected, warm, and slightly disorienting.

“For how long?” you asked, though your voice was quieter than intended.

“An hour or two,” Jeonghan replied. “He said he wants to show Jiho the market square lights… and the new flower lane.”

You glanced toward the window, where faint sounds of the evening city buzzed below. Jiho had asked about the flower lane just days ago.

And now Seungcheol remembered.

You closed the document before you slowly nodded. “Tell Lord Seungcheol… as long as Jiho wears his coat.”

Jeonghan gave a slight bow. “Yes, my lady.”

As he exited, your eyes lingered on the door he’d just left through, a quiet ache swelling in your chest. You knew Seungcheol wasn’t just walking through the city. Somewhere else you didn't want to name.

*

Seungcheol opened the door of his hotel room, his tie loosened and sleeves slightly rolled up, only to pause at the unexpected sight.

You stood there, framed by the soft hallway light, holding a familiar bottle of red wine cradled in your arms—his favorite vintage.

“Room service,” you said with a small, wry smile.

A quiet laugh escaped him, subtle but real, as he stepped aside. “I should’ve known this hotel had excellent service.”

You stepped inside, the wine bottle cool in your hand as you made your way to the small sitting area. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper—his cologne mixed with the remnants of long hours and unopened reports. You settled onto the couch with practiced ease, the weight of the years between you both momentarily suspended in the soft click of the bottle setting down on the table.

“How was the stroll with Jiho?” you asked, your tone casual, though your eyes lingered longer than they should.

Seungcheol took the seat across from you, his gaze steady. “Peaceful. He asked questions about every flower and every vendor. He’s bright... very much like you.”

You gave a faint smile, looking away as if brushing off a compliment that hit a little too close to the chest.

“I didn’t expect your visit,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more careful.

You shrugged lightly, fingers tracing the rim of a wine glass. “I didn’t expect to be here either. But I figured I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t personally greet one of our most loyal guests. You come here almost every month, Lord Seungcheol. That’s an impressive amount of... business in Southeast Gwanrae.”

His eyes didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in them—soft, vulnerable, almost sheepish.

“I find the region… welcoming,” he murmured.

“Mm. I’m sure you do,” you replied, pouring the wine with quiet grace, the room now bathed in the quiet hum of night and all the things that remained unsaid.

The wine settled between the two of you like a truce—rich, deep, and aged with memories. Seungcheol swirled the glass in his hand, the deep crimson catching the lamplight in slow motion.

“So,” he began after a sip, voice low, “how’s business been treating you?”

You leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other as your fingers reached for a slender silver case from your coat pocket. With practiced fingers, you pulled out a cigarette and placed it between your lips.

You lit it without hesitation, exhaling softly, the smoke curling into the warm air like a secret.

“Depends on the day,” you answered. “Some days I feel like I own half of Southeast Gwanrae. Some days I feel like I’m drowning in numbers and neck-deep in egos.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, watching the trail of smoke dance above your head. “And today?”

You glanced at him, lips tugging in a wry smile. “Today I’m drinking wine with the governor and pretending we’re just old friends catching up.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent. “You don’t have to do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

He tilted his head toward your cigarette. “That. You don’t have to put on the show. Not with me.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, laced with tired amusement. “You know I’m not here to be your business partner, Seungcheol. This isn’t a deal. This—” you gestured around with your cigarette, “—is just tradition. Wine, smoke, talk. It keeps people from asking the real questions.”

He looked at you quietly for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Still. You don’t have to play the game.”

You met his gaze, then took another drag, the cherry at the end of your cigarette glowing faintly. “We all play, Seungcheol.”

Silence stretched between you like silk, delicate and taut. Only the quiet ticking of the wall clock and the soft clink of his glass broke through it.

“I never expected to see you like this,” he said finally. “Cigarettes in one hand, a thousand thoughts behind your eyes, carrying everything on your own.”

You looked at him then, really looked—and for a second, it felt like the years hadn’t passed. Like your hearts had never broken, like the city hadn’t swallowed you both in different directions.

“You were the one who shaped me,” you replied, voice steady, though the wine had begun to warm the ache in your chest. “You don’t get to hate the woman I had to become.”

He didn’t speak. He only nodded once, solemnly, before refilling both your glasses.

Seungcheol watched as you took your third drag, the smoke curling lazily from your lips, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He frowned, a flicker of concern tightening his features. Rising from his seat, he moved toward you with measured steps, until he stood beside the couch.

Without hesitation, his hand gently closed over your fingers, pinching the cigarette between them and pulling it away. The sudden loss startled you, but you didn’t pull back.

“Enough smoking,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours. “It’s not good for a woman.”

You inhaled sharply, the edge in your voice barely masked. “I had worse,” you mumbled, the silence that followed thick and heavy.

Seungcheol stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until his breath brushed your cheek. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Stop this mask, right now.”

You looked up at him, steady and unflinching. “I don’t wear any mask, Seungcheol. Never.”

His eyes darkened with something unsaid, a mixture of frustration and longing. The tension between you pulsed in the still room, neither willing to break, yet both craving the truth beneath the carefully crafted walls.

For a long moment, you simply held each other’s gaze—raw, honest, and dangerously close.

Then, slowly, he released your hand, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “it’s time we stop pretending.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as his hand slowly lifted to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the tension in his stance.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Your eyes fluttered closed as his face dipped closer, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Time slowed—every second stretched thin with the weight of what was about to happen.

And then, finally, his lips found yours—soft, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of a long-denied connection. The kiss deepened slowly, a silent confession that spoke louder than any words ever could.

All the pain, the silence, the masks—they melted away in that moment, leaving only raw, honest truth between you.

Seungcheol’s lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, but no less intense. His voice was low, rough with something like hunger.

“Stop pretending, Y/n. I don’t want the mask—I want you.”

You trembled beneath him, eyes searching his. “I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”

His fingers tightened around the fabric of your blouse. “Then let me show you.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, he undid the buttons, his breath warm against your skin. “You don’t have to hold back with me.”

Your pulse thundered as he trailed a finger along your collarbone, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not here. Not anymore.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, and whispered back, “Seungcheol...”

He silenced you with a deep, searing kiss, his hands tracing the curves he’d longed for, claiming every inch with a touch that was anything but innocent.

Seungcheol’s kiss grew more urgent, his hands tightening slightly as he pressed you closer. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with heat and longing. Your breath hitched, heart pounding wildly as his lips trailed down your jaw, then the curve of your neck, each touch leaving a trail of fire.

Seungcheol’s hands moved with purpose, peeling away the barriers between you as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His lips never left yours, devouring and tender all at once, a fierce mixture of restraint and need.

“Do you feel it too?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice rough yet intimate.

You nodded, breath hitching, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve never stopped.”

His gaze darkened, intense and unwavering. “Then stop hiding from me. Let me in—completely.”

With that, he gently laid you back onto the bed, his body following, warm and solid against yours. The world outside the room ceased to exist as his hands and lips explored with a slow, deliberate hunger, every touch igniting fire beneath your skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, fingers tracing a path along your jaw, “I’m listening.”

Your voice trembled, honest and raw. “I want to stop pretending. Just be with you… like this.”

A low, satisfied growl escaped him as he closed the distance again, sealing your confession with a kiss that promised no more masks—only truth and desire.

Fingers deft and confident, he began to undo the buttons of your blouse, each movement sending shivers down your spine. His touch was far from innocent—possessive, claiming, demanding without words.

You parted your lips, breath mingling with his as his hands explored, every brush of skin a promise, every lingering touch a confession. The line between restraint and abandon blurred until it vanished entirely, leaving only the two of you tangled in a heat too fierce to ignore.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched as his fingers traced the curve of your jaw, steadying you in the quiet storm between heartbeats. The air around you thickened, charged with a magnetic pull neither of you could resist. His eyes darkened, searching yours for any flicker of doubt—but found none.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the space between your lips, the world narrowing to the soft press of his mouth against yours. The kiss deepened, hungry and fierce, as if trying to make up for all the years of silence and restraint. Your breath caught, trembling beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of the moment wrapping around you like a consuming flame.

His hands slid lower, warm and urgent, tracing the lines of your body as he lowered you back onto the bed. The sheets whispered beneath you, cool against skin that burned with anticipation. The tension in the room thickened—every inch of space between you charged with unspoken desire, fear, and a longing that had refused to die.

Seungcheol’s voice came low, almost a growl. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the distance between hesitation and surrender vanished. In his arms, all your defenses began to crumble—raw, exposed, but never more alive.

The golden morning light spilled lazily into the room, tracing soft lines over the floor, the sheets, and the scattered remnants of last night’s heat — a blouse hanging off a chair, his watch forgotten on the nightstand, your heels crooked beneath the desk. The room smelled of perfume, wine, and something intimate, like skin warmed under candlelight.

You woke to a quiet stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the city outside. The clock on the bedside table glared with urgency, a rude interruption to the warmth that still lingered between your tangled limbs and the imprint of Seungcheol’s arm curled loosely around your waist.

He was already awake beside you, eyes open, watching the way your lashes fluttered before you even spoke. A lazy smile twitched on his lips — affectionate, knowing.

“We’re late,” you murmured, voice low and still wrapped in sleep.

His smile didn’t fade, but there was a flash of clarity in his eyes. “No time to waste.”

And then the spell shattered.

The room erupted into a controlled chaos. You both moved with half-hearted haste — clothes tugged on backward, then corrected; buttons mismatched, hair smoothed with hurried fingers. There was laughter between curses, near stumbles, and shared glances that betrayed the rush with something softer.

You slipped on your heels, feeling the bite of time catch up to you, and turned to find him — shirt half-buttoned, collar askew, eyes still locked on you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

Your steps toward him were quiet but purposeful. The carpet cushioned the urgency beneath your feet, but your heart beat loud with everything unspoken. You stopped in front of him, reached up, and pulled him into a kiss — not rushed, not frantic, but deep. Measured. A pause in time.

His lips tasted like memory and morning, like the ache of missing someone too long and finally having them again.

“I have a meeting,” you said as you pulled back, your breath brushing his lips, hand cupping his jaw. “I’ll meet you for lunch, alright?”

Seungcheol’s hands slipped to your waist, grounding you with that steady strength he always carried. His touch was warm, possessive in the gentlest way — not demanding, just there.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, low and sure.

There was no space for doubt in that voice. No hesitation. He would wait for you, just like how you had waited for him.

You smiled, fingers lingering a second longer on his jaw before you stepped back, turning toward the door.

The day was calling — but behind you, in that hotel room still steeped in shared heat and the haze of closeness, a kind of quiet longing bloomed.

It fluttered in your chest, soft and stubborn.

Like the start of something secured.

Like hope.

The end.

[thedensworld]

Hey everyone!

Anyone's here feeling like writing a long Mingyu fiction and wanna collaborate? I have a Mingyu draft that you might like to cook. Inbox me for the detail! 🤍🌼

[thedensworld]

The Margin | J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au! Words Count: 23k Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.

The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.

A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.

There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.

The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.

You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.

Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.

No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.

But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.

Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.

So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.

At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.

Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day

When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.

Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.

But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.

“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.

Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.

“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.

Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?

*

He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.

That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.

He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.

Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.

And then — he met you.

One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.

You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.

You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.

There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.

A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.

He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.

“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.

Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.

You knew this face better than your own.

You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.

“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.

His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.

“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.

“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”

He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.

“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.

The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.

“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.

“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”

You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.

“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”

Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.

You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.

You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.

You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.

Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.

“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”

He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.

You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.

Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.

He blinked once. Twice.

The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.

His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.

His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.

Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.

Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.

“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.

He didn’t know at all.

*

It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.

You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.

Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.

The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.

He was too human to ignore.

You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.

But sleep didn’t save you.

Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.

He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.

“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

*

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

*

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

*

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

*

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.” 

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back. 

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.

*

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness. 

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

*

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

*

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

*

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

*

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

*

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

*

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

*

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

*

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

*

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

*

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

*

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel. 

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

*

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

[thedensworld]

The Margin | J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au! Words Count: 23k Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.

The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.

A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.

There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.

The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.

You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.

Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.

No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.

But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.

Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.

So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.

At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.

Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day

When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.

Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.

But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.

“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.

Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.

“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.

Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?

*

He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.

That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.

He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.

Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.

And then — he met you.

One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.

You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.

You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.

There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.

A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.

He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.

“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.

Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.

You knew this face better than your own.

You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.

“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.

His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.

“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.

“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”

He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.

“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.

The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.

“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.

“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”

You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.

“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”

Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.

You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.

You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.

You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.

Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.

“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”

He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.

You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.

Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.

He blinked once. Twice.

The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.

His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.

His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.

Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.

Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.

“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.

He didn’t know at all.

*

It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.

You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.

Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.

The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.

He was too human to ignore.

You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.

But sleep didn’t save you.

Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.

He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.

“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

*

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

*

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

*

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

*

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.” 

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back. 

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.

*

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness. 

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

*

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

*

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

*

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

*

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

*

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

*

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

*

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

*

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

*

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

*

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

*

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel. 

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

*

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

[thedensworld]

The Margin | J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au! Words Count: 23k Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.

The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.

A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.

There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.

The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.

You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.

Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.

No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.

But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.

Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.

So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.

At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.

Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day

When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.

Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.

But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.

“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.

Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.

“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.

Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?

*

He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.

That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.

He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.

Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.

And then — he met you.

One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.

You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.

You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.

There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.

A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.

He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.

“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.

Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.

You knew this face better than your own.

You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.

“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.

His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.

“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.

“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”

He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.

“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.

The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.

“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.

“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”

You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.

“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”

Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.

You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.

You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.

You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.

Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.

“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”

He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.

You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.

Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.

He blinked once. Twice.

The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.

His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.

His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.

Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.

Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.

“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.

He didn’t know at all.

*

It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.

You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.

Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.

The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.

He was too human to ignore.

You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.

But sleep didn’t save you.

Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.

He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.

“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

*

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

*

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

*

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

*

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.” 

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back. 

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study���s doorway.

*

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness. 

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

*

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

*

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

*

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

*

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

*

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

*

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

*

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

*

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

*

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

*

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

*

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel. 

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

*

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

[thedensworld]

The Margin | J. Ww

Pairing: Wonwoo x reader Genre: Dark Fantasy, Meta-World Au!, Parallel World Au! Words Count: 23k Preview: A very well known illustrator went missing after the villain in the story was defeated.

The assistant illustrator couldn’t help it anymore — he had to report his boss, who hadn’t shown up at the studio or answered a single call in nearly a week. Soonyoung now found himself pacing in front of your apartment door, chewing at his lip while the building owner spoke in hushed tones with two uniformed officers. Any moment now, they were going to force the door open.

A thousand troubling images clawed at the edges of Soonyoung’s mind, but he clenched his fists and shoved them away. You were eccentric, sure — always lost in your stories, always scribbling out scenes that made even hardened editors flinch — but you weren’t reckless enough to hurt yourself, not just because the world had turned on you overnight.

There was only one reason the internet was tearing you apart now, one “crime” that made fandoms froth at the mouth and the comment sections drip poison: you had killed off Wonwoo, the villain in your latest web-comic — the villain people secretly adored more than the hero himself.

The last time Soonyoung saw you, you’d laughed off the hate comments, tapping ash from your cigarette out the studio window, and shrugged when your editor pleaded with you to “fix” the ending. But now, standing here with the hollow hush behind your door pressing into his ears, Soonyoung wondered if maybe — just maybe — the world’s cruelty had clawed deeper than you ever let him see.

You had left him with only one final, cryptic draft: Wonwoo’s funeral, rendered in stark, aching lines — a villain laid to rest in an empty graveyard under a cold, unfeeling rain, watched by no one except a lone stranger standing at a distance, unnamed, faceless.

Every time Soonyoung reread that scene, the same chill crawled under his skin. The pages were too quiet, too final — as if you’d been trying to say goodbye to more than just a character.

Who was the stranger at the funeral?

Why was there no hint about what came next?

And most importantly — where were you now?

Soonyoung had tapped his pen uselessly against his empty sketchpad for days, eyes flicking between the unfinished panels and the increasingly frantic messages from the publisher.

No Safe Place was your crown jewel — a web-comic that had devoured the internet whole, translated into a dozen languages, flooding timelines and group chats from Seoul to São Paulo. It told the tragic story of Choi Hansol, a hero weighted down by injustice since childhood — betrayed, framed, yet always rising again, righteous to a fault.

But the heartbeat of the story, the dark star that pulled millions into your orbit, was never Hansol alone. It was Jeon Wonwoo — the villain people loved to hate and secretly wished you’d redeem.

Handsome, cold-eyed, and terrifyingly clever, Wonwoo slit throats and burned secrets; he murdered Hansol’s fiancée and closest friends without blinking. He came for Hansol’s life, too, driven by a hunger so raw it almost made him human. That brutal contradiction — a monster drawn like a fallen angel — turned your comic from just another hero’s tale into a global fever dream.

So when you dropped the final episode, the internet howled as if you’d stabbed them instead: Wonwoo, defeated at last by Hansol’s trembling hand, two deep wounds blooming red across fresh snow. No redemption. No mercy. A villain dying alone under winter’s hush.

At first, some called it poetic. Then the hate began. How could you? they raged. Bring him back. You betrayed us. Your inbox drowned overnight in death threats and demands. Fan forums burned with conspiracies about secret drafts, alternative endings, half-mad theories about why you’d done it.

Soonyoung swallowed the sour taste rising in his throat. He should have stopped you. He should have begged you to let Wonwoo live a little longer — or at least forced you to sleep, to eat, to turn off your phone for one damned day

When the lock finally gave way with a sharp snap, Soonyoung’s heart lodged in his throat as the door creaked open.

Soonyoung stood frozen in the doorway, the metallic click of the cop’s radio muffled by the pounding in his ears. The moment the lock gave way and the door swung inward, he’d half-expected to see you — curled up on the couch with your laptop burning your thighs, mumbling a half-apology for ignoring his calls.

Instead, silence pressed against him like a heavy hand.

The hallway light flickered over your tiny living room. He stepped inside, shoes squeaking faintly on the polished floor. At first glance, nothing screamed danger: your beloved blankets draped over the armrest, a mug ring staining the coffee table, your phone abandoned near the charger — its black screen reflecting his pale face.

But when he turned toward the kitchen, his breath caught in his throat.

Shards of ceramic crunched under his heel — the shattered remains of your favorite mug, the one with the faded comic panels you’d joked was your “good luck charm.” Beside it, near the base of the counter, a dull brown smear spread in a jagged trail. Dried blood. Not fresh enough to drip. Not old enough to ignore.

“No... no, no, no—” Soonyoung’s voice cracked as he stumbled closer. He crouched, trembling fingers hovering just above the blood, afraid to touch it and make it real.

Behind him, one of the officers muttered into a walkie-talkie, calling for forensics. The building owner stood frozen at the threshold, one hand covering her mouth, eyes wide.

Soonyoung’s vision tunneled. He looked from the broken mug to the blood, to the bare hallway that led to your bedroom. No forced entry. No dragged body. Just this mess — a single, silent scene that made no sense.

“What the hell happened to you…?” His whisper trembled. He should have been angry at you for scaring him like this, for vanishing when the whole world wanted your head for killing off a fictional villain.

Now, with you missing, Soonyoung wondered: was this really just fan rage gone too far?

*

He knew something was wrong long before he had any proof. He’d always known, in the quietest corners of his mind — when the roar of his rage faded, leaving behind only questions he could never quite kill.

That day, he’d been wandering the aisles of his old library, hunting nothing in particular, haunted by everything he couldn’t name. His eyes caught on a thin, battered copy of The Little Prince — the same edition he’d clutched at ten years old, back when life was only lonely, not yet steeped in blood and sin. He traced a fingertip over the faded cover, feeling the soft paper buckle under his touch, and for one heartbeat he felt... almost real.

He sank onto a creaky wooden chair and cracked it open to the first page. But the words blurred the longer he stared, drowned by flashes of himself in every mirror he’d ever broken: his reflection, but never just his alone. There was always something behind his eyes — a ghost whispering orders, a script scrolling where his thoughts should be.

Every time he’d aimed a gun at the innocent, some quiet animal part of him had begged him to stop. His hand would shake. His pulse would hammer rebellion against the cruelty he was known for. But the bullet always found its mark. His will always drowned under a tide he didn’t control.

And then — he met you.

One moment he was tracing the little fox on page twenty-four. The next, his breath caught — the musty hush of the library vanished. In its place: the low hum of an old computer, the dry warmth of a single desk lamp flickering in a cramped, paper-crowded room.

He blinked. Not his house. Not the library.

A narrow, cluttered room greeted him: walls tattooed with sticky notes and scraps of sketches pinned in frenzied constellations. Unwashed mugs on the floor. Crumpled snack wrappers. And you.

You were hunched at your monitor, eyes bloodshot from too many sleepless nights, shoulders stiff from hours chained to the same unfinished panel. Your stylus hovered over the glowing screen when the faintest breath — not yours — brushed the back of your neck.

You froze. Your pulse ricocheted into your throat. Slowly, you pushed your chair back until the wheels squeaked against the floorboards.

There. In the far corner by your battered bookshelf — a man, half-draped in the lamp’s flickering shadow. Tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black from throat to boots. Unfamiliar, yet your gut twisted with a terrifying recognition.

A fan? A stalker? A thief? Your mind clawed for logic, but your voice failed when your eyes found his face. It was as if someone had carved him straight from your imagination and then let him bleed into your reality — eyes too sharp, too deep, a mouth that looked like it had forgotten how to smile but hadn’t forgotten how to sneer.

He stared at you like you were a riddle he’d never agreed to solve.

“Who—” Your voice cracked, too high to sound brave. You brandished the stylus like it might fire a bullet or at least buy you a few seconds to breathe. “Who the hell are you? How did you get in here?”

He flinched — just a flicker — as if your fear startled him too. His eyes darted across the chaos of your walls: sketches, sticky notes, draft pages stamped with his name on every line. He looked like he was piecing himself together from scraps he didn’t remember leaving behind.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. A faint scoff escaped, half a laugh, half a curse. He looked furious that he couldn’t make sense of any of this.

“I should ask you that,” he rasped. His voice was rough velvet, scratching your name straight out of your bones even though he didn’t know it yet. “What is this place? Where am I? And—” He stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like testing the floor before lunging. “Who the hell are you supposed to be?”

You stumbled backward, spine slamming the edge of your desk. Pain cut through your panic, anchoring you just enough to register the impossible: this man shouldn’t exist. He was lines on a page, a snarl in speech bubbles, a villain you’d birthed out of ink and exhaustion at three a.m. — not this living thing breathing your air, glaring you down like you were the monster.

Your heart rattled so hard your chest hurt. Now that you really saw him — the razor cut of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, the way his dark hair fell messily over his brow exactly as you’d drawn it a thousand times — the truth knocked the breath from your lungs.

You knew this face better than your own.

You had sketched it laughing cruelly, smirking behind a gun, spitting threats through bloodied teeth.

“Wonwoo…” you breathed. It slipped out raw, like a prayer you regretted the second you said it.

His brow twitched — confusion flaring so violently it made his hands clench at his sides.

“You know me?” His voice dropped softer now, but it was softer the way a blade is soft just before it bites.

“You—” you gasped, pointing a trembling finger at him as if that alone could keep him back. “You’re Jeon Wonwoo. You’re not real— I made you. You’re—”

He closed the gap in two strides. The movement made your stomach twist; it was too smooth, too quiet — exactly the way you’d always written him: a beautiful predator who never missed his mark.

“Stop.” His snarl was barely controlled. “How do you know my name? How do you know me?” His eyes darted past you — catching the glow of your computer screen, the pinned sketches around your walls. His own face stared back at him in half-finished scowls and ghost-smiles.

The way he looked at it all — raw confusion, rising fury, a storm brewing just under skin — terrified you more than his threat ever could.

“Answer me.” His voice knifed through the air. He lunged before you could flinch, grabbing your wrist so hard your stylus slipped from your fingers and clattered to the floor. He yanked you closer until you could feel his breath and the tremor in his chest where it touched yours.

“Tell me the truth,” he hissed, each word scraping against your cheek. “What is this place? Where am I?”

You both stared at each other then — creator and creation, but neither fully aware yet that the line between you had just shattered.

His grip on your wrist tightened, then slid up to fist the collar of your worn T-shirt. You squeaked out a half-word — a plea or a protest, you didn’t even know — but he yanked you closer, so close you could see the way his pupils flickered and shrank, anger and confusion devouring each other in endless loops.

“Speak!” he barked, his breath hot against your cheek, trembling with something too human for the monster you’d created in ink and pain. “Why is my face everywhere? Why do you know my name? What did you do to me?”

Your hands scrambled at his forearm, your fingers digging into solid muscle that felt far too real under your palms. His strength was terrifying — not superhuman, but human enough to bruise you, break you. Yet your eyes, wide and glassy, locked on his with a quiet that made his throat seize up.

You didn’t look like his victims did. You weren’t begging for mercy — not exactly.

You looked at him like you knew him. Like you pitied him. Like you were seconds from confessing something so heavy it might crush you both right there on your cluttered floor. And that look twisted behind his ribs, scraping at something raw he didn’t have a name for. It made him angrier than any lie ever could.

“STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT!” His snarl split the stale air, rattling the lamp and your bones alike. In a blind lash of frustration, he shoved you backward.

You hit the floor hard — a dull, shocking thud — and the breath punched out of your lungs. For a heartbeat, the ceiling blurred above you as you sucked in air like a drowning thing.

Above you, he staggered back, both hands raking through his hair so hard you thought he might rip it out by the roots. His chest heaved as he spun in a frantic circle, eyes snatching at every scrap of himself plastered on your walls — young, old, laughing, bleeding, always wrong but always him.

“Why…?!” His voice cracked like splitting ice. He slammed a fist into the drywall beside your pinned sketches, rattling a cascade of thumbtacks to the floor. “Why am I drawn?! Who am I?!”

He turned back toward you, but the snarl had broken. Beneath the fury, you could see it now — the terror, the desperate wanting to understand. Something no amount of hate mail or final drafts had ever prepared you to face in flesh and bone.

You lay there, chest hitching. But before you could shape even a single word— before he could hear anything from you, his eyes flickered — the anger flickered — and something inside him cracked like a mirror catching the sun.

Wonwoo staggered back a step, pupils blown wide and then drifting somewhere you couldn’t reach. Not here. Not with you. Somewhere deeper.

He blinked once. Twice.

The harsh yellow of your desk lamp flickered into a single dusty sunbeam slicing through grimy library windows. The slap of your heartbeat faded under the dry hush of turning pages and a far-off cough from the lone librarian.

His fists clenched around something soft — thin paper under his knuckles, the cover folding where his nails bit too deep. The Little Prince lay splayed across his knees, right where it had been before he’d vanished. Page 24, the fox waiting patiently in its ink lines.

His chest rose in a shudder. He twisted in his old wooden chair, eyes searching the cracked marble floor, the tall shelves, the drifting motes of dust caught in afternoon light. No blood. No trembling voice whispering secrets he couldn’t bear. No walls covered in his stolen face.

Just books. Just silence. Just him — and the tremor in his ribs that insisted he was real enough to fear his own heartbeat.

Wonwoo pressed a palm flat over his chest, feeling that traitorous pulse hammer against his skin.

“...What the hell…?” he murmured to no one but the echoes, voice hoarse, softer than the rustle of pages.

He didn’t know if he’d dreamed you — or if, for a moment, he’d woken up from the lie he’d always believed was his only truth.

He didn’t know at all.

*

It had happened a month before you ever dared to draw him bleeding into the snow.

You told yourself it was stress — that infamous “artist’s madness” everyone joked about when deadlines crawled into your dreams and stole your sleep. You’d laughed about it once. Maybe you should’ve laughed harder while you still could.

Because the first time you saw him — standing solid in your apartment, warm breath ghosting over your cheek, eyes glinting with a predator’s confusion — you realized madness was too gentle a word.

The grip of his hand on your wrist. The rasp of his voice demanding truths you couldn’t give. The faint heat of his forearm brushing yours when he leaned too close. None of it was paper or ink or your exhausted brain short-circuiting after too many all-nighters.

He was too human to ignore.

You went to the psychiatrist the next day, trembling so badly you spilled water down your chin when they offered you a paper cup. You told them — haltingly — that you were seeing things. That you’d made a monster and now he wouldn’t stay on the page.

They asked if you heard voices.

You said yes — his.

They scribbled notes you couldn’t read.

They gave you pills.

This will help with the hallucinations, they promised, their smile stretching too wide. Take them before bed. Sleep will help you separate fiction from reality.

But sleep didn’t save you.

Because sometime later — maybe days, maybe weeks (you’d stopped counting) — Wonwoo came back. Not with confusion this time, but with a polished gun clenched in his steady hand. Just like you’d written him. Just like you’d drawn him a hundred times, perfect and terrifying.

He cornered you in your kitchen, stainless steel cold under your back, barrel kissing your temple while his eyes searched you like an unsolvable riddle.

“Who am I really?” he hissed, every word precise and soft, the way you’d loved scripting his lines. “What did you do to me? Why do I exist like this?”

You could barely choke out an answer. It wasn’t the gun that broke you — it was the way his desperation bled through the barrel and sank into your bones.

It drove you mad.

He ate your sleep. He gnawed at your sanity, your drafts, your trust in your own hands. It was like watching your mind rot from the inside out — and you had made him this way.

So you did the only thing left that made sense to your splintering mind: you decided to kill him first.

Hansol would help you. Hansol, your poor righteous hero who had always deserved to bury the monster who made him suffer. It wasn’t the plot you’d started with — no, Wonwoo had been just another chess piece to deepen Hansol’s tragedy — but readers had twisted him into something you couldn’t control anymore. Something they worshipped more than the hero.

So you locked yourself away for three nights that blurred into one long, jagged heartbeat. You didn’t let Soonyoung touch a single panel. You didn’t sleep. You didn’t eat. You just drew — every drop of your fear and rage bleeding through your pen until the final stroke sealed your freedom.

Two stabs in the chest. Snow blooming red. A villain dying alone.

You uploaded the episode before your own hands could betray you. Before your fear could beg you to save him again.

And when the server confirmed the update, when Soonyoung’s panicked messages blinked unanswered on your phone, you sank to the floor under your desk and laughed — raw, exhausted, almost hysterical.

You had finally killed him.

You were free.

*

You woke up from a thin, drugged sleep — the kind where dreams and nightmares bleed into each other, where you half-believed you’d finally banished him for good.

But the scream that dragged you awake wasn’t yours.

At first, you thought it was just the pipes moaning through the walls, or maybe your own throat raw from nights spent mumbling his name like a curse. But then you heard it again — a choked, guttural rasp coming from your kitchen.

Your feet hit the cold floor before your brain caught up. You stumbled through the half-lit apartment, pills and papers crunching under your soles.

And then you saw him.

Jeon Wonwoo, sprawled in a mess of dark, glossy blood against your cabinet doors. Pale skin splotched crimson, shirt clinging wet to the ragged wounds carved right where your stylus had last touched the tablet: two deep stabs in his chest, red soaking the linoleum beneath him like spilled ink.

His eyes fluttered up at you — glassy, struggling to focus. But they were still his eyes: sharp even dulled by agony, beautiful even in ruin.

Your mouth opened, but your voice cracked like an old record.

“Oh my god, Is it real?” you whispered, the question trembling from your lips before you could stop it. You sank to your knees, heedless of the blood soaking into your sweatpants.

He coughed, a wet, rattling sound that made your skin crawl. His fingers twitched weakly, groping at the floor until they found the hem of your shirt — grasped it like a lifeline.

“Help me…” he rasped, the syllables bubbling through the blood at the corner of his mouth. His eyes locked on yours — not cruel now, not mocking. Just a man begging, like he’d never begged for anything before. “Save me. Please.”

And you — fool, creator, god trembling before your own monster — you pressed your shaking hands over the wounds you had given him. You felt the heat of his blood seep through your fingers, felt the heartbeat stuttering beneath your palms.

Your tears dripped onto his cheek, mixing with sweat and red and the last thread of whatever sanity you still had.

“I killed you,” you whispered, voice breaking. “I killed you — why are you still here?”

Wonwoo’s lips parted, but no words came out — only a shuddering exhale that smelled of iron and loss. His grip on your shirt tightened, a pitiful strength for a man who once slit throats without flinching. Now he clung to you as if you were the only thing left tethering him to breath, to pain, to existing.

“Don’t… don’t let me go,” he gasped, the plea breaking apart in his throat. A violent tremor coursed through him, blood bubbling between your fingers as he tried to hold himself together by sheer will. His eyes searched yours, desperate and terrified — the look of a man meeting the void and wanting anything but its cold mercy.

You choked on a sob so raw it burned your lungs. This was wrong. This was so wrong. He was your nightmare, your villain — you had sculpted every cruel smirk, every crime, every unredeemable sin. He deserved this ending. You had given him this ending.

So why did it hurt like you were killing him again?

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—” You pressed harder, your hands slick with him, your voice shaking apart with each word. “You weren’t supposed to suffer this long, Wonwoo, you weren’t—”

His eyes rolled back for a second and you panicked, slapping his cheek lightly, your tears splattering on his ashen face. Your vision blurred. Your heartbeat pounded against the cage of your ribs like it would tear free to keep him alive if you failed.

You grabbed his clammy face between your shaking hands and pressed your forehead to his, breath mingling with the scent of metal and sweat and the ink of your own sins.

“I’ll fix it, Wonwoo. I swear to God, I’ll fix it. Just stay.”

Somewhere deep in him, past the pain, the violence, the villainy, you felt him believe you — just for a heartbeat. His eyes slipped shut, his lips moving in a ghost of a word you almost didn’t catch.

“...please.”

It was enough to break you. It was enough to make you crawl through hell again — for him, your monster, your fault, your unfinished prayer.

You remembered.

The stranger at his funeral — the faceless silhouette standing under the gray rain while everyone else turned away. You hadn’t named him, hadn’t given him lines, hadn’t even told Soonyoung who he was supposed to be. He was just there — a margin in the story, a whisper you’d meant to revisit but never did.

The Margin.

Your heart stuttered with something like hope — foolish, desperate hope — as you cradled Wonwoo’s head against your chest, your fingers trembling in his hair sticky with sweat.

Maybe they could help. Maybe the forgotten ones could fix what you broke.

With one arm wrapped around Wonwoo’s shaking shoulders, you fumbled for your laptop on the blood-slicked floor. Your palm left crimson smears across the touchpad as you dragged up your hidden folder — the one you never showed Soonyoung or the publisher. Drafts. Abandoned arcs. Ghosts with names you never spoke aloud.

You clicked The Margin.

The folder flickered open: dozens of half-finished files, lines of dialogue that led nowhere, silhouettes that waited to be drawn. Unused, unseen, but breathing in the dark corners of your mind.

You whispered like a prayer to the screen, to the hidden codes, to the characters you’d once left behind:

“Help me… please, help me save him…”

Wonwoo stirred in your lap, groaning weakly, blood pooling warmer under your thighs. His hand twitched near the laptop’s edge, as if even dying he was tethered to the story that birthed him.

And then — the cursor froze.

The screen dimmed.

A hiss of static crawled up your spine.

The light in your apartment flickered, once, twice — then darkness swallowed everything. Not the gentle dark of a power outage — but a pulling, as if the shadows under your bed had grown teeth and wanted you back.

Your breath caught in your throat. You clutched Wonwoo tighter as the chill pressed into your skin, dragging at your consciousness like greedy hands. The laptop fan whirred one last time — then died.

And before your scream could escape, the world folded in on itself.

*

You wake slowly — not with a jolt, but like drifting up from deep water.

At first, you feel warmth against your cheek, the faint scent of wild grass, the sound of leaves whispering overhead. You blink your eyes open to a sky so wide and blue it makes your chest ache.

You’re lying in a clearing beneath a canopy of ancient trees. Sunlight filters through branches heavy with wind-chimes made from broken pens and paper scraps — your paper scraps, you realize with a jolt, words you once threw away now dancing above you like blessings.

Around you, winding stone paths lead to mismatched wooden bookshelves, some leaning sideways under the weight of dusty tomes, others half-swallowed by flowering vines. Low stone benches circle each shelf like tiny reading shrines. It feels like a park built from every soft daydream you’ve ever had about books and second chances.

And the people—

Your breath hitches.

Scattered in the grass and along the benches, you see them: men and women, young and old, draped in half-familiar clothes. A girl in a yellow raincoat you never finished writing a storm for. A man with an eyepatch, reading aloud to a group of children that never made it past your old notebook margin. A boy with wild hair and a grin so sharp it cuts through your memory — Seungkwan, your trickster, alive here like a rumor the world forgot.

They pause, one by one, as if sensing your heartbeat quicken. Heads lift from open pages. Eyes lock on you — not with blame, but a solemn recognition. The ones you abandoned, the ones you swore you’d come back for but never did.

And then you remember —

You sit up so fast the world spins. Next to you, half-cradled in the curve of your body, lies Wonwoo. His head rests against your thigh, dark hair sticking to a forehead slick with sweat. His chest rises and falls in shallow, trembling breaths — but he’s breathing. Still warm. Still real.

You brush his cheek with shaking fingers. His lashes flutter, but he doesn’t wake.

When you look up again, the characters are closer now. Forming a quiet circle. Some carry books — your books. Others hold old sketches, pages you thought you lost forever. One by one, they study you and the bleeding villain in your lap.

Seungkwan steps forward first. Mischief flickers in his eyes, but this time, it’s tempered by something older, wiser — the part of him you always imagined but never wrote down.

“Well, look who crawled back to the margins,” he says, voice a soft laugh that drifts through the leaves. He flicks a glance at Wonwoo and then back at you, tilting his head.

“You’ve brought him.”

He nods at Wonwoo — your monster, your contradiction, your bloodstained fox under the oak tree.

Around you, the others murmur like turning pages, some curious, some wary, all impossibly alive.

The garden hushes again, waiting for your answer — the answer that might heal the bruised stories still breathing between these pages, and the villain in your arms who was never just bad or good, but something painfully, beautifully human.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out — only the raw scrape of your breath fighting through disbelief.

Seungkwan watches you patiently, like a cat waiting to see if its prey will bolt or beg. Behind him, more of them drift closer through the rustling garden paths: half-finished dreams wearing your words like borrowed skin.

Your heart stutters when you see him — Joshua. Not the angel, not the saint you meant to finish someday, but the tired, gentle father you once scribbled lines for on a rainy bus ride. He stands a little apart from the others, a little sad around the eyes. A small girl clings to his trouser leg, peeking shyly at you from behind his knee — the daughter you never got to name.

Your lips form his name before you can stop yourself.

“Joshua…”

He smiles at you, soft and forgiving. It guts you more than anger ever could. He rests a protective hand on his daughter’s hair but doesn’t come closer. He just nods, as if to say: I knew you’d find your way here, eventually.

Your gaze skitters past him — and snags on a figure leaning against an old iron lamppost, arms crossed, a familiar smirk playing at his mouth.

Kim Mingyu.

The vice captain you made too reckless, too golden, too big-hearted for his own good. His letterman jacket is unzipped, wind tugging at his hair, just like in the final match scene you never wrote. He lifts two fingers in a lazy salute when he catches your stare, but there’s a bruise blossoming under his eye — the fight you’d planned but never finished.

And beside a shelf blooming with lilacs, half-shadowed, you spot him: Jihoon.

The wizard who once studied charms in a castle built of your childhood wonder. His robes are dusty, ink stains his fingers, and a battered spellbook dangles from his wrist. His gaze is sharp, calculating, but when your eyes meet, there’s a softness there too — the forgiveness of someone who understands how many drafts a miracle can take.

You sink back on your heels, your hands trembling where they cradle Wonwoo’s sweat-damp hair. He groans faintly in your lap, dragging you back to the sick reality of flesh and blood and consequence.

The characters wait. So many shades of you. So many pieces that were never just light or shadow — always both, always alive in the margins.

You swallow, voice barely more than a cracked whisper.

“I don’t… I don’t understand. Why are you all here? Why is he—” you look down at Wonwoo, at the monster turned man, at your fear made helpless in your arms — “Why is he still bleeding? I killed him. I killed him.”

Seungkwan clicks his tongue, crouching so close his grin brushes your panic like a knife.

“No, darling. You wrote an end. That’s not the same as killing.”

Behind him, Joshua’s daughter giggles softly, clutching a flower she’s plucked from the grass. Mingyu tips his head back to watch the clouds drift like torn paper across the sky. Jihoon flips open his spellbook, murmuring under his breath — perhaps already plotting a charm to mend what you’ve broken.

Hansol’s eyes gleam as he leans in, nose almost touching yours.

“This place — the Margin — is where the unfinished things wait. Good, bad, broken, hopeful. Us. You. Him.” He flicks a glance at Wonwoo. “You gave him too much of yourself to truly die. You stitched kindness into his cruelty. You doubted him, and you loved him. And now — here he is. Asking you to decide which part of him gets to live.”

The wind stirs the pages on every shelf, like a thousand heartbeats holding their breath.

“Tell us, author…” Seungkwan purrs, voice warm and deadly all at once.

“Will you keep running from your monsters — or will you set them free?”

Wonwoo’s breath stirs weakly against your thigh, then catches on a soft, pained laugh. His eyelids flutter — heavy, reluctant — until they crack open enough to find you, blurry and bright and trembling above him.

His fingers curl in the fabric of your pants, gripping just enough to anchor him to something warm. His lips twitch into a shape that almost resembles a smile, ruined by a tremor of agony.

“Am I…” He coughs, the sound tearing at your chest. His voice is hoarse, but you can hear the ghost of that cruel lilt that once made your readers flinch — twisted now into something childishly fragile.

“Am I in heaven?” He drags in a ragged breath, eyes skimming the sun-dappled leaves above, the soft sway of books and petals drifting on the wind. The other characters — your half-forgotten children — watch him with an odd, quiet sorrow, like old ghosts paying respect.

“Do I… even deserve it?”

Your throat clamps shut around a sob. You want to say yes. You want to say no. You want to scream that this place is not heaven — it’s your fault, your punishment, your miracle.

So you do the only thing your broken creator’s heart can manage: You cradle his face in both palms, pressing your forehead to his. The warmth of him sears your tears clean.

Around you, the Margin seems to breathe — the other characters watching, waiting, their layered stories rustling through the trees like wind through an orchard of second chances.

And in your arms, your monster — your mercy — bleeds and breathes, daring you to decide what you truly believe in his endings.

*

You woke up with a dull ache pounding behind your eyes, the kind that made the ceiling blur and tilt before settling back into focus.

For a breathless moment, you didn’t dare move. You lay there, half-tangled in crisp linen sheets that smelled faintly of old wood and some expensive soap you’d never buy for yourself. A massive window spilled soft morning light across polished floors. Heavy curtains, carved panels — all too grand to be yours.

Your mind reeled, scrambling for something solid. The last thing you remembered was the Margin with Wonwoo.

Your eyes flew open. Wonwoo. Where was he? Was he still bleeding? Still clawing at his own existence?

You pushed yourself upright too fast, the world spinning so viciously you nearly collapsed back onto the pillows.

And then —

“Excuse me…”

The gentle voice startled you. A woman, perhaps in her forties, stood just inside the doorway. She bowed her head politely, her hands folded at her apron front. The soft lines around her eyes crinkled when she offered you a careful smile.

“I’m Mrs. Park,” she said, in a tone so calm it only made your heartbeat worse. “I’ll be the one to serve you while you’re staying here. At Jeon’s house.”

Jeon’s…

The words hit you like ice down your spine. You stared at her, your lips parting, mind skimming frantically through old drafts, background notes, family trees only you ever cared about.

Park… Hyungrim.

Daughter of Jung Seo — Wonwoo’s most loyal servant. A side character you’d named in a margin note, half-intending to give her a line or two someday.

Your gaze flicked from her kind eyes to the unfamiliar grandeur pressing in from every wall. The high ceiling, the carved beams, the muted luxury that felt exactly — horribly — right.

You were in Wonwoo’s world. Inside the fiction. Inside him.

“Park Hyungrim…” you whispered her name aloud, more to prove you hadn’t lost your mind again.

She beamed, seemingly pleased. “Ah, so you do know me, Miss. Master Jeon will be pleased you’re awake. He instructed us not to disturb you until you’d rested properly.”

You didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Master Jeon. So polite, so proper — as if he hadn’t once pressed you to the floor with blood on his hands and yours.

You swallowed hard, voice a bare breath. “Where is he?”

Mrs. Park’s smile softened into something almost maternal. “Master Jeon is waiting for you in the study. He said you’d have much to discuss.”

And for the first time since you’d opened your eyes, your pounding head went quiet — replaced by a single, echoing thought that felt both terrifying and inevitable. You were in his world now. And there would be no running from the ending you owed him.

“How… how did I get here?” you croaked out, your voice still raw from sleep and disbelief. You clutched the blanket tighter around your waist, needing something — anything — to anchor you to the fact that this wasn’t another fever dream.

Mrs. Park stepped a little closer, lowering her voice as if sharing an intimate secret. “Master Wonwoo and you were found outside the main gate early this morning. It startled the entire household. Master said you… you saved him.”

Your heart stuttered painfully in your chest. Outside the gate. The Margin. The promise to find the end — did it fling you straight into the story’s spine?

“He was injured,” you whispered, your throat closing around the memory. Blood on your hands, his broken plea: Save me.

“Yes,” Mrs. Park nodded, her eyes shadowing with concern. “Badly hurt. But the doctor came at once. He’s resting well now, stronger than any of us could have hoped.” She hesitated, searching your face as if weighing how much truth to spill. “He insisted no one disturb you. He sat by your bed all night.”

You felt the floor tilt again, but this time it wasn’t the headache — it was the sheer absurd tenderness of it. Your villain, who once threatened to gut you like one of his victims, had guarded your sleep as if you were the fragile thing.

Your lips trembled around the question that slipped free despite yourself. “Why… why did he say I saved him?”

Mrs. Park tilted her head, confusion and gentle fondness mingling in her expression. “Perhaps, Miss… because for Master Jeon, being alive at all — that is your doing, isn’t it?”

You laughed then, an exhausted, broken sound that tasted too close to tears. Because of course. It always came back to you. His pain. His breath. His mercy — or lack of it — all crafted by your hand.

And now you were here. Trapped inside the fiction you’d stitched together.

And somewhere beyond this room, Jeon Wonwoo — the man you’d written to be both monster and tragedy — was awake, waiting, and wanting answers only you could give.

Mrs. Park bowed politely, stepping back to the door. “When you’re ready, Miss… the study is just down the corridor. Master Jeon is waiting for you.”

You padded barefoot down the hallway, trailing your fingertips along the walls — smooth polished wood, the carved crown moulding exactly as you’d drawn it, the embroidered runner soft beneath your feet. It all looked like your story, but living in it turned out to be a maze: corridors twisted into each other, doors you never bothered detailing led to entire wings you’d never planned.

You cursed under your breath when another turn ended in a dead end lined with framed calligraphy and a cold window staring at the courtyard.

“Great,” you muttered, pressing your palm to your forehead. God of this world, but can’t find the villain’s study to save your life.

Then behind you — low, rough, and unmistakable — came the sound of someone clearing their throat.

You spun so fast you nearly slipped on the rug.

Wonwoo stood half-shadowed at the intersection of the hall, leaning more heavily on the wall than he probably wanted you to see. His torso was tightly bandaged under an open black shirt that hung loose on his broad frame, fabric brushing his hips but baring the bruises you’d put there yourself.

His eyes — your undoing every time — locked onto yours, hungry for answers, flickering with relief and raw confusion.

“You’re hopeless,” he rasped, and the corner of his mouth twitched, like he was half-amused, half-pained. He pushed himself upright and nodded his head toward a door just behind him. “You walked past my study twice already.”

You opened your mouth, found nothing useful to say, and snapped it shut again.

Wonwoo’s eyes dragged over you slowly, taking in your disheveled hair, your wide stare, the tremor in your hands. His voice dropped, rough but softer now — maybe for you, maybe for himself.

“Come here. Before you get lost again.”

*

You sank deeper into the cushions, the plush velvet swallowing your shoulders while you watched him — Jeon Wonwoo, your beautiful nightmare — fuss with the buttons of a shirt that didn’t quite hide the bruises or the faint wince every time he moved.

He pulled the old corkboard closer, the squeak of the wheels dragging over the marble floor cutting through the heavy quiet.

Gone were the grainy photographs you’d pinned there for him — Hansol, his mark; that lover he’d used for leverage; the detective’s blurry license plate.

Now only jagged notes scrawled in black marker covered it. The Margin. Source Stream. Memory Loops. Control Points.

Wonwoo faced the board, but his eyes flicked to you in the glass reflection.

“You promised me an ending,” he said, voice calm, but the undercurrent rippled with a threat you couldn’t name. “That’s why we’re back.”

You flinched. Back. Not we’re home. Just back.

“You’re back,” you corrected under your breath, but he heard you, of course. He always heard everything.

Wonwoo’s fingers ghosted over the biggest word in the middle — MARGIN — underlined twice.

He spoke slowly, almost carefully, like testing the edges of a blade.

“We’re connected through The Margin. Because that’s where you pull it all from. The scraps. The lives you half-built. The truths you left unfinished — including me.”

His knuckles tapped the board once, too sharp, too close to anger.

“You sound smart,” you mumbled before you could stop yourself. Regret bloomed immediately.

But instead of snapping, Wonwoo let out a low, humorless laugh — one you’d written for him a hundred times, now bleeding through real lips.

“You made me smart,” he said simply. Then he turned, pinning you to the couch with that impossible, too-human stare.

“Now, creator — Y/n — tell me honestly.” His jaw flexed, the words grinding out like stone.

“What was the goal? Writing me.” 

Your mouth was dry. He waited, breathing ragged in the hush.

In that moment, he looked nothing like the neat lines on your tablet screen — just a man who realized he’d been caged in ink and was clawing for a door.

Your voice cracked at the edges — too much truth pressing out all at once, pushing past the fragile dam of guilt you’d built every time you put your pen down.

“You weren’t supposed to cross both worlds,” you said again, as if saying it twice might shrink the horror of it.

Wonwoo, standing by the board, went still. One hand flexed at his side, restless and half-curled like he wasn’t sure whether to reach for you or for your throat.

“But you…” Your breath hitched. Your eyes blurred at the memory — your dingy apartment lit by the flicker of your desk lamp, your own wrists bruised where he’d pinned you. His voice, a low growl in the dark: Tell me who I am.

“I thought it was all a dream,” you confessed, voice no louder than the rustle of papers drifting behind him. “You came to my place. You threatened me. You aimed a gun at my head. You haunted me. And I—”

You swallowed, shame sour on your tongue. “I thought I was crazy.”

Wonwoo’s jaw twitched, but his eyes didn’t leave yours. When he spoke, his tone was stripped bare of any monster’s snarl — only weary certainty: You’d written him too deep. You’d made him want more.

“That night,” you whispered, voice trembling as you looked at the neat bandage peeking from his open collar, “when I realized I’d lost control of you, I decided your end. I had to finish you — I had to end it…”

He tilted his head, eyes dark and searching, as if reading the unwritten pages still hiding behind your ribs.

“You always planned to kill me, didn’t you?” His tone was half-accusation, half plea.

“No — I never tried to kill you,” you blurted out, voice cracking as your hands clenched uselessly in your lap. “You were… you were there for Hansol. I needed you, Wonwoo. I needed you to break him, to build him, to—”

“But you were about to kill me, Y/n!”

Your name in his mouth tasted like rust and accusation, each syllable bitten off like he resented having to say it at all.

“Because you— you started to fight for your life!” you cried, the confession tumbling out raw. “You weren’t supposed to want it that badly. It scared me!”

His laugh came out sharp, cracked at the edges. “I scared you?”

There was something so small and so vicious in his eyes, the thing you’d written into him — a monster, but too human to accept that word quietly.

“You never did,” you whispered, shoulders sagging. “Not until that.”

A tense silence pooled between you. Wonwoo’s tongue darted to the corner of his lip, catching a drop of blood from where he’d bitten it. He looked at you like he might devour you or collapse at your feet — and he hated both options.

Then, in a sudden, tired gesture, he turned away, palm flattening on the board so hard the paper pinned beneath it crumpled.

“Enough. Let’s talk again tomorrow,” he said lowly, not looking back. 

You rose from the couch on unsteady legs, the taste of your name still burning on his tongue long after you slipped from the study’s doorway.

*

You woke up to the faint clink of porcelain and the soft rustle of fabric. Park Hyungrim stood by your bed, her hands folded politely in front of her apron as if she hadn’t just arranged half your breakfast and an entire boutique in your room.

“Good morning, Miss,” she said with a slight bow. Her voice was calm, gentle — the way you’d scripted her mother, Jung Seo, to soothe the monsters that haunted Wonwoo’s halls. Now the daughter did the same, but for you instead.

On your nightstand: toast still warm, a delicate cup of tea, fresh fruit you hadn’t seen since your last attempt at healthy living.

And beside your bed, servants flitted in and out, arranging a small forest of dresses, blouses, skirts, even shoes you’d never pick for yourself.

“Master Wonwoo had these prepared,” Hyungrim explained, her tone betraying neither judgment nor curiosity. “He also wishes for me to show you around the house once you’re ready.”

You sat up slowly, blinking at a cream silk blouse hanging from a carved oak rack — your reflection caught in the brass mirror behind it, hair a mess, hoodie collar stretched, sweatpants wrinkled at the knee.

Your life at home: instant ramen, half-finished scripts, coffee stains. This life now: gold-thread curtains, high windows, an entire wardrobe you never asked for.

A hollow laugh slipped past your lips before you could swallow it.

You made him — made all this — and now he wants to give you a tour like some polite landlord showing a clueless tenant around her own mind.

“Miss?” Hyungrim asked softly, eyes kind but too observant for comfort.

You dragged your eyes from the silk and forced a smile.

“Okay. I’ll get ready.”

And as you ran your fingers over fine cotton and delicate lace, one thought drummed under your ribs:

He’s more than what I wrote. And maybe… so is this world.

Hyungrim’s footsteps were soft but unhesitating on the polished floors, her voice steady as she guided you past rooms you half-recognized from your sketches and half-felt for the first time with your own skin.

Your mind, though, barely clung to her words about family portraits, study halls, and the greenhouse behind the east wing.

Instead, your thoughts drifted down familiar back alleys and precinct corridors in another part of this world — the threads you’d woven so carelessly late at night and left dangling because life, or heartbreak, or deadlines got in the way.

Hansol. Your reckless police officer hero who was more fists than caution tape, always coming home bruised but never beaten.

Dokyeom. Bright-eyed chief of Team 3, all warmth until he slipped on gloves. Sihye. Your breath caught on that name. Your sister’s eyes, your sister’s laugh — borrowed, resurrected as a gentle doctor tending to broken bones and broken men in a city that didn’t deserve her softness. 

You snapped back when Hyungrim stopped at the main doors, bowing lightly.

“Miss?”

You turned to her, your chest so tight it made your voice come out raw.

“Hyungrim, I need to go into town.”

Hyungrim didn’t flinch. She only dipped her head again — your unwavering servant in every version of this story.

“Yes, Master Wonwoo mentioned you might wish to explore. He has arranged a car and driver for your comfort and safety.”

You half-laughed, half-scoffed, words spilling fast. “But I need cash, Hyungrim — real money.”

Hyungrim nodded as if you’d asked for tea instead of freedom.

“I’ll prepare your bag immediately, Miss. Please wait here a moment.”

And as you stood by the carved doors of the Jeon estate — your own palace, your own cage — you wondered if your characters would even want to see you.

After all, what did you ever give them but unfinished endings and borrowed hope?

*

Wonwoo stepped out of the glass-walled dining lounge just as the midday sun dipped behind passing clouds, softening the sharp lines of the towering skyline that hemmed his empire in steel and secrets. He slipped on his sunglasses, ignoring the bowing host trailing behind him with murmured thanks.

Jun — his right hand since VEIN’s inception — matched his pace easily, a discreet file tucked under one arm and a subtle bulge of a sidearm under his jacket.

“Mr. Jeon,” Jun began as they passed the marble lobby’s silent fountains. “The board is satisfied with your agreement. The Ministry liaison will handle the new shipment from Busan.”

Wonwoo gave a curt nod, mind only half on the logistics of memory chip couriers and clinic expansions. He was already sifting through the next puzzle: you. His unexpected, stubborn guest still tucked away under his roof like a secret he couldn’t burn.

A discreet vibration against his palm drew him back — Jun handed over a slim phone. He flicked through the latest security update: your breakfast, your walk with Hyungrim, your request for money — and now, a note that you’d left in a black sedan headed toward the old river district.

“Curious little god,” he murmured to himself. What are you digging for this time?

Wonwoo’s eyes found Hansol instantly. Even in the gentle bustle of lunch hour crowds, Hansol looked like tension made flesh: clean blazer, faint holster imprint under the left arm, a restless glint that had never dulled despite his disgrace. A woman walked beside him, slim in a pale coat — Sihye, the doctor. Wonwoo’s jaw tensed around a crooked half-smile. You always gave him someone good to protect. Even if he had to bleed for it.

“That’s Officer Choi,” Jun repeated, voice low. “He… hasn’t given up, sir.”

Wonwoo adjusted his cuffs, then let his gaze linger on Hansol’s silhouette in the crowd.

“He was never written to give up,” he said simply — almost fond, almost pitying — before slipping into the waiting car, doors thudding shut like the click of a rifle bolt behind him.

The engine purred alive. Through the tinted window, Wonwoo allowed himself one more glance at the stubborn detective you loved so much — the loyal hound you’d set on his trail long before he himself knew he deserved to be hunted.

He closed his eyes as the city slid by. The day Wonwoo first felt the fracture in his own mind was the day he named his kingdom: VEIN — an unassuming biotech front woven tightly with a network of data brokers, black market pharma, and discreet clinics for the desperate rich and the dangerous sick. A perfect name, he thought. A lifeline and a chokehold.

He’d once believed every ambition in him was his own: the sleepless nights in overseas libraries, the charm he sharpened at law school roundtables, the hands he dirtied in Seoul’s neon alleys — all stepping stones for a man who wanted power to flow through him like blood through a vein.

But then there was that cop.

A routine nuisance at first — a mere local detective trying to pry open VEIN’s clinic back doors with cheap warrants and moral righteousness. A flick of Wonwoo’s finger could have erased him. One bullet, one whisper to a debt shark. Simple.

Yet he didn’t.

Instead, Wonwoo found himself sparring with the man, baiting him into dead ends, feeding him crumbs of false evidence, watching the frustration carve lines into the officer’s youthful face.

Choi Hansol. Young, tireless, irritatingly incorruptible. Wonwoo could have ended him a dozen times. But he didn’t. He didn’t even want to.

Instead, he played.

He toyed with the righteous dog long past reason, sabotaging raids only to leak hints later. He twisted Hansol’s life just enough to keep him close — but never close enough to break free.

And the strangest part? It made no sense. Wonwoo was never so indulgent. Never so sentimental. Never so careless. And yet, a hunger for this dance dug itself into his marrow, whispering “more.”

So when he first breached the boundary — stumbled through the shadow between his world and yours — he found the truth scrawled across an old sketch in your apartment. He was written that way. The ambition. The hunger. The odd fascination with a cop he should hate. The compulsive mercy that made no sense for a man like him.

He wasn’t a king at all. Just a creature on strings — greed stitched in by your pen, compassion dripped in when you were feeling soft.

VEIN had never been his alone. It was a monster’s dream borrowed from your sleepless nights. And every time Hansol’s stubborn eyes flashed with defiance, Wonwoo saw not just an enemy — but your favorite blade.

Jun, strapped in the front beside the driver, spoke with the hesitant tone he reserved for anything concerning you.

“Sir… it seems your guest has caused a scene.”

Wonwoo didn’t bother looking up from the report file in his lap.

“Main station confirmed: she attacked someone. They’re holding her for questioning.”

Wonwoo shut the folder gently. The slap of paper closing made Jun flinch more than any shout would have. Wonwoo’s mouth curled — but not into a smile. A cruel twist, more irritation than amusement.

“Drive to the station. Now.”

He leaned his head back against the seat, jaw tensing until it ached. Outside the tinted window, the river glittered in the distance — the same place where he first tested how far your invisible leash would stretch.

Now you were tangled in your own plot and Wonwoo wondered if you could survive him.

Wonwoo’s shoes clicked on the station’s cold tile floor, each step an echo loud enough to hush the low murmur of busy officers. Jun shadowed him, silent and sharp-eyed.

He didn’t bother greeting Hansol — only let his gaze sweep the scene: you, a mess of stubborn defiance and trembling wrists, seated across a metal table; Hansol and that same woman standing guard like a mismatched pair of guardian angels.

Wonwoo’s voice cut the tension like a scalpel.

“She’s my guest. My people will take care of this.”

Hansol stood immediately, his chair scraping back so hard it nearly toppled.

“This is a police station, Jeon. We do things under policy. She stays until this is settled properly.”

Wonwoo’s smirk was an insult and a promise in one curve of his mouth. He didn’t even spare Hansol a full glance — eyes flicking instead to you, assessing: your raw knuckles, your bitten lip, the manic shine barely hidden under that exhausted guilt.

“My person,” Wonwoo enunciated slowly, “will have it settled. Officer Choi.”

Hansol bristled, heat climbing his throat. The other officer — some senior detective — stepped in quickly, a hand on Hansol’s arm, voice placating:

“Hansol. Let it go. Sir Jeon, we’ll discuss this with your lawyer. Please have her stand up.”

You didn’t move. You stared at the floor — at the faint stain of your own drama playing out like spilled ink. But Hansol’s voice broke that moment of retreat. “She attacked Sihye!” His voice cracked.

Wonwoo’s steps were unhurried as he guided you out of the suffocating air of the station. Eyes darting for threats that didn’t dare appear while Wonwoo’s presence darkened the exit like a stormcloud.

Outside, the sun was sharp, the street too ordinary for the mess you’d caused inside.

But Hansol followed. Of course he did. Hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders tight with barely caged defiance. He barked past you, straight to the man you’d written as his enemy.

“Are you his girlfriend?” His eyes cut to you, unblinking. “Do you know what he does?”

Wonwoo didn’t stop walking until he did — a single pivot on his heel, the sudden stillness more violent than any blow. The grin was small but lethal, a blade turned politely outward.

“You should know when to close your mouth, Officer Choi. I taught you plenty, didn’t I?” His head tilted slightly, an animal’s warning.

You hovered wordless by Wonwoo’s shoulder, the only sound of your quickened breathing. When Hansol stepped closer, you instinctively shrank behind Wonwoo’s broad back. Ironic — how the hero you’d made to save others now looked at you like you were a mistake, and the villain you’d built to ruin lives shielded you like a wall.

Hansol’s eyes flicked down to your shoes, up to the faint bruise near your collarbone. Each detail stoked the anger in his jawline.

“She doesn’t have an ID. No records, no prints — no one knows her. Another name to vanish under your rug, Jeon?”

At that, Wonwoo’s hand swept behind him, palm pressing against your hip to pull you closer into his shadow. A quiet, possessive gesture that made Hansol’s fists ball deep in his coat pockets.

“Let’s meet again — on real business, Officer Choi.” Wonwoo’s voice lowered into silk lined with iron. “Bring your gun next time. Maybe it’ll make a difference.”

He guided you toward the waiting black sedan, the tinted door swinging open as his driver slipped ahead to clear the path.

Behind you, Hansol’s voice cracked the air one last time, rough with something dangerously close to grief:

“I see she's yours, Jeon.”

Wonwoo didn’t answer. He only nudged you gently into the backseat — his monster’s promise warm at your shoulder, the door slamming shut between you and the world you’d written for him to devour.

He leaned one shoulder against your bedroom doorframe, arms folded loosely across his chest — looking more at home than you ever did, though this was technically your mind made real, your words given walls and floors and furniture.

“First day here and you already managed to get yourself locked up in a police station.”

His voice was deceptively calm, dark amusement simmering beneath the chill. He clicked his tongue, a small, mocking laugh escaping him. “You really don’t know how to live a life, do you?”

You sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, legs tucked under the unfamiliar nightgown Hyungrim had laid out for you. The lace collar scratched your collarbone — too pretty for the way your chest felt tight and raw.

“You weren’t supposed to find out so soon,” you muttered, eyes darting to the floor. “Or Sihye, or Hansol— I didn’t plan—”

He stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it?”

You flinched as he stopped before you, close enough to see the faint bruise blooming along the line of his bandages, where your betrayal still lived in his flesh.

“Why did you hug her?” he asked, quieter now — not the villain’s voice, but something more human, more disappointed. “The doctor.”

You squeezed your fists in your lap, nails digging half-moons into your palms. “She shouldn’t have looked that much like her. I — I panicked.”

A silence fell between you, heavy with everything you never intended to write. Wonwoo crouched down, knees cracking softly. He looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, eyes sharp yet weary — a predator forced to carry its wounded prey.

And then — softer, almost too soft for your chest to bear. “Rest. You’ll need it. Tomorrow, you’ll tell me exactly how you plan to end this story.”

He stood, the room suddenly emptier as his shadow slipped back to the door. Leaving you with the ache of every word you’d ever written that never learned how to stay safely on the page.

Your plan sounded logical — on paper, anyway. A neat conclusion, a redemption arc, a sacrifice to balance out all the blood and secrets you’d poured into him.

But the second the words left your mouth that morning in his study, you regretted them.

Wonwoo laughed. Not a quiet, amused laugh — but the kind that cracked through his teeth like glass under a boot. He tossed his pen aside and shoved away from his desk so hard the heavy chair scraped the floor like a threat.

In three strides he was before you, and you nearly flinched when the shadow of his frame fell over yours. His arms shot out — one hand slamming the wall beside your head, the other braced against the bookshelf behind you — boxing you in with the sharp scent of his cologne and the faint, metallic tang of wounds still healing beneath his shirt.

“This,” he hissed through clenched teeth, voice trembling at the edges of his rage, “this is your grand plan for my ending? I rot in a cell so your precious hero can stand above my grave and bathe in pity?”

He snapped his chin toward the coffee table where your folder lay, pages bleeding out like open veins. With a guttural snarl, he grabbed the whole thing and hurled it so hard the papers burst apart mid-air — drifting down behind the sofa like feathers, mockingly gentle against the storm in his chest.

“Fuck!”

He turned away, fingers clawing at his hair until the strands stood wild and jagged. You could see it — the tremor in his shoulders, the truth that fear mixed with fury when a monster realizes its own cage.

Your knees threatened to buckle, but you gripped the shelf at your back so you wouldn’t collapse under the weight of your own creation.

“You want me to surrender everything I crawled through blood for? The money, the power — the way they tremble when they whisper my name?” He stabbed a finger at the floor-to-ceiling window behind him, where the city glittered like prey under moonlight. “You want me to kneel so that bastard cop can stand over my corpse and call himself righteous?”

His laugh split the air again — brittle, a knife dragged over glass.

“Tell me, Creator — where in me did you ever write the word mercy?”

When he turned back, his eyes locked on you — sharp and wild and too human for something you’d crafted in a midnight draft.

Your breath snagged in your throat. You felt it — your heart drumming terror into your ribs because he was right. You’d made him a monster with a mind sharp enough to hate it.

“I don’t want you to break…” you whispered, your voice trembling like your hands.

He crowded closer, so close your back pressed deeper into the books. His forehead nearly touched yours; his next words were a threat and a plea wrapped in a confession of all he couldn’t control.

“Then write a better end, Y/n.” His breath ghosted your lips, hot and ragged.

“Or I’ll carve one myself — and you won’t get your happy ending this time.”

You returned to the Margin that night — or maybe it was dawn, or dusk. Time curled strangely there, bending to the flick of your desperation like pages warping under rain.

You stumbled past the familiar oak trees and scattered benches, your footsteps echoing over the soft grass. Here, characters who had once whispered secrets in your dreams paused to watch you. Some nodded in silent greeting, others simply kept reading, bound to their fates between covers you’d left half-shut.

You collapsed by the fountain near the center — the heart of your abandoned stories. Your fingers trembled as you tugged open the folder on your lap, pages yellowed by neglect but still humming with promise.

Title by title. Year by year. Notes scribbled in your tired college nights, outlines drafted on train rides, character sheets born in the blur between heartbreak and caffeine. You read them all — searching for loopholes you’d never written, prayers hidden in subplots you’d discarded.

Somewhere, you thought, you must have planted a seed for him.

Something good.

Then you found it.

*

You pressed your back into the old wooden chair in the library’s quietest corner, the smell of aging pages and dust grounding you more than the marble halls of Wonwoo’s estate ever could.

Myungho was probably still in the car, chain-smoking nervously because you’d threatened to fire him — a laughable bluff, considering he’d take Wonwoo’s word over yours any day. But at least he’d left you alone for now.

Your fingers traced the frayed spine of The Little Prince, that battered comfort you’d clung to as a kid when walls trembled with your parents’ anger, when love cracked apart in the dark and you had nowhere else to sleep but under your own thoughts.

You flipped to the chapter you always returned to — the fox and his quiet plea: “You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed.”

A bitter smile tugged at your lips. You never intended to tame Wonwoo. But you did.

Your thumb lingered on the delicate illustration, the tiny prince’s scarf flaring in a wind that had never been kind enough to you, either.

Somewhere between the sentences, the library’s hum softened to a hush so deep it pressed against your eardrums. The fluorescent lights flickered, warped into a golden dusk that wasn’t there before.

You knew this feeling.

The pull — not of this library, but the Library.

A door to the Margin within the real world.

You’d cracked it open before, half-asleep at your old studio desk.

And now it opened for you again.

The fox on the page seemed to lift its head. The paper prince turned slightly in your mind’s eye. And you felt yourself drawn under — not drowning, but drifting deeper into words you’d once written to save yourself.

You were back in your stories, hunting for another answer buried in the lines.

You closed your eyes against the library’s glow and whispered into the hush, “Show me another way to save him. Before he destroys everything… before he destroys me.”

And the fox — or the book — or the Margin itself — answered with the faint rustle of pages turning themselves.

You barely noticed how the chatter of the students nearby faded into a dull echo, how the dusty light filtering through the high windows blurred to a soft glow behind your lashes.

Your finger rested on the line you’d underlined years ago — “One runs the risk of weeping a little, if one lets oneself be tamed…”

A brittle laugh bubbled up your throat.

Isn’t that what you did to him?

Tamed a monster with half-baked mercy and lonely nights, then recoiled when he turned his fangs on you for answers.

Your vision pulsed — the black letters swimming — until the margin of the page bled outward, curling up at the edges like burned paper.

And then you were falling through it.

The musty library air thinned, replaced by the dry, warm hush of your own constructed nowhere — the Margin — infinite aisles of half-born ideas, boxed scenes, handwritten scraps you’d never shown anyone.

Your old apartment unit.

Inside, the air smelled like dust and stale instant noodles. Everything was exactly as you’d left it — the stack of dog-eared manuscripts on the tiny desk, the mug with three pens and a single dying highlighter, the sticky note on the mirror that read You owe them an ending.

Your throat tightened. You owe him an ending, you corrected yourself this time. You caught yourself on a shelf labeled VEIN — Early Drafts. Behind it: folders and loose pages, secrets too grim to publish, dreams too soft to stand in the real world. You dragged your fingertips over the binders until you hit one marked in your scribbled pen: Characters: Minor/Discarded. Your heart lurched.

This was where the overlooked lived. The side characters, the failed plot devices — the ones you’d promised next time.

You flipped through the folder so fast paper cuts stung your knuckles.

Behind you, the floorboard creaked. You froze, a cold current slicing down your spine. You didn’t dare turn — not until you heard that voice, low and almost gentle, yet heavy enough to press your heart flat against your ribs.

Your eyes met his in the reflection of your mirror: Jeon Wonwoo, leaning casually against your doorframe. Dressed in black again, hair still tousled from the car ride you didn’t know he’d taken right behind you.

He looked impossibly large for this room — for this part of your life that once felt too small for even yourself, let alone him.

Your voice cracked as you twisted to face him fully. “Wonwoo — how are you here? You… you shouldn’t be here. Not here—”

He tilted his head slightly, but this time there was no smirk — only the barest flicker of something unsettled behind his sharp eyes. He looked at you, then past you, as if the peeling wallpaper and flickering dorm light might offer an explanation he’d missed.

He stepped closer, slow but not deliberate this time — more like he was testing if the floor would hold him.

“Where are we?” he asked, voice lower than a whisper, and not for effect. He truly didn’t know. His hand reached for the edge of your desk, gripping it hard enough that your scattered notes trembled.

Your breath caught as you realized it. The monster was lost.

“Wonwoo… this is—” you started, but your throat closed up.

His eyes snapped back to yours, sharp again, though confusion still bled through the cracks.

“This isn’t my house,” he said, more to himself than you. “This smell… the hallway… it’s old. It’s…” He looked you up and down, taking in your clothes, your trembling hands, the ancient little prince book half-buried under a mess of scribbles.

“You dragged me here,” he accused — but it wasn’t the cold venom you knew. It was frustration. A flicker of fear under all that rage.

You shook your head, desperate to make sense of it too.

“I didn’t mean to! I just— I needed a place to think— to fix this—”

Wonwoo barked out a humorless laugh, raking a hand through his hair. The motion exposed the faint line of stitches on his temple — a reminder of your last attempt to control him.

“Fix this,” he echoed, almost mocking but more tired than cruel. He looked around again, at the tiny room that reeked of old anxiety and stale coffee and everything you’d once been.

His eyes found yours again, searching, pleading despite himself.

“What did you do, Y/n? Where did you take us? When did you take us?”

And for the first time since you’d ever written him, you realized he wasn’t your villain or your creation at all — he was a man who’d been dragged across stories and time without a map.

And he was just as scared as you.

You tried to steady your breathing, but the lump in your throat only grew.

“This is… my old studio,” you forced out. “Where I wrote most of you — the early drafts. The first scenes. All those nights when I—”

Your voice caught when his eyes flickered at the word wrote. He was still trying to piece it together. Still fighting it, even now.

“I was looking for answers, Wonwoo. I thought— I thought if I came back to the beginning, maybe I’d find a way to fix you. To fix this.” You gestured weakly around you: the faded curtains, the cracked plaster, the boxes of old manuscripts and half-dead pens you’d hoarded like talismans.

Wonwoo’s throat bobbed as he swallowed whatever curses or threats rattled inside him. He stepped back just enough to lean against your rickety bookshelf, arms crossed tight over his chest like he needed to hold himself together.

“I was in my office,” he said, voice low but clear — a confession forced through clenched teeth. “I had a meeting. Jun was reporting about you — how you were poking around an entertainment agency building. And then—”

He broke off, brow furrowing as if he could claw the memory back from the haze. His gaze flicked to the grimy window, the taped-up corner of your old laptop, the dog-eared books that made up the bones of who you used to be.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as his hands planted on either side of you, caging you against the edge of your old desk. The tiny lamp buzzed between you, throwing his eyes into restless shadow and light.

His voice was low but ragged, scraped raw with a question too big for the peeling walls to contain.

“What did you do, Y/n?”

You flinched at your own name in his mouth — so human, so accusing.

“I— I didn’t mean to—”

He cut you off with a sharp, disbelieving laugh that died as quickly as it rose.

“I was in my office. I had control. I had my people, my rules—” His palm slammed the desk by your hip, rattling pens into your lap.

“And then I’m here. No power. No way back.”

You couldn’t help it — your voice cracked, trembling worse than your hands clutching the hem of your old sweater.

“I came here to find answers, Wonwoo. To fix you. I thought… maybe if I went back to where I made you, I could undo it — the blood, the killing, the— everything.”

His jaw tightened. A muscle jumped under the faint scar near his temple.

“So instead you dragged us both backwards.” He leaned in, forehead almost brushing yours, the heat of him wrapping around you like a noose.

“Is that it, Y/n? You wanted to rewrite my hell so badly you tore it all open? Time, place — me?”

You squeezed your eyes shut, a single tear slipping free before you could swallow it down.

“I didn’t know this would happen. I swear. I thought maybe— maybe the beginning could show me the way to give you a better ending. Or at least… save you.”

His laugh ghosted across your lips, bitter and helpless all at once.

“Save me? Or save yourself?”

His eyes bored into yours then — not your villain’s eyes, not your monster’s. Just a man’s. Furious, fractured, and terrifyingly real.

“What did you do to us, Y/n?” he breathed.

And for once, you had no line, no plan, no paper shield to hide behind. Only the truth that maybe you’d broken the lock on the very cage that made him yours.

*

You watched Wonwoo asleep on your bed, the floor around you littered with notes and scribbled timelines from every version of this mess you’d ever tried to control. Paper crumpled under your bare feet each time you shifted, but he didn’t stir — not until your stomach betrayed you with a low, sharp growl.

His eyes fluttered open, dark lashes brushing his cheekbones before they focused on you. You’d inched so close you were leaning over him, your head tilted at the edge of the mattress, just watching him breathe.

“You have money?” he rasped, voice rough from sleep, but his gaze flicked to the chaos on the floor like he already knew the answer.

You blinked, then remembered the stash of emergency cash you’d once hoarded for late-night ramen runs and rent you couldn’t pay on time.

“Let’s go out to eat,” you murmured, half a command, half a plea.

Oddly — maybe because he was too tired to argue, or maybe because in this world he had no empire to guard — he just nodded and swung his legs over the edge.

You pulled on an old oversized hoodie over your thin dress, the fabric swallowing you whole, and slipped into a pair of scuffed sneakers instead of your usual heels. Wonwoo’s eyes lingered on you, narrowed, curious — as if he was seeing a version of you he’d never been allowed to touch before.

When you stepped out of the tiny studio, the night air slapped your cheeks cold and real. You ducked your head low, hiding your face from the street’s indifferent glow, too busy bracing for a stranger’s glance to notice the way Wonwoo’s eyes followed every step you took.

You ended up in a modest restaurant you’d always passed by back then but never once stepped into — too clean for your student budget, too proper for your unwashed hair and all-nighter sweats back then. Now, at least, it gave you warmth and a moment’s pause to swallow real food for the first time in days.

Your fork froze halfway to your lips when the TV above the counter blared breaking news:

“A powerful earthquake struck Busan earlier this evening…”

You didn’t hear the rest. The numbers, the shaking towers, the headlines dissolving into a date that burned behind your eyelids:

10 August. Four days before Independence Day. The day you didn’t go home. The day you missed her funeral.

Your chair scraped back so hard it startled the couple beside you. Wonwoo’s hand shot out, catching the edge of the table before it tipped your plate to the floor.

“Where are you going?” His voice was too calm, too sure — but his eyes were locked on yours, searching for the storm he knew was coming.

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

Wonwoo dropped his fork, metal clattering against the ceramic plate, but he didn’t flinch. He just watched you — your back retreating through rows of still-eating strangers, head lowered under that oversized hoodie that did nothing to hide how shaken you were.

He stood, slower than you, ignoring the waitress’s startled “Sir, the bill—” as he followed. One hand slipped into his pocket, fingers brushing the folded cash you’d forgotten to take — the only anchor he had left from his world in this mess.

Outside, the late summer air hit harsh and humid. He found you half a block away, standing at a dusty bus stop sign that looked like it hadn’t been painted since the year you wrote him alive. You were hunched, arms tight around your middle like you were trying to hold something in. Or maybe keep something out.

“Y/n.”

His voice cut the buzz of cars and far-off traffic. You flinched, but didn’t turn.

He came closer, not stalking like your villain — not hunting. Just moving. Heavy, deliberate steps on cracked pavement.

“Where are you going?” he asked again, quieter now. No threat. Just the question — and something ragged underneath it, as if he hated needing to ask at all.

Your fingers dug into the hem of your hoodie.

“It’s August tenth,” you whispered. Your voice trembled worse than your shoulders. “That earthquake… I remember now. That day, my mother—”

Your breath hitched and your next words came out broken.

“I didn’t go home. I didn’t see her one last time. I stayed here. Writing you. I stayed here for you.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flickered. A pulse of understanding — and something colder — behind the confusion. He reached out, touched your wrist with fingers that could break bone but only rested there, too light, too human.

“Y/n.” He forced your gaze up, two wrecks caught in the glow of a flickering bus sign.

“You can’t change that,” he said. Not unkind. Not gentle either. Just brutal truth, shaped in the mouth of the man you’d once written to be invincible.

“You drag yourself back here, back then — but you can’t rewrite her. You can’t rewrite that.”

Your lip trembled. The truth slammed your ribs worse than any villain could.

“But if I could—”

He cut you off, firm fingers at your jaw, grounding you.

“You can’t.” His eyes narrowed, voice a hoarse whisper meant for no one but you. “You want to fix me. Fine. Fix your story. Fix the ending. But don’t lose yourself in the part that was never yours to hold.”

And as the old bus rattled up, brakes screeching through the sticky night air, you felt it — the choice pressing against your ribs like a knife: save him, save yourself, or bury it all under the ruins of your past you couldn’t dig up anymore.

You and Wonwoo stood at the edge of the crowd, half hidden behind a rusted iron gate and the old lilac tree your mother once planted in a cracked pot on the apartment balcony. Now it grew wild beside her coffin — a reminder she’d always loved beautiful things even when they died in her hands.

You pulled your hoodie tighter around your face, sleeves tugged over your fists like they could hold in the storm brewing under your ribs. Beside you, Wonwoo was silent, hands shoved in his coat pockets, his eyes flicking over the black-clad mourners with an unreadable coldness. To him, it must’ve looked like an irrelevant side plot, a scene he’d never been given to play in the margins of your draft.

You wondered if your old self was somewhere nearby — the you that never made it here, that stayed locked in a dorm room, scribbling villains and empires while the real world crumbled outside her locked door.

Wonwoo leaned closer, his breath warm against your ear.

A flicker of something crossed his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? Or just curiosity that the one who played god in his world could still be so painfully small in her own.

He shifted closer, enough that the cold wind couldn’t slip between your shoulders anymore.

He glanced back at the line of mourners, the hushed prayers, the echo of grief he could mimic in your pages but never feel like this.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured after a moment. One gloved hand brushed the edge of your sleeve. “Are you cold?”

You laughed, choked and watery. “No. I’m terrified.”

He didn’t say don’t be. He didn’t promise to protect you — that was never him. Instead, he stepped behind you, close enough that his coat brushed your hoodie.

*

Wonwoo’s steps halted when you veered off the narrow gravel path, deeper into the quieter rows of stone and framed photographs. He almost called your name — but the look on your face stole the word from his tongue.

You stopped in front of a headstone tucked between a wind-worn willow and an old brass lantern left by some devoted relative. There, pressed to the cold marble, was a photo he recognized instantly. A gentle smile. Sharp, kind eyes behind slim glasses. Ji Jihye.

Wonwoo’s pulse thudded in his ears.

“She’s in my world.”

His voice came out lower than he meant, brittle in the hushed air.

“The doctor. The one you…” He hesitated, thinking of that night — the trembling relief in your face when you clung to her like a drowning child to shore. In his world, she’d been the calm in his storms, a plot device he’d never questioned.

“The one you hugged that day.” You nodded, eyes fixed to the photograph as if you could fall into it and never come back.

“She’s my sister. She raised me when my mother—” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t bother hiding it. “When she couldn’t.”

Wonwoo’s jaw worked, silent words trapped behind his teeth. He glanced at the picture, at the name carved so neat and final: Ji Jihye.

He almost asked What happened to her there? — but the truth landed in his gut before you said it.

“Murder.”

You didn’t flinch when you said it. The word sat between you like a bloodstain no rain could wash off.

For a moment, the wind rattled the willow branches overhead. Wonwoo turned back to you — really looked at you, past the creator, past the coward who ran from funerals and folded reality when it didn’t obey. There it was: the child left behind, the sisterless girl who stitched monsters out of her grief.

Wonwoo didn’t move. Didn’t breathe. Because suddenly all the twisted knots that made him — the rage, the power, the endless hunger for fear and control — trembled on a single question:

Was he really evil, or just a vessel for every wound you never mended?

His fingers curled, nails biting into his palms. He watched you, your eyes shimmering under the willow’s shadow, and for the first time since stepping from the pages into your fragile reality, he wondered:

What was he really for?

*

You and Wonwoo sat side by side on the dusty wooden floor of your old studio, knees brushing, backs pressed to the peeling wallpaper like you both needed it to hold you upright. Between you lay a scatter of papers — the same half-baked plot threads and character sheets you’d clung to for years like they were prayers that might save you.

Outside, the cicadas were singing — an old summer song that once made you feel small and safe at the same time. But inside, the silence between you and him was heavier than grief.

You picked at the edge of a yellowing notebook. “I wasn’t supposed to be here. I remember… I was supposed to be in Jeju. I ran away after my aunt texted me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t see her like that.”

You didn’t have to say your mother. The word was already a bruise in the room.

Wonwoo didn’t comment, didn’t pity you — he never did, never would. But the way his shoulder leaned just barely into yours was louder than a thousand sorrys.

He turned his head, watching you from the corner of his eye. “How did you come back? To this version of now?”

You laughed — a thin, breathless sound that made him frown. “I was reading. In the town library. I was trying to find another way to fix you. I thought maybe if I found my old ideas…”

He finished it for you, voice softer than you’d ever heard. “Was it The Little Prince?”

Your breath caught. You turned to him, eyes wide. “How did you know?”

Wonwoo dragged a hand through his hair — he looked almost embarrassed, if a man like him could be. “It sent me too. To your place. I was in my office. Then… there.” He gestured vaguely at the air, as if the whole universe was just an untrustworthy hallway you could slip through by accident.

Your lips parted, memories flickering: a child curled under a thin blanket, whispering to a paper prince to save her from doors slamming, from the crash of glass, from fists and broken promises. You’d written him to be your monster, but before that, you’d begged a little boy on an asteroid to protect you from adults.

And now here he was — no asteroid, no desert rose, just Wonwoo, an echo of every shadow you’d loved and feared.

“The Little Prince…” you murmured, almost to yourself. “It was my sanctuary. When they fought. When she cried. When I was too small to stop anything.”

Wonwoo let out a dry, near-silent laugh. “Mine too. It made me hate the king less.”

For a heartbeat, your monster and your child self sat together on that floor — two broken kingdoms connected by a single, fragile story about a boy too gentle for the world.

Wonwoo nudged your knee with his. “Maybe that’s it,” he said, half teasing, half serious. “Your prince keeps dragging us back when we run too far.”

Your laugh cracked open something in your chest. And you wondered, for the first time in years, if maybe neither of you was too far gone to come home.

*

You woke up tangled in warmth you didn’t remember climbing into — stiff sheets, a familiar weight against your side, and a scent that was unmistakably his: crisp, deep, edged with something dark like wet stone.

Blinking through the fuzz in your head, you shifted — and found Wonwoo half-asleep beside you, sprawled on his stomach, face turned toward you. His hair fell messily over his forehead, shadowing the faint scar at his temple.

He cracked one eye open, caught your startled stare, and groaned into the pillow.

“Sorry,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleep and still a little rough. “Too tired to drag you to your room.”

Before you could answer, he let out a long breath and promptly buried his face in the pillow again, clearly intending to finish what little rest you’d stolen from each other all night.

You sat up so fast the blankets slipped to your lap. Your head spun. The familiar carved ceiling above you wasn’t the dorm’s cracked plaster — it was rich mahogany, polished and cold. His world’s air was heavier, scented faintly of cedar and the garden roses you knew he never watered himself.

Back. You were back.

You swung your legs off the bed and found your shoes still on. The hoodie swallowed you in its softness, a piece of the past now clinging stubbornly to your present. Carefully, you slipped from the bed — Wonwoo barely stirred, just an arm flung out to claim the empty space you’d left behind.

Padding to the heavy door, you cracked it open, peeking into the wide, sunlit hallway that could never belong to a cheap old dorm. Marble floors, oil paintings, hush of distant servants. His empire — real again.

You stepped out, only to freeze as a soft gasp broke the quiet.

Mrs. Jung stood there — sturdy, neatly dressed in the dark uniform of the household’s inner staff. Her hair was pinned tight and her eyes were sharp, though they widened when she saw your disheveled hoodie and bare feet peeking from beneath it.

Mrs. Jung. Hyungrim’s mother. The real iron backbone of Wonwoo’s household — the one who knew every secret passage and every lie.

She blinked once, took in your flushed face, the door cracked behind you, and gave the smallest bow, voice utterly neutral but her eyes curious as ever.

“Miss Y/n,” she said, smooth as tea poured into porcelain. “Good morning. Did you… rest well in the Master’s chamber?”

You opened your mouth, closed it, then managed a strangle, “Yes. Thank you.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile but had trained herself not to.

“Very good, Miss. Shall I prepare your room again? Or… would you prefer breakfast brought here?”

Behind you, Wonwoo’s sleepy grunt drifted from the bed — a muffled, lazy sound that somehow made your heart kick against your ribs.

You swallowed, tugging the hoodie tighter around yourself, suddenly feeling sixteen again and older than you’d ever been all at once.

“I— I’ll take breakfast here, thank you. And… Mrs. Jung?”

“Yes, Miss?”

You met her gaze — the mother of your villain’s most loyal man, standing in this world you’d spun from your grief and hunger for protection.

“Thank you for… looking after him..”

You sat stiffly on the edge of his leather couch, knees drawn together, the hoodie sleeves tugged down over your fists like a child’s security blanket. Outside the tall windows, the courtyard gardens basked under the late morning sun — a sight so distant from the cracked dorm ceiling that your head still ached trying to reconcile the leap.

Footsteps padded behind you — soft, slow, and unmistakably his.

Wonwoo dropped onto the couch beside you with all the lazy, fluid grace you hated to admit still made your chest tighten. He smelled freshly showered now, hair damp and pushed back, but his eyes were heavy-lidded with leftover sleep.

He slouched into the cushions, head rolling toward you until his sharp gaze pinned you like a bug on velvet.

“How we got back?” you asked before you could second-guess yourself. Your voice betrayed how raw your throat still felt, scratchy with exhaustion and words left unsaid at that graveyard.

Wonwoo’s mouth curved — not quite a grin, more a crooked slice of mischief through lingering fatigue.

“Myungho found you,” he said lazily, like recounting a half-remembered dream. “Passed out in the town library. I was too in m study.”

You blinked. “Passed out?”

Wonwoo lifted a brow, amused by your disbelief. He mimicked your tone under his breath: “‘Passed out?’ Yes, darling, that’s what happens when people rip holes in their heads, hopping worlds and time.”

You scowled at his mockery but he only hummed, ignoring it as he stretched out an arm behind you along the back of the couch — not touching, just there, like a bracket holding you in place.

You pressed on. “Then why was I in your room?”

At that, a real grin ghosted over his lips — fleeting, crooked, so achingly boyish it almost didn’t fit the monster you’d carved him into.

“I was too tired to carry you to yours. You passed out, remember?” He nudged your knee lightly with his own. “And don’t flatter yourself.”

You shoved his leg half-heartedly, heat crawling up your neck. “I wasn’t flattering myself. I just— it was surprising.”

Wonwoo laughed under his breath. A sound that, for once, held no threat. Only a secret understanding between the creator and her creation — two ghosts returned to the flesh, sharing the same borrowed couch in a world neither fully owned anymore.

His eyes softened just a fraction as he watched your face — as if daring you to ask the question that trembled behind your teeth: What now?

But for now, he didn’t press. He just tipped his head back against the cushion, eyelids drooping again, a king at rest beside the only storm that could shake him awake.

The quiet between you barely settled before the faintest knock, polite but firm, tapped at the door frame. You flinched, twisting just as Mrs. Jung stepped in carrying a tray balanced with more care than a royal offering.

She dipped her head first to Wonwoo — “Master,” she greeted with gentle respect — then turned her warm eyes to you.

“Breakfast, Master. And for your guest.” Her voice was steady as ever, but you caught the subtle flicker in her eyes when they lingered on your oversized hoodie and the way your bare feet tucked under you on the couch.

Wonwoo, half-slouched with his arm draped over the couch back, cracked one eye open, a lazy smirk curling at the corner of his mouth.

“She demanded my share too, Mrs. Jung. Make sure she leaves me at least the fruit.”

Mrs. Jung’s lips twitched at his dry humor — she’d clearly survived it for years. She set the tray carefully on the low table in front of you, arranging the bowls and teacups with a grace that almost felt ceremonial.

“I’ll bring more tea if you wish, Master,” she said, her tone softening when she spoke to you too, kind but clear. “Please eat well, both of you — you need your strength after worrying us so.”

You mumbled a quiet thank you, cheeks warming under the hood as you avoided Wonwoo’s look — a mixture of amusement and something else you couldn’t read.

Mrs. Jung’s eyes lingered on you for another heartbeat, as if she wanted to say more but thought better of it. Then she bowed her head again, turned, and slipped out — the door closing with a gentle click behind her, leaving the scent of warm porridge and faint herbal steam curling around the room.

Wonwoo reached for a bowl and pushed it toward you, his knuckles brushing yours without apology.

“Eat,” he ordered, voice rough from sleep but softened by something like care. “If you faint again, I’m not dragging you next time. You’re heavier than you look.”

He claimed his own bowl, folding one knee up beside you as if this — a monster and his maker, side by side over breakfast — was the most ordinary thing in the world.

Outside, the courtyard glowed under a patient morning sun. Inside, for the first time in a long while, neither of you felt like running.

*

The sun was dipping low when Myungho knocked twice and stepped into Wonwoo’s office without waiting for permission — which was enough to make Jun look up from the couch, eyebrows raised. Wonwoo didn’t lift his eyes from the contract he was marking up, but the quiet knock alone had already put him on edge.

“Master,” Myungho said, voice tight. He didn’t bother with titles this time. “We have a problem.”

Wonwoo’s pen paused mid-sentence. He finally looked up. “Speak.”

Myungho’s throat bobbed. He shifted his weight like he didn’t want to say it at all.

“It’s Miss Y/n. She was at the town library. About an hour ago, witnesses say a black SUV pulled up. Two men forced her inside. One local vendor found her bag in the alley behind the bus stop.”

Jun sat up straight. “You’re sure?”

“Yes, sir. Her guards said she slipped them by going out the back gate. She didn’t want them trailing her that close — she told them she just wanted quiet.”

The room stilled. Wonwoo didn’t slam the desk or shout — but Jun, who’d known him long enough, saw the change immediately: the pen dropping soundlessly, the barely-there tremor in his knuckles before he curled them into a fist.

“Where was this? Which street?” Wonwoo asked. His voice wasn’t cold — just quiet, so quiet that Myungho almost preferred shouting.

“Near the east gate road, Master. Traffic cameras caught the SUV heading out of the old market district but we lost it near the industrial park.”

Wonwoo leaned back, eyes on the ceiling for a heartbeat — like he needed to keep the anger in check just to stay focused. Then he pushed up from the desk, methodical. He shrugged on his black coat, buttoning it with steady fingers that betrayed none of what tightened his throat.

“Start with the market CCTV. Block every road out of the district. Call the inspector directly, use my name if you have to — I want every exit checked. If they switched cars, trace every plate that left that zone in the last hour.”

Myungho nodded, halfway out the door already, phone in hand.

Jun stood, rolling his shoulders. “Sir—”

“I know,” Wonwoo cut in, voice softer, tired. His eyes flicked to Jun, a shadow of worry slipping through the usual steel. “She hates people trailing her. I should’ve—” He shook his head once, as if to snap himself out of it.

Wonwoo huffed a breath that was almost a laugh, but his jaw clenched right after. He grabbed his phone, already dialing, eyes distant but burning with a promise.

You owed him an end, but this isn't something he expected.

Wonwoo had barely made it down the marble steps when his phone vibrated in his coat pocket — just once, an unfamiliar number flashing on the screen. He answered it without thinking, half-expecting Myungho with an update.

But it wasn’t a call. It was a text.

“So you have a vulnerability?”

Attached below, a single photo loaded.

He stopped cold on the last step. Jun, coming up behind him, nearly collided with his shoulder.

“Sir?” Jun frowned, peering at the frozen look on Wonwoo’s face. “What is it?”

Wonwoo didn’t speak right away. His eyes traced the picture, the cheap motel wallpaper, the too-bright flash. The raw knot in his chest squeezed tighter at the sight of you — wrists bound to the headboard, head turned away, hair spilling across the pillow like you’d fought before they forced you still.

The phone trembled in his hand — barely. Just enough that Jun saw it.

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose. Slow. Measured. But when he looked up, the cold calm he always wore was gone. Something far more human burned through his irises — fury, yes, but beneath it, a helpless ache that scared Jun more than the rage ever could.

“They want me to panic,” Wonwoo said, almost to himself. He lifted his thumb, saving the photo to his files as if cataloging evidence, not an open wound. His other hand clenched the stair rail until the veins stood stark against his skin.

A second vibration buzzed through the silence. Another message:

“You want her alive? Come alone. Tonight. We’ll send the location soon.”

Wonwoo’s eyes flicked to the clock on the hall wall. Not nearly enough time to wait. Not nearly enough time to forgive himself for letting this happen.

Jun slipped the phone back into Wonwoo’s palm.

“I’ll have everyone track the signal. You’re not going alone., sir”

Wonwoo’s fingers closed tight around the phone — as if he could crush the message, the photo, the threat itself. He didn’t argue. For once, he didn’t care about pride or image or playing the perfect chess game.

*

In the stale half-light of the run-down motel room, the buzz of a flickering ceiling fan blended with the shallow rasp of your breathing. The rope bit cruelly into your wrists; your throat tasted of cotton and regret.

You barely registered the dip of the mattress until a familiar weight settled near your hip.

“Hey.”

You forced your heavy eyelids open. Blurred outlines resolved into a face you knew too well — Hansol. But not the Hansol who’d laughed through his meeting in the team 3 room, or muttered sleepy jokes behind stakeouts. His eyes now held something you couldn’t name, but you knew you never wrote it.

He watched you like a puzzle he’d half-solved. One corner of his mouth tugged upward, a smirk that made your pulse stutter for all the wrong reasons.

“You look smaller up close,” he said quietly, brushing a finger along your hairline. “Does he keep you hidden in that big old house? Or are you just too precious to show around?”

Your dry lips cracked when you tried to speak.

“H-Hansol…” you croaked. “Why… are you doing this?”

He clicked his tongue, feigning disappointment.

“You know, for someone Wonwoo goes soft over, you ask dumb questions.” He leaned closer, shadows carving sharper lines into his cheeks. “I don’t care about you, sweetheart. You’re just the leash. The king drops his crown when you scream — everyone knows that now.”

Behind him, two strangers — older, meaner — checked the window for the fifth time. One of them brandished your phone, the screen cracked from being snatched.

Hansol’s eyes flitted back to yours, studying the tremor in your lashes with unsettling patience.

“You really think he loves you, huh?” he murmured, voice dripping disbelief and something like envy twisted into contempt. “A man like him doesn’t love. He owns. And now… he’ll learn he can’t own everything.”

You winced as he thumbed your bruised cheek, tender as a lover.

“Tonight,” one of the men said gruffly, tossing Hansol your phone. “Drop sent. He comes alone, or she bleeds before dawn.”

Hansol pocketed the phone, then turned to you one last time — no warmth, no hate either. Just a wolf checking its trap.

“Try not to cry too much. Ruins the pretty face he likes so much.”

He stood and motioned for the others to tighten your bonds. Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him — leaving you bound, dazed, and painfully awake to the fact that in this nightmare, you were nothing more than leverage for a man you’d created but could no longer control.

The click of the door echoed in your skull long after Hansol and his shadows vanished down the hallway. You lay motionless for a few heartbeats, letting your breathing even out, listening — first for footsteps, then for the hush of the old building settling into silence.

Don’t panic. That voice — your voice — the same one that used to narrate these horrors from behind a safe screen. It sounded so far away now.

Your wrists burned from the coarse rope. Every shift scraped skin raw, but you forced your elbows up anyway, testing how much slack they’d left in their arrogance. The knots weren’t perfect; Hansol was cocky, not careful.

Your eyes darted around the dingy room: a battered side table, an empty bottle on the floor, a lamp plugged into a wall socket hanging loose from age.

You flexed your fingers until blood stung the tips. Inch by inch, you curled your knees under you, testing the rope at your ankles — tighter than your wrists, but not unbreakable.

You tugged once. Twice. The headboard rattled softly. No footsteps. Good.

Next, you twisted your body to the side, forcing your bound hands against the jagged corner of the bedframe’s rusted hinge. Metal bit skin — you hissed through your teeth, the smell of iron blooming fresh.

Keep going.

Your breath hitched when you heard faint voices down the hall. Hansol’s laugh. A lighter flick. Then footsteps retreating toward the far end of the corridor.

You pressed harder. Back and forth, flesh tearing, fibers loosening.

A single rope strand gave way with a muted snap. Pain blurred your vision but you swallowed it down, gasping through grit teeth as you slipped one wrist out.

Free. Half-free.

Ignoring the sting, you scrambled to untie your ankles, each tug punctuated by the terror that any second the door could burst open. Finally, the rope fell to the floor with a soft thud.

Your legs trembled as you stood, barefoot, hoodie rumpled and sticky with sweat and blood. You scanned for anything useful — no phone, no weapon, just a creaky old lamp and your pounding heart.

You padded to the grimy window, praying it wasn’t painted shut. Your trembling fingers worked the rusted latch loose. You shoved. Once. Twice. The frame groaned in protest before giving way an inch at a time — a humid gust stung your cuts but tasted like salvation.

Below, a dirty alley sloped into shadows. No time for fear. You swung one leg over the sill, biting back a whimper when your scraped palms pressed into the peeling paint.

A voice shouted inside the room — too late. You pushed off, dropped into the night, knees buckling as you hit the gravel. Pain shot up your shins but you forced your feet to move.

One breath. One thought: Run.

You bolted down the alley, bare feet slapping against broken concrete and puddles that splashed up your legs. Behind you, shouts erupted — Hansol’s voice, furious and sharp, echoing like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from.

Your breath tore at your throat, each step a prayer to whatever cruel god still watched over you and the monsters you’d unleashed. You veered right, shoulders crashing against an overflowing dumpster, then stumbled out into a dim side street lit only by flickering neon signs.

A black car screeched to a halt at the curb just as you shot across the gutter — headlights blinding you, tires squealing against wet asphalt.

You froze. For half a second, the world stilled, your scraped hands trembling in the glare, your chest heaving, your heart a war drum.

Then the car's door slammed open.

“Y/n!”

Wonwoo’s voice — raw, frantic — cut through every other sound.

He was on you in two strides, one hand gripping your shoulder so tightly it almost hurt, the other brushing your hair back, searching your face as if to confirm you were real, whole, not just a vision conjured by rage and fear.

“Are you hurt?” he rasped, scanning you up and down. You tried to answer — your mouth opened — but over Wonwoo’s shoulder, another figure emerged from the shadows.

Hansol.

He slowed to a stop at the edge of the headlights, breath misting in the night air, his eyes locked not on you now but on Wonwoo — and whatever twisted history the margin had let grow between them.

Wonwoo didn’t turn, but you felt the tension coil through him, like a bow pulled so taut it could snap bone.

Hansol cocked his head, wiping a smear of blood from his split lip with the back of his hand. He didn’t look at you — you didn’t exist in his eyes anymore. Only Wonwoo did.

“So,” Hansol said, voice calm, almost amused, though his knuckles were white at his sides. “Seems you do have a soft spot after all, master.”

The word dripped with mockery, a dare.

Wonwoo’s hand slid from your shoulder to your waist, anchoring you behind him. His other hand curled into a fist. He didn’t answer Hansol — didn’t need to.

You could feel it in the way he shifted his weight: this wouldn’t end in words.

Wonwoo’s arm tensed across your stomach, pinning you back a step as Hansol lifted the gun — careless, casual, yet steady as stone. For a split second, you thought he was bluffing.

But the glint in his eyes wasn’t madness — it was something colder. Certain.

“Don’t,” Wonwoo warned lowly, voice a dangerous calm that made the men behind him — Jun, Myungho, a handful of guards in black — shift their stance, guns discreetly trained on Hansol’s head and chest.

Hansol laughed, almost gentle. His finger curled tighter on the trigger.

“Look at you, Wonwoo… playing hero for a woman.” His eyes flicked to you, just a flicker, then right back to Wonwoo’s.

“Did she soften you so well you forgot what you are?”

“Hansol,” Wonwoo growled, moving half a step forward — but Hansol’s aim never wavered. The muzzle of the gun aligned perfectly with your chest first, then flicked back to Wonwoo’s.

“Stay behind me,” Wonwoo murmured to you without looking — an order threaded through with something fragile.

Your breath caught.

“Hansol — stop this. You don’t have to—”

Hansol’s grin twitched. For a heartbeat, regret flickered across his sharp features — gone before you could name it.

“Too late.”

The gunshot cracked the night open.

Wonwoo jerked — a sound, not a scream but a punched-out breath, left his lips as his shoulder snapped back. His grip on you faltered but didn’t break; his weight leaned into you for half a heartbeat before he forced himself upright, staggering once but staying between you and the barrel that still smoked in Hansol’s hand.

Time splintered around you — guards shouting, Jun lunging, Myungho cursing as he tackled Hansol from behind, the gun clattering to the pavement.

“Y/n—” he rasped, his forehead brushing yours, breath warm despite the cold. “Stay… behind me…”

Time fractured.

Wonwoo’s weight sagged into you — warm, heavy, terrifyingly real — as a second gunshot cracked through the air, closer than the first, sharper, final.

Your head snapped up just in time to see Jun, breathless and stone-faced, lowering his pistol. Smoke curled from the muzzle. Hansol’s body lurched back, the force sending him sprawling to the filthy asphalt. His gun tumbled from lifeless fingers, skittering away until Myungho’s boot pinned it down with a crunch of gravel.

For a moment, no one breathed. Then the night erupted: boots slamming pavement, men shouting commands, two guards wrestling Hansol’s barely-conscious cronies to the curb. Somewhere in the chaos, a siren wailed — distant, irrelevant.

But all of that blurred when you looked down at Wonwoo. His eyes fluttered open just enough to find yours, a glassy stubbornness shining through the pain.

“Hey— hey, don’t—” You pressed your hand hard against his shoulder wound, the heat of blood seeping too fast between your fingers. “Wonwoo, stay with me. Please, just—”

A choked laugh rattled out of him, strained but real.

“Y/n..” he rasped, half a smirk ghosting his lips. “You don’t… order me…”

You wanted to scream at him to shut up, to save his strength — but all you could do was press harder, leaning over him as Jun dropped to his other side, barked something you barely registered to the guards about an ambulance and backup.

“Jun—” you gasped, your voice breaking.

“I know.” Jun’s eyes flicked to yours, softening only for a fraction of a second before hardening again at the sight of Hansol’s limp form a few feet away. “I got him. Focus on master. He’s going to make it — sir, you hear me?”

Wonwoo’s breathing hitched, then steadied, his lashes fluttering against your wrist as you held him.

In the periphery, Myungho’s voice rose over the chaos, sharp and venomous as he kicked Hansol’s gun away and helped bind the man’s wrists in blood-smeared plastic cuffs.

And in that chaos — asphalt, blood, the ruined echo of betrayal — all you could do was bow your head over Wonwoo’s chest, feel the stubborn pulse beneath your palms, and pray that this time, for once, your story would let him live.

*

When your eyelids finally fought their way open, the first thing you saw was the sterile white ceiling — too bright, too still — and the frantic blur of Soonyoung’s worried face leaning into your blurry vision.

“Y/N! Y/n — hey, look at me, look at me — Doc! She’s awake! She’s—” He turned his head and bellowed down the hallway, his voice cracking halfway between relief and panic.

You blinked hard, your tongue dry as you tried to form words. It felt like waking from a lifetime underwater.

“...S-Soonyoung…?”

He almost collapsed over your bedside rail, grabbing your hand so tight you felt it through the IV tape.

“Holy shit, don’t you ever— I mean— where the hell were you?! Do you know what—” He choked on a half-laugh, half-sob. “The whole country could’ve gone to war and you wouldn’t know, you— oh my god—”

A doctor brushed past him, checking your pupils with a penlight, mumbling something reassuring about dehydration and mild concussion. Soonyoung refused to let go of your hand the whole time, his thumb sweeping your knuckles like he needed to remind himself you were really there.

When the doctor finally stepped back, Soonyoung dropped his voice, fighting the tremble that made him sound ten years younger.

“You were gone for two weeks, Y/n. Two weeks! A farmer found you lying by the side road near the rice fields — said you were passed out in the dirt. Police brought you straight here. We—” His breath caught. “We thought—”

You squeezed his hand weakly, a reflex to hush the tremor in his voice.

A soft knock at the door cut through the haze — two plainclothes officers stepped in, polite but clearly exhausted. One flipped his notebook open, voice gentle but firm.

“Miss Y/n… we know you’ve just woken up, but can you tell us anything about what happened? Where you were? Anyone who might have—”

You stared at him. The white walls swam a little. Wonwoo’s blood, Hansol’s laugh, Jun’s voice telling you to hold on — all of it pressed like a bruise behind your ribs.

“I…” You wet your lips. “I don’t remember. I’m sorry. I don’t… remember anything.”

The older officer exchanged a glance with his partner, then nodded, jotting something down.

“That’s alright. When you’re stronger, maybe something will come back. Rest for now, Miss.”

When they stepped out, Soonyoung exhaled shakily, dropping into the chair by your bed again.

“You don’t remember, huh?” he whispered, searching your eyes for the truth you couldn’t say out loud.

You only shook your head.

Soonyoung didn’t let you drift back into that soft, dangerous haze of half-sleep — not when he’d waited two weeks and nearly lost his mind doing it. He perched on the edge of your hospital bed, his knees bouncing, hands flying everywhere as he retold everything in the only way Soonyoung knew how: animated, loud, and bursting at the seams.

“You should’ve seen it! I mean— no, you shouldn’t have seen it— it was terrifying! There was blood on your floor, your notes scattered like some horror movie— I thought you’d been murdered!” He smacked your pillow, startling you. “So I called the police immediately — and the landlord — and then the internet exploded, obviously. Everyone thought some stalker fan did it, or one of your haters, or— god, I don’t even know, people started fighting in your comment sections—”

He pressed his hand to his chest dramatically, catching his breath like he’d run laps around the hospital.

“Your name trended for days. Then the whole ‘#ComeBackY/N’ thing — people apologizing for leaving hate, people crying they’d misunderstood you — ugh, the drama. Half of them are still scared you’ll sue them for defamation now that it looks like an actual crime scene—”

You groaned softly, your dry throat protesting. “Soonyoung… please…”

He ignored you completely. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you sneaky genius — you finished the damn manuscript before you vanished! You sent it! The publisher called me to check if it was really you — I almost fainted—” He jabbed your forehead gently with a finger. “You didn’t even tell me the last chapters! How dare you wrap up his arc without me. It’s going live tomorrow, do you know that? Tomorrow! I’m your biggest fan and you didn’t even spoil me!”

Your tired chuckle cracked open past your dry lips. It hurt, but it felt good too.

“Sorry…” you rasped. “Had to… finish it before—”

Before everything bled over. Before you lost control completely.

Soonyoung softened then, all the noise melting into a fond grumble. He brushed your hair gently from your eyes, the way only an old friend could.

“Yeah, well. You’re finishing this first — getting better. Then you’re gonna tell me everything. Even the parts you swear you don’t remember. Deal?”

His pinky hovered near yours. You hooked it with yours, sealing a promise neither of you fully understood yet.

Outside your room, the sun was already setting. And tomorrow — tomorrow, the ending would finally belong to the world.

The next morning, the hospital felt like it pulsed with a quiet hum — nurses at the station murmured about your trending name again, passing by your door with curious eyes. But you didn’t care about them. You were propped up in bed, blanket twisted around your legs, eyes glued to your phone screen.

Soonyoung sat on the recliner, scrolling too — at first pretending not to care, then stealing glances at your expression every other second.

You’d stayed up all night refreshing the publisher’s site, waiting for the final chapter to drop. You’d written the ending weeks ago: Wonwoo would die in winter’s first snow, tragic but poetic — the only way to end him before he devoured everything. Hansol was just a thread you’d never fully pulled tight; a side piece, never meant to bloom into a real threat.

Except now, you scrolled line by line in growing disbelief.

It wasn’t your ending.

In this ending, Wonwoo’s death was there — a single, startling moment in a half-frozen courtyard under falling snow — but it came like a dream: hazy, shifting, wrong. Instead of fading out, the chapter kept going.

Hansol rose out of the ashes you’d never planted. Darker, stranger — his voice split between what readers knew and an alter ego no one had guessed. Sihye — a minor guard you’d half-named once — appeared at his side like a shadow stitched to his heel, coiled and hungry for vengeance on Wonwoo’s ghost.

And you — you were gone. No trace of the girl who should have been kneeling in the snow, holding the monster she’d built. In this version, you’d been erased entirely, replaced by Hansol’s distorted memory of Wonwoo’s only weakness: a secret no reader could name but every line implied.

You exhaled a shaky laugh, the phone trembling in your palm.

Soonyoung jolted upright. “Why are you laughing like that? Don’t do that, you look possessed—”

“It’s not mine,” you said, voice cracking somewhere between relief and horror. “It’s… not my ending. He— he rewrote himself, Soonyoung. He rewrote himself.”

Your friend blinked, squinting at your screen as if the code behind the page might explain it better than you ever could.

“But you sent the final draft, right? Like… the publisher didn’t—?”

“They didn’t change it. Look at it.” You shoved your phone at him. “This is him. Wonwoo—Hansol— it’s them. I didn’t write this part. They— they finished their own story.”

Inside your ribs, your heart thudded at a truth too big to put into words: the monsters you’d made had crawled off the page — and somewhere, somehow, they were still writing the next chapter themselves.

Soonyoung stared at you, then at your phone screen again, then back at your wide, exhausted eyes. He let out a long, dramatic sigh — the kind he used when you forgot your umbrella on a rainy day or burned your rice three days in a row.

He reached out, gently pried the phone from your fingers, and tossed it onto the side table, ignoring your weak protest.

“Yah. Enough. You’re not going to fight fictional men and real-life trauma in the same week. Not on my watch.” He jabbed a finger at your forehead, like sealing an invisible button to shut you up.

“But, Soon—”

“No but. You’re still hooked up to an IV, you look like you time-traveled through a blender, and I swear if you refresh that page again I’ll eat your phone.” He plopped back into the recliner with a huff, arms crossed like an overworked guardian.

“Just rest. Sleep. Let them rewrite whatever they want — you’re alive. That’s all that matters, okay?”

His voice softened at the end, enough to blur your stubborn argument into a watery laugh. You nodded, letting your head sink back into the pillow as your body — traitorous and bone-deep tired — finally agreed with him.

Soonyoung mumbled as he pulled your blanket higher under your chin, “Next time you want drama, just watch Netflix. Less kidnapping, more popcorn.”

Outside your hospital window, the world kept turning — while inside, for the first time in days, you let yourself drift without chasing any more endings.

*

You kept your announcement short — a single post on your page, pinned right above the final episode that had broken the internet for all the wrong reasons:

Thank you for reading my work all these years. I’ve decided to take an indefinite hiatus from creating comics. Please keep supporting new artists and stories. I’ll always be grateful. — Y/n

No dramatic farewell, no live Q&A. Just a quiet bow at the end of a stage you’d clung to for too long.

By the time you clicked ‘post,’ the comments were already flooding in — Take care of yourself, Author-nim! We’re so sorry for what you went through! We’ll wait for your return! — but you only let yourself read a handful before shutting your laptop for good.

The studio that had become your makeshift bedroom was a battlefield of cold coffee cups, scribbled drafts, and stacks of half-finished illustrations. You rolled up old posters, boxed every pen and sketchbook that still worked, and tied up bundles of storyboards you no longer had the heart to burn but couldn’t look at either.

Your tiny apartment — neglected for months while you hid among ink and paper — felt foreign at first. Sunlight spilled onto the dusty floor as you pulled the curtains wide, a broom in one hand and resolve in the other. You scrubbed, sorted, folded. Every faded mug and wrinkled blanket was a piece of your old life you were willing to keep — everything else, you stuffed into black trash bags and left by the door.

When the rooms were finally empty of yesterday’s ghosts, you stood in the middle of it all — the hum of the fridge, the ticking wall clock, the warm breeze sneaking through the open window — and breathed.

No Wonwoo. No Hansol. No margins waiting to tear open.

Just you. And this chance, fragile but yours, to live outside the page.

You tied your hair up with an old scrunchie, sleeves rolled high as you dragged a ragged mop across the narrow kitchen floor. The scent of pine disinfectant mingled with the faint, stubborn smell of ink and dust that clung to your walls no matter how hard you scrubbed.

Every time you opened a cupboard, a bit of your past life fell out: old character sketches wedged behind the plates, a mug etched with World’s Best Artist from Soonyoung (he’d spelled artist wrong, on purpose). You smiled weakly, tossing it into the keep pile anyway.

Your phone buzzed, rattling against the counter. You ignored it. Today wasn’t for calls or comforting words. Today was for clearing out the ghosts.

In the bedroom, you stripped your bed to the bare mattress. Crumpled sheets went straight into a laundry bag, along with the hoodie you’d practically lived in through every late-night rewrite. When you caught your reflection in the wardrobe mirror — hair a mess, sweat trickling down your neck — you almost laughed. Human again, you thought. Not an author. Not a hostage to a world you’d lost control of. Just… you.

By evening, cardboard boxes lined the hallway. Some destined for donation, some for the trash, some — the ones too heavy with memory — tucked carefully into the closet. You’d decide what to do with those later.

You sank down on the now-bare floor, back against the freshly wiped wall, and let the quiet wrap around you.

No drafts to finish. No margin to cross. No monster waiting behind your mirror.

For the first time in too long, your biggest problem was what to have for dinner. And that felt like freedom.

You were half-dozing on the bare floor when the knock came — three quick raps, one heavy thump. Classic Soonyoung, no doorbell, just his whole personality at your doorstep.

You opened the door to find him balancing a large paper bag in one hand and a soda bottle under his arm, grinning like he owned the hallway.

“Survival rations for the hermit,” he declared, barging in before you could protest. He paused mid-step when he saw the cleared apartment — the boxes, the empty desk, the naked walls where your storyboard clippings used to be pinned with colorful tape.

“…Whoa.” He set the bag down on your tiny dining table. “It really looks like you’re quitting your entire life in one day.”

You shrugged, pulling out the takeout boxes one by one. Rice, spicy chicken, egg rolls — all comfort food, all too much for one person. Soonyoung was good like that. Always bringing more than you asked for, just in case you forgot to eat tomorrow too.

“I’m not quitting my life,” you said, opening the soda for him. “Just… changing it. For good.”

He flopped onto the floor next to you, cross-legged like a kid. “Yeah, yeah. You know, people online still think you were kidnapped by a deranged fan.” He gestured with a chopstick. “You could clear that up, you know.”

You pressed your lips together. “Let them think what they want. It’s over.”

He went quiet for a second, then reached out and flicked your forehead — not hard, just enough to snap you out of your thoughts.

“Eat first, dramatic later,” he said, voice soft despite the tease. He cracked open a container, waved it under your nose. “I gotta go after this — there’s a meeting with my editor tonight. But I didn’t want you spending your first free night with instant noodles.”

You laughed, the sound a little watery. Soonyoung bumped your shoulder with his, eyes twinkling like always.

“Next chapter’s gonna be your best, okay?” he said. “Even if there’s no drawing in it. Promise me.”

You clinked your chopsticks against his, a tiny toast in the middle of your nearly empty home.

“Promise.”

*

You were jolted awake by a dull thud — something heavy shifting, then a soft scrape against your living room floor. For a few disoriented seconds, you lay stiff under your blanket, eyes wide in the darkness, every childhood nightmare crawling back into your mind at once.

Half-dreaming, half-dreading, you wondered if this was finally it — the day the anonymous threats turned real, the day the masked words became hands around your throat.

Your throat tightened as you slid your feet to the cold floor, steadying your shaky breath. You bent down, groping blindly under your bed until your fingers curled around worn, familiar wood — the old baseball bat you’d kept since college, back when you thought monsters only lived in alleyways, not in your inbox.

You clutched the handle so tight your knuckles whitened. Each cautious step made the floor groan just enough to betray you, but you pressed on, every nerve on fire as you crept toward the faint slice of light spilling under your bedroom door.

The quiet outside was worse than any noise. You could almost hear your heartbeat echoing off the walls. You paused by the door, inhaled once, twice, then flicked the switch with trembling fingers.

The harsh hallway light flared to life, making your eyes sting — and in that moment, the bat fell limp in your grip.

He stood there in the middle of your living room, as if he belonged in the mundane mess of your reality: a man in a rain-damp coat, droplets dripping onto your floorboards, a battered copy of The Little Prince dangling loosely from his hand. He was brushing rain from his dark hair with the other hand, utterly unbothered by the way your entire world had just jolted awake with you.

Your throat worked around his name, hoarse and disbelieving. “Wonwoo…”

He turned slowly, dark eyes meeting yours under the harsh ceiling light. Something soft flickered there, ghostly warmth beneath the sharp lines of a man you once wrote as unyielding steel.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice deep and so achingly familiar that your grip on the bat finally failed you.

It hit the floor with a muted clatter — the only sound loud enough to remind you this wasn’t a dream, no matter how much your knees begged you to wake up.

Your mind reeled, lagging behind the sight of him standing there, flesh and bone and rain-soaked reality — not ink, not pixels, not a memory stitched into your pillow at 3 a.m.

You took a step forward before your legs betrayed you, buckling just enough that you grabbed the door frame for support.

“Y-You’re…” Your voice broke on the word, disbelief scraping your throat raw. “You’re alive.”

Wonwoo tilted his head at you, a faint crease between his brows as if he was gently puzzled by how fragile you sounded. He shifted the little book in his hand, like an absent gesture to ground himself in this place that wasn’t meant for him — your place, your clutter, your humdrum lightbulb humming above him.

“Of course I’m alive,” he said, and his tone held that soft reprimand you’d given him in all your drafts when he needed to remind people he was human first, ruthless second. “It takes more than a bullet to kill me, doesn’t it?”

You shook your head, eyes stinging, the rush of tears making your vision stutter like a broken film reel. 

“Wonwoo, I— I saw you—”

Before you could finish, he stepped forward, crossing the distance you couldn’t. His free hand, warm and real, cupped the side of your neck, thumb brushing your racing pulse. His touch made your heart lurch against your ribs, a startled bird in a too-small cage.

“You wrote an ending,” he murmured, voice lower now, nearer. “But you forgot something, didn’t you? I never really did what you told me to do, not completely.”

He lifted The Little Prince slightly, almost playful, like a conspirator showing you his secret.

“Wherever you put me,” he said, “I always find my way back to you.”

Your body moved before your mind could catch up as you stumbled forward and threw your arms around him.

“You’re alive…” you whispered, the words trembling out of you like a confession — like an apology for every night you’d cried over his death, for every version of him you’d buried in the drafts you never dared to reopen.

Wonwoo let out a soft grunt at the impact, but his arms wrapped around you without hesitation, steady and certain. He smelled like a cold wind and a trace of old paper — the way you’d always imagined his world to feel against your skin.

“I’m here,” he murmured into your hair, one hand splayed wide between your shoulder blades like he was anchoring you to him. “Look at you… You really thought you’d gotten rid of me?”

You laughed, a small, cracked sound muffled against his chest, your fingers fisting in the damp fabric of his coat. His heartbeat thudded under your ear, so solid and steady you almost sobbed from the relief of it.

“I thought—” you choked out, pulling back just enough to see his face. His dark eyes searched yours, calm even now, as if there was nothing more natural in the world than him standing in your hallway. “I thought you were gone. I thought you—”

He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath brushing your lips as he cut you off softly. “I’m not gone. You should know by now… I never die that easily.”

Your hands came up to frame his face, to prove to yourself this wasn’t another cruel dream. His skin was warm. His lashes fluttered when you touched his cheekbone with your thumb, like you were the fragile thing this time, not him.

His hand slipped from your cheek to the back of your neck, fingers threading into your hair with a tenderness that contradicted the storm behind his eyes. Before you could answer, before you could even draw another breath to question him, Wonwoo closed the last inch between you and pressed his mouth to yours.

It wasn’t gentle — not really. It was the kind of kiss that said enough to every unfinished ending you’d ever written for him. His lips moved over yours like he was claiming lost time, like he needed to remind you he was flesh and blood, not a tragic line on a page you could erase.

Your knees nearly gave out. One hand clutched at his coat while the other fisted in his hair, and the bat you’d dropped rolled noiselessly across the floor behind you. The hallway light flickered above you, but you barely noticed. There was only his warmth, the taste of him — familiar and heartbreakingly real — and the soft rumble of his low groan against your mouth when you tugged him closer.

When he finally pulled back, your lips tingled, your breath stolen, your heart pounding so loud it drowned out every thought but he’s here, he’s here, he’s here.

Wonwoo didn’t step away. His forehead rested against yours, eyes half-lidded, voice rough when he spoke.

“Do you believe me now?” he murmured, the ghost of a smile brushing your swollen lips. “I’m alive. I’m not leaving you again.”

Your hands trembled where they clutched his coat, but you didn’t care — you didn’t want to care about anything except the taste of him and the warmth that bled through every inch where your bodies touched.

You tipped your chin up, breathless but hungry for more, and tugged him down to you again. This time the kiss was deeper, slower but impossibly warmer — no fear, no half-finished confessions, just you pouring every sleepless night and every secret wish into the press of your mouth against his.

Wonwoo made a sound you’d never heard before — half a groan, half a laugh muffled by your lips — as if he couldn’t quite believe you were real, too. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you flush against him until there was no room for the past, no room for doubt, just the frantic thrum of your pulse answering his.

When you finally pulled back for air, your lips were damp and your chest ached sweetly with relief. His eyes searched yours — dark, sharp, so alive — and softened when he saw the tears you didn’t even realize had slipped free.

“Again,” he whispered against your mouth, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. “Say it again.”

You breathed out the words like a vow, fingers curling into his hair.

“You’re alive. You’re here. With me.”

And this time, when he kissed you, it was softer — but it felt endless.

*

Soonyoung nearly choked on his iced coffee, eyes wide as saucers darting between you and the man beside you — the very real, very unbothered Jeon Wonwoo, who calmly stirred his latte like he hadn’t just upended everything Soonyoung thought he knew about you.

“Wait— wait,” Soonyoung sputtered, jabbing a finger accusingly at Wonwoo’s face. “You’re telling me… you— this— he’s real? And his name is actually Jeon Wonwoo?”

You pressed your lips together, trying to hide your laugh behind your palm. Wonwoo only raised an eyebrow, glancing at you with that faint, knowing smirk before returning his gaze to Soonyoung, unruffled as ever.

“Yes,” you said, voice light but betraying your thrill. “His name is really Jeon Wonwoo.”

Soonyoung gaped, looking like he was rethinking every midnight rant he’d ever heard from you about “that tragic idiot villain” you were rewriting for the hundredth time.

“Hold on— then all this time, the comic— you were inspired by him?” He leaned in over the table, practically vibrating with secondhand scandal. “You built that entire icy bastard king based on your real boyfriend?”

Your gaze slipped to Wonwoo, your hand drifting unconsciously to his on the table. He didn’t pull away — instead, his thumb brushed yours, so soft it made your chest tighten all over again.

“Maybe…” you murmured, unable to hide the tiny smile. “He’s my muse, after all.”

Soonyoung groaned, dropping his head dramatically to the table with a loud thud.

“I knew it. I knew you were secretly romantic, but this is insane. Next you’ll tell me Hansol’s real too and wants to kill me.”

Wonwoo’s low chuckle rumbled beside you. “Don’t worry,” he said smoothly, eyes twinkling. “Hansol won’t bother you.”

Soonyoung just wailed into his arms. “I hate both of you. But also — I’m so happy for you, oh my god.”

The End.

[thedensworld]

Hi!

i'm going to post something tomorrow. Choose your story:

[thedensworld]

Red Sign | Y.Jh

Pairing: Jeonghan x reader

Genre: Conglomerate au! Heirs au! Marriage Contract au!

Type: fluff, humour, slow-burn, smut (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Summary: Ignoring all the red signs, what started as a friendship blossomed into something Jeonghan never expected. He'll marry you? No way! Right?

It was Saturday night. Jeonghan had just wrapped up drinks with his friends and stumbled through the door close to 1 a.m. With the grace of a man on autopilot, he showered, slipped into his pajamas, and flopped onto his bed, already picturing a peaceful descent into sleep.

That peace lasted all of three minutes. As he casually checked his email—just to pretend he was a responsible adult—his phone lit up with a familiar name. Your name.

He blinked. Once. Twice. What now? he thought, already sobering up just from the possibilities. He swiped up with a sigh and answered the call.

"Hmm, what's up?"

“I'm sorry to call this late, Mr. Yoon, but Doctor Ji is very, very drunk right now—and none of us know where she lives.” The voice on the other end was one of the residents, clearly panicked, with the chaotic background noise of laughter, clinking glasses, and someone yelling about karaoke.

Jeonghan stared at his ceiling, jaw slack. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, then muttered to himself, “What kind of doctor gets drunk before the residents do?”

He could already feel a headache forming—not from the alcohol, but from the sheer absurdity of the situation. Nevertheless, he dragged himself upright and asked, “Where is she? Text me the address. I’ll pick her up.”

As soon as the call ended, he stood up from his bed with the dramatic flair of a man who’d just been betrayed by the universe. Again. He trudged into his closet like a soldier going to war.

“It hasn’t even been an hour since I got home,” he grumbled while throwing on a hoodie. “And now I have to babysit this disaster of a genius.” He paused, briefly considering calling for backup, he can’t be alone.

“Why don’t you go there alone?” Seungcheol grumbled, slouched in the passenger seat like a sack of regret, his eyes barely open, hair pointing in every direction.

Jeonghan didn’t even glance at him as he started the engine. “Because you’re the only one who can carry her without dislocating something. She went full spaghetti mode, apparently.”

Seungcheol let out a long, tortured groan, dragging his palm down his face like he was trying to erase himself. “I was asleep, Jeonghan. Deep, peaceful sleep. Like dead-to-the-world sleep. You dragged me.”

“You were snoring like a truck,” Jeonghan said flatly. “You needed the break.”

“I was asleep for forty minutes!”

“Exactly. Power nap. You’re welcome.”

Seungcheol shot him a side glare, but it was hard to be intimidating when he still had pillow creases on his cheek and was clutching a bottle of water like a lifeline. Jeonghan smirked as he turned the corner. “Come on. It’ll be fun. Like a surprise field trip, but worse.”

“God,” Seungcheol muttered, leaning his head against the window, eyes still half-closed. “This better be the last time your friend gets wasted on a Saturday night.”

“She’s your friend too,” Jeonghan shot back, eyes fixed on the road. Seungcheol nodded solemnly, resting his temple on the cool glass. “And every time this kind of thing happens, I regret that fact deeply.”

It had always been the three of you—Jeonghan, Seungcheol, and you—since junior high. The kind of trio fate stitched together because your parents were business acquaintances who ended up liking each other enough to start arranging awkward family dinners. None of you particularly cared what the grown-ups did, but somehow, you stuck together anyway.

Jeonghan’s family owned a sprawling property empire—buildings, department stores, hotels—you name it. He was groomed from birth to take the reins, and it showed. By college, he was already studying business with laser focus, juggling classes and internships at his grandfather’s company. The strange part? He actually enjoyed it.

Seungcheol, on the other hand, came from a construction family. He’d been on-site since his teens, wearing hard hats and acting like he knew what rebar was. Unlike Jeonghan, he wasn’t the eldest son, so the pressure wasn’t as intense. His older brother was the heir to the business empire. Seungcheol? He was more like the wildcard—half working man, half professional napper.

And then there was you. The doctor of the group. Your family ran hospitals, dabbled in healthcare business and insurance, and made sure everyone had a checkup whether they liked it or not. You were the brainiac—dedicated, overachieving, caffeine-fueled and sleepless. Safe to say, you were the smartest, most disciplined, and most respected member of the trio.

Until alcohol entered the chat.

“Let’s go to the unicorn world! I’m flying, I’m flying!” you had squealed, arms spread out like wings, as you practically pirouetted across the party. Jeonghan could’ve melted into the floor from sheer secondhand embarrassment. He bowed to every stunned resident in the room, murmuring apologies on your behalf like a PR intern during a scandal. You had originally told him about the gathering. Said you wouldn’t come. That you didn’t want to intrude on the younger residents’ night off. That you needed rest. Clearly, that plan had gone off the rails somewhere between the tequila shots and the glittery karaoke mic.

Seungcheol looked like a man betrayed by both fate and gravity as he crouched down and hoisted your limp, giggling self onto his back. “Why does she keep saying lollipops?” he grunted, adjusting your deadweight on his back like a dad carrying a sleep-paralysis demon.

Jeonghan tried not to laugh. “Maybe it’s a metaphor.”

“I want rainbow lollipops for my unicorn friends!” you declared joyfully, as if this were a medical order. Seungcheol’s face looked like he aged ten years. “She’s a whole doctor,” he mumbled. “With a license. Who let this happen?”

He maneuvered you into the backseat with the delicacy of someone defusing a bomb, while you hummed a melody only you understood. Jeonghan got behind the wheel with a sigh that carried the weight of several lifetimes. “We’re getting too old for this.”

“And too sober,” Seungcheol muttered, rubbing his temple.

Jeonghan glanced at you through the rearview mirror. You were smiling at the ceiling, whispering something about glitter. Somehow, this was still better than paperwork.

*

You woke up to a splitting headache and the unpleasant dryness in your mouth that only came from a long night of drinking. The ceiling above you wasn’t familiar—it was too neat, too modern, too... Jeonghan. You blinked slowly, trying to piece together how you had ended up here.

Turning your head, you noticed the soft navy sheets and the glass of water placed neatly on the bedside table. Beside it was a strip of painkillers and a small folded note. You reached for it with heavy limbs and unfolded it.

“You owe me. Water and meds provided. – YJ”

A sigh escaped your lips as you sat up, every movement making your head throb. The memories returned in fragments—bright lights, the sound of laughter, someone shouting something about unicorns—which you were that someone. Then Jeonghan’s voice, steady and annoyed, telling someone to get the door. Seungcheol’s back. Your shoes. You winced. Dragging yourself out of bed, you made your way slowly into the hallway, guided by the faint smell of toasted bread. The apartment was quiet, bathed in the soft gray light of the overcast morning. You passed by the minimalist decor—clean lines, neutral tones, everything in its place. Jeonghan’s taste had always been meticulous.

In the kitchen, Jeonghan stood by the counter, coffee mug in hand, scrolling through his phone. He looked up at the sound of your steps. “You’re up,” he said, voice calm, though his eyes lingered on you like he was assessing whether you could still walk straight. “There’s toast. Sit.”

You nodded silently and lowered yourself into the chair, still trying to sort out where the nausea ended and the shame began. He slid a plate toward you and turned back to pour more coffee. The kettle clicked in the background, the only sound filling the space between you. You picked at the toast, avoiding his eyes, though you could feel his presence—calm, composed, and, somehow, not entirely annoyed despite everything.

“Thanks,” you finally murmured.

Jeonghan took a sip of his coffee. “Don’t mention it. Just remind me to never trust you when you say you’re ‘just going to rest tonight.’”

You gave a quiet hum in response, unsure of what else to say. Your head still pounded, and your stomach twisted at the thought of facing the residents again. But for now, in the quiet of Jeonghan’s kitchen, you allowed yourself to breathe.

“Seungcheol’s going to kill you the next time you make him visit a site without sleep,” Jeonghan said casually, taking another sip of his coffee.

You groaned, just imagining the wrath that would follow. “Why’d you bring him anyway?”

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow at you. “Because you’re heavy.”

You shot him a flat look. “That’s insulting.”

He shrugged, completely unfazed. “It’s just the truth. I wasn’t about to throw out my back for your drunken acrobatics.”

You pressed your palm against your forehead, partly because of the headache, mostly to hide your embarrassment. “I can’t believe I drank so much…”

Jeonghan leaned against the counter, arms crossed now, looking far too composed for someone who had hauled your half-conscious self home just hours ago. “You know I had to bow to your residents, right?” he said, voice dry with lingering disbelief.

You blinked up at him, wincing. “Like… say sorry?”

“No. Bow,” he emphasized, straightening his back before dramatically mimicking a deep, ninety-degree angle. “Full. Respectful. Formal. Like I’d committed a crime on behalf of my drunk accomplice.”

You covered your face with both hands, letting out a muffled groan. “God, no…”

“Oh yes,” he nodded solemnly. “You stood on a chair at one point and yelled, ‘Let’s go to the unicorn world!’ before asking a confused intern if he believed in candy rain.”

You let your forehead fall to the table.

“I had no choice,” he went on. “I bowed so deeply, I think I pulled something in my spine. Your future underlings now think I’m your guardian, therapist, or some combination of the two.”

You peeked up at him through your fingers. “Are you done humiliating me yet?”

He smiled, a little too satisfied. “Just making sure you know the price of your glitter-filled delusions.”

You groaned again and reached for your coffee. “I’m never drinking again.”

“Good,” he said, already walking away. “I’ll print that on a shirt for the next time you forget.”

*

The last time Jeonghan and Seungcheol had seen you cry was years ago—on a bleak afternoon neither of them ever forgot. It was ten minutes before the next class. Seungcheol had been looking for you, clutching a half-finished math worksheet in one hand, fully intending to beg for your help. He spotted you slipping into the restroom and figured you’d be out in a minute or two. But time stretched. One minute became five. Five became ten. You still hadn’t come out. Jeonghan showed up just then, sweaty from football practice, jersey clinging to him, his forehead glistening. He slowed when he noticed Seungcheol standing awkwardly near the entrance to the girls’ restroom.

“Why are you here?” Jeonghan asked, eyeing Seungcheol suspiciously, brows drawn together. “You better not be turning into some creep.”

Seungcheol scoffed, waving the math sheet. “Y/n’s in there. I need her help before class, but she’s been inside too long.”

Jeonghan was about to make a smart remark when the door swung open.

And that’s when they saw it.

You stumbled out of the restroom, pushed by a group of girls who scattered the moment the hallway came into view. You hit the floor hard, your knees scraping the tile. Egg yolk ran down your hair, staining the collar of your uniform. The shell fragments clung to your shoulders. You didn’t even look up. Your fingers trembled as they gripped the edge of your skirt, your shoulders shaking as silent sobs began to rise.

For a second, the hallway froze.

Seungcheol’s face twisted in disbelief—then fury. His voice roared through the corridor, echoing off the walls like a thunderclap. “HEY!” The rage in his tone sent students scattering, teachers peeking from classrooms. You could almost feel the walls tremble from the force of it. Jeonghan, quicker on his feet, rushed toward you. Without saying a word, he crouched down and gently reached for your arm, helping you up with a firm but careful grip.

Teachers began rushing over, alerted by the commotion and Seungcheol’s outburst. A crowd formed, but the two boys stayed focused only on you. While the staff tried to piece together what had happened, Jeonghan and Seungcheol quietly helped you clean yourself up. Jeonghan gently patted the egg out of your hair with tissues someone had handed him, his jaw tight, eyes lowered in uncharacteristic silence. Seungcheol stood close, arms crossed tightly over his chest, his foot tapping in agitation as he watched the teachers murmur among themselves.

“Tell us,” Seungcheol said finally, his voice low but heavy with restrained anger. “What did they do to you… all this time?”

You hesitated, still trembling, your hands fidgeting with the edge of your sleeve.

“That’s okay,” Jeonghan added, softer this time. He crouched slightly, bringing himself to eye level with you. “You can tell us. We’re here.”

You looked between the two of them—their faces, so familiar, so fiercely protective—and something cracked inside your chest. The tears spilled faster now, your voice shaking as you whispered:

“They said I didn’t deserve to be friends with you two.”

The words hung in the air like something sharp and cold.

“They said… girls like me don’t belong around guys like you.”

Jeonghan’s hands froze. Seungcheol’s face twisted in disbelief and rage, his knuckles going white as he clenched his fists.

“So they did all this to you… because of us?” Jeonghan muttered, his tone laced with guilt and disbelief.

You nodded, tears still rolling down your cheeks, and Jeonghan swallowed hard, brushing a piece of hair from your face. “I’m so sorry.”

Seungcheol took a step back, pacing now, muttering curses under his breath before spinning to face the teachers. “You heard her, right? Are you going to do something or do we handle this ourselves?”

The teachers quickly moved to disperse the crowd and collect statements, while Jeonghan stayed beside you, gently guiding you toward the nurse’s office again.

From that day on, it wasn’t just protection they offered.

It was loyalty. And a silent promise: no one would ever hurt you again—not while they were around.

And they hadn’t seen you cry ever since.

It was a quiet testament to your strength. Through the sleepless nights of medical school, grueling exams, endless shifts, and the burden of responsibility that came with being a doctor—you carried it all with a calm, composed grace. Even when things got hard, you wore your tired smile like armor.

Jeonghan and Seungcheol, as tough as they liked to act, had both cried in front of you more than once—Jeonghan when he lost his dog, Seungcheol after his first failed business pitch. You were the one who listened, the one who stayed solid while they fell apart. But you never let them see you break.

Not until the day Jeonghan received the call: your mother had passed away.

He’d just stepped out of a late meeting when his phone buzzed with the news. For a moment, the world stood still. He didn’t even think—he just grabbed his keys and drove, breaking every speed limit until the hospital’s tall white building came into view.

Your family hospital.

He rushed in through the emergency entrance, eyes scanning frantically. That was when he saw Seungcheol—already there, crouched in front of a figure slumped on the bench outside the ICU.

You.

Still in your hospital coat, hands limp in your lap, eyes staring into nothing. The lights above cast a pale glow on your face, and even from a distance, Jeonghan could see how hollow your expression was. You looked like someone who had forgotten how to breathe.

Seungcheol gently held your wrist, whispering something, his brows drawn in pain.

Jeonghan approached slowly, like something sacred had cracked in the room and he didn’t want to shatter it further. His throat tightened at the sight. You, the strongest one among them, looked so small.

And for the first time since high school, he saw your tears again. Silent, slow, like they had been waiting years to fall.

*

The funeral had gone by quietly, solemn and dignified—just the way your mother would have wanted. You hadn’t spoken much, but Jeonghan and Seungcheol stayed by your side the entire time, like silent shadows that grounded you when everything else felt like air. Afterward, the three of you got into Jeonghan’s car and drove in silence toward your family home. The atmosphere was heavy, as if the car itself understood the weight of where you were headed. A meeting had been scheduled with your mother’s lawyer—an urgent, important matter concerning her will.

Your mother hadn’t just been the heart of your family; she was also the true pillar behind the hospital’s legacy. While your father held the position of director, it was your mother who built it from the ground up—brick by brick, department by department. Her name was the one that opened doors, earned respect, and kept the hospital’s vision alive.

And now, she is gone.

Two days later, Seungcheol stopped by Jeonghan’s office early in the morning, still in his work clothes after a visit to the construction site. His shoulders looked unusually stiff, his expression unreadable as he sank into the couch with a quiet sigh. He didn’t say anything at first, just sat there like a man lost in thought.

Jeonghan, watching from behind his desk, narrowed his eyes. “Say it,” he urged, standing and making his way to the seat across from Seungcheol.

Seungcheol finally looked up, brow furrowed like he was still trying to wrap his head around it. “Y/n called me this morning.”

Jeonghan tilted his head slightly, already sensing this wasn’t just a casual update.

“It was about her mother’s inheritance,” Seungcheol said slowly. “She’s not getting any money. No property. Nothing.”

Jeonghan’s eyebrows shot up in disbelief. “What? But she’s the only one following in her mother’s footsteps. She works in healthcare. She’s the most qualified out of everyone.”

Seungcheol nodded, eyes still distant. “Exactly. But the lawyer said she’ll inherit the hospital—not the money, not the land—only the hospital.”

Jeonghan leaned back, frowning. “That’s not bad, though.”

Seungcheol lifted a hand. “There’s a catch.”

Jeonghan stared at him, already bracing for it.

“She can only inherit the hospital if she gets married.”

Jeonghan blinked. “Excuse me?”

“And…” Seungcheol hesitated for a second longer. “She asked me to marry her.”

That snapped Jeonghan upright. “What?”

His voice was louder than he expected, heart thudding as the words echoed in the room. Seungcheol just stared back at him, not saying a word. He let out a long breath, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, palms rubbing together as if the friction might help him make sense of it all.

“I want to help her, of course I do,” he said quietly. “She’s my best friend. You know that. She’s like the sister I never had.”

Jeonghan stayed still, eyes narrowing slightly.

Seungcheol went on, voice heavy with sincerity. “If it was just about signing papers or pretending in front of the board, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But this isn’t just some temporary fix. It’s marriage. And I’m not ready for that—not emotionally, not mentally. I’d end up hurting her, and she doesn’t deserve that.”

His fingers curled into fists for a moment before he looked up again, meeting Jeonghan’s gaze.

“That’s why I suggested your name.”

Silence settled in the room like a weight. Jeonghan’s eyes flickered with something unreadable—shock, maybe, or something more complicated.

“You,” Seungcheol said slowly, “understand her better than anyone. You’ve seen her at her lowest, at her best. And I know—no matter how you act—you care about her deeply.”

Jeonghan didn’t respond right away. He stared at Seungcheol like he had just been pushed off a cliff and was still waiting to hit the ground.

Jeonghan blinked slowly, then scoffed—loudly. He leaned back against the couch, crossed one leg over the other, and stared at Seungcheol like he’d just confessed to selling his soul for bubblegum.

“You’re stupid,” he finally said, his tone half in disbelief, half in frustration. “That’s your solution? Throwing your other friend under the bus?”

Seungcheol frowned. “I’m not throwing you—”

“Yes, you are!” Jeonghan snapped, pointing at him. “You get hit with a hard question and suddenly, ‘Oh! Let’s sacrifice Jeonghan! He can take it!’ What am I? The neighborhood rescue dog?”

“You make it sound worse than it is,” Seungcheol muttered.

“It is worse than it is!” Jeonghan stood up and paced a few steps, dragging a hand through his hair. “Do you think this is a joke? Marriage? With Y/n? She’s not just anyone. This is her life. Her grief. Her mother’s legacy.”

Seungcheol looked down at his hands, quiet for a beat. “That’s exactly why I thought of you.”

Jeonghan turned to him, still fuming.

“You're the only one who won't hurt her. Even when you're pissed, you take care of her. You’re the only one who can handle her breakdowns, her sarcasm, her late-night hospital shifts. You’ve already been doing it for years. This wouldn’t even be a stretch.”

Jeonghan paused. The silence that followed wasn’t light—it hung in the air like the stillness before a storm. “You’re not wrong,” he finally said, his voice low. “But don’t ever decide for me again.”

Seungcheol met his eyes, apologetic.

“So,” Jeonghan said, almost like a challenge, “did she say anything else?”

“She asked if it was a dumb idea,” Seungcheol answered, faintly smiling. “I told her it was—but that if anyone could turn a dumb idea into something real, it’d be you.”

Jeonghan let out a quiet, mirthless laugh. “You’re so lucky I don’t punch you for sport.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

Jeonghan stood by the window of his office, arms folded, his eyes locked on the city skyline, though his thoughts were far from the view.

“I’m not going to marry her,” he said flatly, his voice devoid of hesitation.

Seungcheol blinked, stunned. “What?”

“I said I’m not going to marry Y/n.” Jeonghan turned around, walking back to his desk with deliberate steps. “I’ve never seen her that way. Not once. She’s my friend. She’s like… like a teammate I’ve been stuck in the same chaotic group project with since we were twelve.”

Seungcheol frowned. “Jeonghan—”

“I don’t see her as a woman,” Jeonghan said, firmer now. “Not in that sense. She’s Y/n. She’s the one who used to eat her lunch with gloves on because she didn’t want to smudge her notes. She’s the one who screamed at me for skipping class but once stole hospital scrubs just to sneak me in when I twisted my ankle.”

He let out a breath, quieter. “She’s family, Cheol. And I don’t marry family.”

Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “But family is the reason she’s doing this. You know her—she won’t marry for love, not now. She just wants to protect the hospital.”

“And I get that,” Jeonghan nodded, gaze hard. “But she deserves someone who will at least try to see her differently. Someone who won’t just treat it like a task. If she marries me, she’ll never get that.”

There was a brief silence. A mature one. Heavy.

“…So what are you going to do?” Seungcheol asked.

Jeonghan exhaled. “I’ll talk to her. But I’m not going to lie and pretend I can be that person.”

*

Jeonghan woke with a pounding headache, the weight of last night's whiskey still pressing against his skull. The faint hum of the hotel’s air conditioner and the filtered morning light slipping through the curtains made him squint. He rubbed at his eyes and let out a low groan, slowly sitting up. His head throbbed harder when he took in the room—still the executive suite at his family’s hotel, where he’d had a meeting yesterday. The same place where he’d waited for you after your hospital shift, sipping on whiskey in the private lounge while the hours bled together in blurred conversation and laughter.

Bottles—empty, half-empty, forgotten—lined the table and nightstand like silent witnesses. Jackets were slung across a chair, shoes scattered in odd places. He recognized his own watch on the floor, next to a trail of clothes that didn’t belong solely to him. And then, instinctively, his eyes drifted to the side—his breath caught.

You were there. Curled up under the duvet, sleeping deeply, hair a mess, bare shoulders exposed. His eyes dropped lower and quickly darted away. The pounding in his head was now joined by a growing pit in his stomach. He glanced down at himself—also bare under the sheets.

Jeonghan froze, every nerve in his body suddenly alert despite the hangover. His brain scrambled, trying to piece together the end of last night. The drinks. The conversation. Your tired laugh. Your hands brushing his when you reached for the bottle. A kiss. God—there was a kiss. Then—

“Shit.”

He dragged a hand down his face and leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling. He didn’t remember the details, but he remembered enough.

This was supposed to be a conversation about the hospital. About you, asking him if there was any way to make things work.

It wasn’t supposed to end like this.

“Y/n,” he muttered quietly, as if saying your name would make you stir, so he could ask what the hell happened—or maybe apologize before either of you remembered it all too clearly.

But you didn’t move. You were still peacefully asleep, unaware of the chaos swirling in his mind. And Jeonghan could already feel the fallout coming like a wave.

You stirred with a faint groan, blinking at the ceiling. Your head felt heavy, your mouth dry, and for a moment, you couldn't quite remember where you were. The bedding was softer than your own, and the faint scent of Jeonghan’s cologne lingered in the room.

Then you turned your head.

Your gaze met his. Eyes wide. His were already on you—equally frozen.

You blinked again. Slowly sat up. Felt the cold air on your bare shoulders. Glanced down. Sheets. Your breath caught in your throat.

“Wait—” you started, pulling the blanket tighter around your body as panic registered in your eyes. “No. No, no, no—”

Jeonghan shifted upright too, the sheets crumpling over his lap as he sat against the headboard, just as stunned.

“I—I don’t—” You struggled to speak, grabbing your phone off the nightstand like it could explain what had happened, but it only showed missed messages and your alarm.

You looked back at him, mortified. “Did we…? We didn’t…?”

Jeonghan didn’t answer right away. His jaw clenched slightly, eyes flickering to the bottles on the nightstand, then to your flushed and confused face. “I think we did.”

You stared at him, heart hammering in your chest. “Oh my God.” Your voice cracked as the memory fragments came rushing in—your shift ending late, Jeonghan waiting for you with drinks, your frustration spilling out in emotional rambling, the comfort, the nearness… the way you let your guard down.

And then—nothing. Just heat, blurred kisses, and now this.

“I don’t remember,” you whispered.

“Me neither,” Jeonghan admitted, rubbing his temple with one hand, eyes falling shut in disbelief.

Silence stretched between you, loud and suffocating.

Then you exhaled shakily and muttered, “We’re screwed.”

Jeonghan didn’t disagree.

The tension in the room crackled as you both scrambled to collect your clothes, the sheets tangling and slipping with every sudden movement. Jeonghan cursed under his breath as he checked the time on his phone. “Shit. I’m late.”

You were already half-dressed, pulling your blouse over your head with trembling fingers. “I need to go home before anyone notices I’m not back.”

Jeonghan hopped awkwardly on one foot as he tried to tug his pants on, his shirt still unbuttoned, hair a mess. “This didn’t happen. Okay?”

You glanced at him, eyes wide. “It happened.”

“Yeah, but—” He buttoned his shirt wrong and huffed. “We don’t remember it.”

“Exactly,” you nodded, slipping your shoes on. “We don’t remember. So technically, it’s like it didn’t happen.”

“Just one night,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair and grabbing his keys.

“One mistake,” you replied without thinking, then paused. “I mean—just a slip. We were drunk.”

“Super drunk,” Jeonghan agreed quickly.

You met his eyes for a second too long. And then both of you looked away, awkwardly clearing your throats.

“Let’s never talk about it,” you said as you reached for the door.

“Never,” Jeonghan echoed, already stuffing papers into his bag like a man fleeing a crime scene.

You stepped out first, your heart still racing. Jeonghan followed a few seconds later, closing the hotel room door behind him with a click. Neither of you looked back.

*

“So how did the talk go?” Seungcheol’s voice rang casually through the phone as you stepped into your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you.

Your eyes caught your reflection in the mirror by the entryway—tired eyes, tousled hair, and—

Oh God.

Your hand instinctively flew to your collarbone, fingers brushing over the unmistakable marks scattered along your skin, trailing up to your neck. Hickeys. Bold, undeniable evidence of something you had no memory of.

“It went... well,” you replied, voice a little too high, a little too unsure.

“Yeah?” Seungcheol sounded genuinely hopeful. “So… did he agree?”

Your heart thudded. Did Jeonghan agree to marry me? You remembered he had said no—clear, direct. But after that? Your memory was a blur of golden lights, his glass of whiskey in your hand, his laugh, your boldness, the heat—

You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to stay calm. “We were just talking, you know…” you said slowly, choosing each word like it was a landmine. “The conversation didn’t really get to a yes or no. We got distracted. Talked about other things.”

Technically not a lie. Just… not the whole truth.

“Still,” Seungcheol continued on the other end of the line, completely unaware of the storm in your chest, “I think Jeonghan would understand you. He’s always treated you well. I mean, out of the two of us, he’s the one who always had more patience with your chaos.”

You let out a nervous laugh, trying to keep your voice from shaking. “Yeah… he did.”

“Just be honest with him,” Seungcheol added, almost gently. “Jeonghan might act like a brat sometimes, but when it comes to you, he’s different. He cares. You know that.”

Your hand tightened around your blouse

And that’s when it happened.

A flash—so quick you almost thought you imagined it.

His hand on your cheek. His lips on yours. The taste of whiskey between you. The slow burn of a kiss that felt nothing like friendship.

You blinked, your fingers going still.

“Y/n? You still there?”

You swallowed hard. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here.”

But part of you wasn’t. Part of you was still stuck in that hotel room, with the soft memory of Jeonghan's mouth on yours, and the way your heart had almost stopped.

“…he’s always been there for you, Y/n. I just think if there’s anyone who could help you through this, it’s Jeonghan,” Seungcheol said, his voice calm through the receiver.

But his words became a blur as your mind started to slip—like a dam cracking open with every syllable he spoke. You could still feel it. The heat of Jeonghan’s breath against your neck. The way his hands gripped your waist—hesitant at first, then desperate. The sting of your back hitting the cool sheets as he hovered over you, his brows furrowed, pupils blown wide, whispering your name like it meant something new.

Like it was no longer just “Y/n,” his friend.

You bit your lip hard, hoping the physical pain would erase the memory. It didn’t.

“Y/n?” Seungcheol’s voice snapped you back. “You okay?”

“Yeah—yeah, sorry.” You cleared your throat, forcing yourself to focus. “I just… didn’t get much sleep.” Which wasn’t a lie. You hadn’t slept. Not really. Not after the warmth, the weight, and the realization of what you had done with Jeonghan.

And now, you weren’t sure what scared you more—

The fact that it happened or the fact that a part of you… didn’t regret it.

The next time you and Jeonghan crossed paths was on Seungcheol’s birthday.

Unlike the lavish celebrations expected of a conglomerate’s son, Seungcheol never cared for extravagance. Neither did you or Jeonghan. Since high school, birthdays had always been about the same three things: the three of you, some good food, late-night conversations that stretched until dawn, and a morning-after spent groggy on the couch with empty plates scattered around.

You had just finished a long night shift at the hospital, and thankfully, the rest of the day—and tomorrow—was free. You arrived first at Seungcheol’s place, arms full with takeout and a small cake box. The hallway was quiet, the lights dimmed. You punched in the passcode on the door panel—his birthday, reversed, a code that hadn’t changed in years—and stepped into the familiar apartment.

It smelled like wood and faint cologne, the kind Seungcheol always wore when he had meetings. You set the food on the kitchen counter, the soft thump of containers echoing in the stillness. No lights, no music, no sign of the birthday boy yet. You glanced at the time—he and Jeonghan were running late.

You sank into the couch, stretching out your legs and letting the silence settle around you.

It had been two weeks since that night with Jeonghan.

Two weeks since the hotel room, the drinks, the foggy heat of something you still couldn’t fully piece together.

Two weeks of zero contact.

And now, you were here. Waiting.

The digital clock ticked louder than usual, each second dragging a bit more tension with it. You tried not to overthink, tried to focus on anything else—your phone screen, the soft hum of the refrigerator—but your mind kept drifting back to the last time you saw Jeonghan… and the things you didn’t say.

The sound of the door unlocking pulled you from your thoughts. A soft beep, followed by the mechanical click of the passcode panel disengaging. You sat up instinctively, smoothing your hair as footsteps approached.

The door swung open, and there he was—Jeonghan. He paused in the doorway when he saw you, the chill of the hallway air still clinging to his coat. His brows rose slightly, surprise flickering across his face. His hair was pushed back messily, like he’d run his fingers through it a hundred times on the way here.

“…You’re early,” he said slowly, stepping in and shutting the door behind him. “Didn’t expect to see you here first.”

You stood, wiping your palms down your pants out of habit. “I had a night shift. Got off earlier than planned. Figured I’d bring food before you two showed up.”

Jeonghan shrugged off his coat and hung it by the door. “Seungcheol texted. Said he’s caught up in some family business and running late.”

You nodded, the air between you tightening slightly. The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it was thick—weighted by everything unspoken, everything half-remembered.

Jeonghan walked into the living room, glanced at the table. “You brought japchae?” His voice tried for casual.

“Yeah. And chicken. And that weird yogurt drink Seungcheol likes for no reason.”

Jeonghan smiled faintly and let out a soft, amused breath, the tension momentarily diffused. “You still remember his obsession with that stuff?”

“I wish I didn’t. It haunts me.”

You both let out a low chuckle, but it didn’t last. Jeonghan’s eyes eventually met yours again—this time, slower, more hesitant. Neither of you mentioned the last time you’d seen each other. Not the hotel. Not the drinks. Not the hazy memories.

Not the fact that you hadn’t talked since.

But it lingered anyway.

Just beneath the surface.

Before either of you could say anything else, the familiar beep of the door's passcode rang through the apartment again, followed by the sound of Seungcheol’s voice calling out, “I brought the good stuff!”

You and Jeonghan turned toward the entrance as Seungcheol walked in with a plastic bag in one hand and a bottle of whiskey proudly held in the other. His coat was half off his shoulders, hair slightly tousled from rushing over.

He spotted you both and grinned. “Oh good, both of you made it. Now it feels like my birthday.”

You offered a small smile, grateful for the interruption. “You didn’t have to bring anything.”

“I had to. It’s tradition,” Seungcheol said, setting the bottle down on the table with an exaggerated flourish. “Besides, this one’s aged fifteen years. Older than most of our decisions lately.”

Jeonghan gave a dry chuckle and raised a brow. “Including yours?”

“Especially mine,” Seungcheol smirked before plopping down onto the couch and glancing between the two of you. “So. Are we gonna pretend everything’s normal or do I need to spike your drinks first?”

You sat down beside him while Jeonghan stayed standing, his hands resting in his pockets. The tension hadn’t disappeared. It just moved aside to make room for Seungcheol’s usual way of diffusing it—with humor and whiskey.

*

Seungcheol had long retreated to his room, knocked out cold from the whiskey he insisted on drinking more of than anyone else. The walls of his apartment were thick, thank god—but not thick enough to silence the storm brewing next door.

The atmosphere had shifted the moment his bedroom door closed. You and Jeonghan were left alone in the living room, both pretending to focus on an old movie playing on the screen, but neither of you actually watching. The silence wasn’t comfortable—it was charged, thick with memories neither of you had fully come to terms with.

Your breath hitched when Jeonghan shifted closer, his knee brushing yours on the couch. You turned your head slightly, only to find him already watching you—eyes unreadable, voice low.

“Do you remember anything from that night?” he asked.

You swallowed hard. “Pieces.”

“Same,” he muttered, before pausing. “But I remember how it felt.”

The two of you breathed heavily, the sound echoing in the quiet room. Once. Twice. Then, with a swift motion, he pulled you closer, your arms instinctively wrapping around his neck. His large hands tenderly cradled your cheeks, the warmth of his touch sending a shiver down your spine, before his lips descended onto yours with a fervent intensity.

"Shit... I've been thinking about your lips lately," he murmured, his voice a low, husky whisper that sent tingles through your body.

His other hand found its way to your waist, firm yet gentle, guiding you effortlessly to settle on his lap. The kiss remained unbroken, a seamless blend of passion and longing, as time seemed to stand still around you.

"Seungcheol is in his room," you murmured breathlessly, breaking the kiss that had left you both gasping for air.

"Forget him," Jeonghan replied with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "He's too drunk to notice anything." Without waiting for further protest, he drew you back into a fervent kiss, his lips capturing yours with an urgency that sent shivers down your spine.

In one swift motion, Jeonghan stood up, effortlessly lifting you into his arms. He carried you down the dimly lit hallway to Seungcheol's guest room, nudging the door open with ease. The soft creak of the hinges was barely audible over the sound of your quickened breaths. Gently, he laid you down onto the bed, the sheets cool against your skin. His hands began to explore the contours of your body with a deliberate tenderness, slowly unbuttoning and removing your blouse.

Your own hands found their way to the hem of his shirt, tugging it free from his pants with an urgency that mirrored his own. Your fingers fumbled slightly as they worked to unbutton his shirt, tracing the lines of his chest as you maintained the passionate kiss.

"Seungcheol is going to kill us," Jeonghan murmured, a hint of playful defiance in his voice, as his hands deftly moved to your pants, sliding them down to reveal your bare skin.

"Fucking in his guest room," he chuckled softly, "He's going to kill us."

Yet, the thrill of the moment was too intoxicating to resist.

You woke up just past noon, your head pounding like a bass drum. The sunlight bleeding through the edges of the curtain felt far too aggressive for your condition. Groaning, you sat up and realized you were no longer in your own clothes. Instead, you were dressed in one of Seungcheol’s oversized T-shirts—soft, worn-in cotton that practically swallowed your frame. Jeonghan must’ve grabbed it from your friend’s closet sometime during the night.q

You shuffled out of the guest bedroom, rubbing your temple, and found Jeonghan and Seungcheol slouched over the dining table. Both looked equally wrecked, hair messy and eyes puffy, nursing bowls of takeout soup in complete silence.

“Go eat this,” Jeonghan said as he pulled out the chair beside him without looking up. His voice was low and hoarse, like it hadn't fully woken up yet.

Seungcheol finally looked over—and froze. His eyes widened at the sight of his favorite T-shirt hanging loosely on you.

“Yah!” he exclaimed, pointing a dramatic finger. “Why are you wearing that one?! That’s my favorite!”

You squinted at him, then turned slowly to glare at Jeonghan, who was now struggling to hide the smirk tugging at his lips. That motherfucker definitely knew what he was doing when he dressed you in it.

You huffed, muttering, “I’m sorry… I was too drunk to realize.” Then, without missing a beat, you shot Jeonghan a sharp look. “Apparently, someone wasn’t.”

“I got you another one,” Jeonghan said innocently—like he’d planned this whole thing.

Seungcheol rolled his eyes. “You two are unbelievable.”

You sat down across from the two men, your eyes flickering between Jeonghan and Seungcheol as you tried to piece yourself together. The hot soup in front of you sent a wave of steam into your face, grounding you for a moment. But not enough to forget the way Jeonghan’s lips had moved against yours last night. Not enough to forget his fingers fumbling with your buttons, the urgency in his breath, the way he whispered your name like a secret meant only for the dark.

You stirred the soup absently, heart pounding all over again.

Seungcheol groaned, leaning back in his chair. “Seriously though, how much did we drink? My head’s splitting in half.”

“More than we should’ve,” Jeonghan muttered, voice calm—almost too calm. His fingers tapped against the ceramic bowl rhythmically, but he hadn’t taken a single bite. You knew that look—he was pretending everything was fine. Like last night didn’t happen.

You hadn’t even had the nerve to look him in the eye.

“Why do I feel like I missed something?” Seungcheol mumbled, squinting between the two of you.

You flinched slightly, and Jeonghan cleared his throat.

“You missed your chance to stop me from letting her steal your favorite shirt,” he said, with a casual smirk that didn’t reach his eyes.

You forced a laugh, weak and quick, and focused again on your soup.

But the silence between you and Jeonghan stretched thin, thick with the weight of unspoken words and the memory of skin against skin—while Seungcheol had been passed out in the next room, completely unaware that his two closest friends were crossing a line that neither of you had dared touch before.

And now here you were—sitting in your best friend’s kitchen, wearing his favorite shirt, next to the man who'd kissed you breathless hours before—and neither of you knew what to do next.

“So,” Seungcheol said, dragging the word out as he slumped deeper into his chair. He set his empty bowl aside and gave you a long, expectant look. “Have you thought more about the hospital situation?”

Your spoon hovered mid-air, steam curling around your face as you blinked. A quiet clink echoed when the utensil touched the edge of the bowl. Across the table, Jeonghan stiffened—just slightly, but you noticed.

“I’m… still thinking about it,” you murmured, eyes focused on the soup like it held all the answers.

Seungcheol frowned, tapping his fingers against the table. “You said that two weeks ago.”

You didn’t reply. Mostly because you didn’t know what to say without glancing at Jeonghan. And you couldn’t afford to glance at Jeonghan right now.

He barreled on. “Look. I know it’s insane. ‘Get married or lose the hospital’ sounds like something out of a bad K-drama. But your mom built that place. She poured her whole damn life into it. It’s not just a building—it’s your inheritance. Your future.”

You drew in a breath, let it out slowly. Seungcheol had always known how to strike right at the center of things. You hated him for it sometimes.

“And when you asked me…” He leaned in now, elbows on the table, voice gentler. “I really did consider it. I mean, you’re my best friend. You’ve been with me through every breakup, every hangover, every stupid decision I ever made. Of course I thought about saying yes.”

You lifted your eyes to meet his. There was sincerity there. Regret, even.

“But I knew I’d screw it up eventually,” he added, chuckling dryly. “We’d end up resenting each other. I’d probably forget your anniversary and show up late to your divorce hearing.”

Despite yourself, you laughed softly.

Seungcheol smiled. “I’m chaos. You need someone steady. Someone who knows how to make you breathe instead of panic. Someone who… already knows you inside out.”

The room suddenly felt smaller.

“That’s why I told you to ask him.”

There was no need to look. You felt the shift in Jeonghan’s posture before Seungcheol even gestured toward him.

You didn’t turn your head. You couldn’t. The air felt too thick now. Even blinking felt like a risk.

“But this guy,” Seungcheol said, waving his spoon at Jeonghan with mock betrayal, “just flat out refused. No hesitation. No drama. Just a cold-ass no.”

There was a sharp pause. Jeonghan set down his bowl with more force than necessary.

“I didn’t refuse,” he said, his voice quiet, clipped. “I said I didn’t think marriage was the solution.”

Seungcheol scoffed. “Same difference.”

Jeonghan’s jaw flexed. “It’s not.”

You finally looked at him then. His face was unreadable, but his fingers were curled too tightly around the edge of the table. Tension lived in every part of him.

Seungcheol leaned back, sighing like a man fed up with the world. “You two already bicker like you’ve been married five years. The chemistry’s right there. Even my mom thinks you’re dating.”

You flushed, dropping your gaze. Jeonghan didn’t say a word.

“She’s not someone I see that way.”

His words landed with the dull thud of a stone in water. No ripple. Just sinking.

Your stomach twisted. You could still feel the weight of his hands from the night before. The way his breath had hitched when your lips met. The way he’d held you like he was afraid you’d vanish. And now—this.

“Oh, okay,” Seungcheol said, eyes flicking between the two of you. “Cool.”

You forced a breath through your nose and tried not to react. You weren’t going to ask. You weren’t going to break.

“I’ll figure something else out,” you said quickly, your voice a little too tight, a little too rehearsed. “I always do.”

Seungcheol looked at you, brows drawing together in concern, but didn’t push further.

You felt Jeonghan’s eyes on you, though. Like a weight you couldn’t shrug off. You didn’t dare meet his gaze.

But under the table, your knees brushed. A fleeting contact—barely noticeable. And he didn’t move.

Neither did you.

And maybe that was the problem.

*

The clatter of silverware and the low murmur of polite conversation filled the dining room, where Jeonghan sat awkwardly between his mother and a cousin he barely recognized. His parents had insisted on a full family dinner—“We haven’t all been together in months, Jeonghan-ah!”—and now he was regretting not faking a fever.

He was halfway through picking at a slice of galbi when his father leaned in a little too casually and said, “Did you hear about Y/n’s father?”

Jeonghan blinked. He hadn’t heard her name all evening—had tried not to think about her, if he was honest.

“What about him?” he asked, trying to sound neutral, but his voice already had a tension to it.

“He’s getting remarried,” his father said, mouth full of japchae. “Some woman from Busan. Younger. Pretty well-off, I heard.”

Jeonghan stilled. His chopsticks hovered mid-air.

Jeonghan couldn’t sit still after dinner.

Three months.

Three damn months after your mother passed, and your father was already signing marriage papers with a woman who had no history with your family, no ties to the hospital, no respect for what your mother built. The news echoed in his mind like a warning bell—and the worst part? You hadn’t even told him. Or Seungcheol.

By the time Jeonghan slammed the car door shut and stalked into Seungcheol’s apartment, his jaw was already locked tight. His parents had dropped the bomb at the tail end of dinner like it was gossip over dessert.

“Did you hear? Her father’s remarrying already. Three months. Can you believe it?”

Three months since her mother’s funeral. Jeonghan remembered how you barely made it through the eulogy without shaking. How you’d curled up in the backseat of his car afterward, still in your funeral hanbok, silent except for the occasional sound of your breathing—too calm, too quiet, like you were holding your whole grief together by the thread of not saying anything out loud.

And now this.

“She doesn’t know,” Seungcheol said lazily from the couch without looking up from his phone, glancing over Jeonghan’s stormy entrance like it was just another Tuesday. “Or at least… she didn’t tell me either.”

Jeonghan stopped mid-pace, scoffing. “She knows.”

He ran a hand through his hair, the strands falling back into place messily. “She always knows. She just—doesn’t want to talk about it.”

The room quieted. Even Seungcheol lowered his phone now.

“Ya,” Jeonghan said, his voice low. “She just lost her mom. And now her dad’s acting like she was never part of that life. Like she’s replaceable.”

“I know,” Seungcheol murmured. “I didn’t think it would actually come to this, but….”

Jeonghan turned, alert.

Seungcheol hesitated, brows furrowed, voice heavy with guilt. “Y/n’s dad is planning to take back the hospital. Legally. If she’s not married by the time the board votes on succession, he’ll have the right to reclaim everything.”

Jeonghan froze.

“…What are you talking about?”

“There’s a clause. In her mom’s will. You remember how traditional her family is, right? Her mom added a provision that said Y/n could inherit the hospital—if she was married, as a show of stability.”

“That’s insane,” Jeonghan said, shaking his head. “That’s not—She’s been running that place half her life.”

“I know,” Seungcheol said again, quieter this time. “But with her mom gone, and no spouse to secure her position, her father—who technically still holds a dormant stake—can challenge the board’s vote. And they’ll side with whoever seems more ‘qualified’ to run a multi-billion-won legacy hospital.”

Jeonghan’s breath caught in his throat. “So if she’s not married… she loses everything?”

“Exactly.”

The word dropped like a lead weight.

The hospital. Your mother’s legacy. Your life.

All of it—hinging on one outdated clause and a man who was more concerned with reclaiming power than preserving what mattered to his daughter.

Jeonghan’s hands slowly curled into fists at his sides.

He didn’t say it out loud, but the truth was sour in his mouth: He could’ve helped. He’d been asked—hell, handpicked. And he said no.

But those nights… those kisses… the way you trembled in his arms, the way you didn’t pull away—

Maybe it wasn’t just your future that was unraveling.

Maybe it was his, too.

*

Jeonghan heard it first from Seungcheol, in a conversation that left a bitter taste in his mouth.

“You helped her send a marriage proposal to the Hong family?” he asked, trying to sound neutral—but the words hitched somewhere between surprise and something less noble.

Seungcheol nodded, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah. She’s being practical. The Hongs are powerful, respected, and Jisoo’s around our age. It’s a smart match.”

Jeonghan’s mind flicked back to university days. He remembered Hong Jisoo—gentle voice, crisp suits even back then, the kind of guy professors liked and girls swooned over. Polite, well-mannered, probably the kind of man who’d pull your chair out at dinner and remember your dog’s birthday.

He hated how reasonable it sounded.

Still, he needed to know.

“Is Jisoo even single?” Jeonghan asked, almost too quickly.

Jun, his ever-efficient secretary, looked up from his tablet. “Actually… no, sir. He’s dating someone.”

Jeonghan blinked. “How do you know that?”

Jun cleared his throat, a bit sheepishly. “I saw them at two or three events. He wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Not long after, right on cue, news came that your proposal had been rejected. Politely, but firmly.

Jeonghan didn’t know what stung more—that someone else had the chance to say no to you, or that you’d gone through the process without even telling him.

At your next lunch with him and Seungcheol, you stirred your iced tea with a distracted expression before saying, “I’m moving on to the Jeon family next. Remember Wonwoo?”

Jeonghan’s brows lifted. “Jeon Wonwoo?”

Seungcheol let out a soft whistle. “Now that’s a solid bet. The board practically drools over that guy. Youngest regional director in five years. Clean record, sharp thinker. He could probably get you the hospital single-handedly.”

Jeonghan forced himself to nod, even as something in his stomach tightened.

Wonwoo was perfect.

Too perfect.

A week later, the news broke: Wonwoo was already engaged—privately, quietly, to someone outside the industry. A secret fiancée. One no one had expected, and no one dared question.

Jeonghan said nothing when he heard. Just closed the tab on his screen and leaned back in his chair, staring blankly at the ceiling.

How many more names would you have to cross off?

It was Seungcheol who brought it up over dinner one evening.

“There’s another option,” he said, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of steak. “The Kim family. They reached out.”

You blinked. “Kim? As in…?”

“Kim Jongin,” he confirmed, glancing up. “Their eldest son. The family’s powerful, old money, and still holds shares in three major medical networks. If you marry them, the board will bow down without a fight.”

Jeonghan’s fork paused mid-air.

“Kim Jongin?” he repeated slowly, like the name tasted wrong in his mouth. “As in that Kim Jongin? The one who once got kicked out of a charity gala for flirting with a diplomat’s wife?”

Seungcheol smirked. “That was years ago. He’s cleaned up, mostly. Spends more time in boardrooms than clubs now.”

You raised an eyebrow. “He still flirts with everyone. He sent me flowers once and signed the card as ‘Your Future Headache.’”

Seungcheol, chuckling, muttered under his breath, “At least he’s honest.”

Jeonghan didn’t laugh.

Instead, he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “You can’t be serious. Jongin has more scandals than business articles to his name. You’d be a headline before the wedding cake even sets.”

You shrugged, feigning nonchalance, but your voice was quieter. “I’m running out of names, Jeonghan. I don’t need a saint—I need a shield. The board only cares about a surname that scares them.”

Seungcheol nodded grimly. “And the Kim name does that.”

Jeonghan looked at you then—really looked. There was exhaustion behind your smile, a quiet kind of defeat.

How many times have you been rejected, redirected, shut out? How many times had you kept it together just to protect the hospital your mother left behind?

He couldn’t stop you from trying again.

But he hated that you even had to.

That night, Jeonghan poured himself a drink in his living room, alone.

“Kim Jongin,” he muttered bitterly. “Over my dead body.”

*

“Jeonghan just called me. Is that true?”

Seungcheol’s voice crackled through the phone speaker, a strange mix of urgency and disbelief. You barely registered his tone, your mind still half-occupied with the scribbled patient notes in front of you.

You shifted in your seat at the nurse station, eyes still on the clipboard. “What’s true? Did he win the lottery or something?” You let out a soft, tired chuckle. “I mean, honestly, would anyone be shocked if Jeonghan secretly played the odds? He’s... Jeonghan.”

On the other end, Seungcheol sighed. The kind of sigh that wasn’t amused or tired—it was preparing you for something.

“No, Y/n.” His voice lowered. “He told me to turn down the Kim family’s proposal.”

Your pen slipped, leaving a smudge on the paper.

You blinked.

“What?”

The pen rolled out of your fingers and onto the desk with a soft clatter. Your body leaned forward, suddenly too alert. “Why would he—?”

“He said…” Seungcheol hesitated, as though trying to choose the least explosive version of the truth. “Because he’s going to marry you.”

The words didn’t land so much as settle, like the moment before a storm hits—silent, still, choking on meaning.

Your gaze fixed on the wall across the room. White. Blank. Too bright under hospital lights. Somewhere down the hall, a monitor beeped steadily, unaware that your pulse had just doubled.

You didn’t answer. Couldn't. Your lips parted, but no sound came out. Your hands, resting on the desk, had gone cold.

And still, Seungcheol didn’t say another word.

He didn’t need to.

“He didn’t say anything to you, did he?” Seungcheol asked quietly.

You exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through your hair. “No,” you mumbled, eyes narrowing as you stood from the nurse station chair. “Not a word.”

You could hear Seungcheol curse under his breath on the other end, but you were already pacing down the hallway toward your office, phone still pressed to your ear.

“Is he crazy or something?” you muttered, your voice low and laced with disbelief.

Seungcheol tried to lighten the mood. “Should I bring him to the hospital? Get his head checked?”

You scoffed, pushing open your office door with a bit more force than necessary. “No, you should’ve kicked him in the head instead.”

Dropping your white coat onto the couch, you finally sank into your chair, hand covering your eyes for a second before dropping it with a frustrated sigh.

“He said no, Seungcheol. No. So what the hell is this now?”

Silence hummed between you for a moment. Then, quietly, Seungcheol said, “Maybe he changed his mind.”

You leaned back in your chair, the ceiling suddenly very interesting. “If he did, he sure has a weird way of showing it.”

*

Jeonghan didn’t expect to find you there—not tonight, not like this.

He had barely stepped out of the elevator, keys jingling in one hand and a bag of groceries in the other, when his footsteps slowed. His gaze caught on your figure leaning against the wall by his apartment door. Arms crossed. Eyes unreadable. A stillness about you that unnerved him more than any outburst could.

He swallowed hard. The hallway light flickered above him as if mimicking the beat of his pulse.

“Y/n?” he said, cautious, testing the sound of your name like it might trigger something.

You didn’t answer immediately. You just looked at him like he was something unfamiliar—like you were trying to remember why you'd ever trusted him in the first place.

He approached slowly, key poised at the lock. “Did… Seungcheol tell you?”

Your voice cut through the quiet. “So it’s true?”

Jeonghan winced at the edge in your tone. He gave a small, reluctant nod.

You followed him inside without waiting for an invitation. The slam of the door behind you echoed through the room like thunder—loud, final, impossible to ignore.

You whirled on him. “After all the dramatic no’s, after everything—you just decided yes?”

He set the bag on the kitchen counter with trembling fingers. “I changed my mind.”

You scoffed. “Oh, now that’s convenient.”

He turned to face you, heart crawling up his throat. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

You raised your eyebrows. “Didn’t mean to? You told me you didn’t see me that way, Jeonghan. Your exact words. And now, what—suddenly you do? Right after I get another proposal?”

Jeonghan flinched. “I didn’t know how to say it. I didn’t know how to face you after…”

“After those nights?” Your voice cracked on the words, and it gutted him.

He stepped forward, cautious like you might bolt if he got too close. “I know I messed up. I should’ve said something the night it happened. I should’ve said something before you started sending out proposals like you were auctioning off your future.”

“Don’t,” you snapped. “Don’t pretend this is about you protecting me.”

“It’s not,” he said quietly. “It’s all about business. You’re trying to protect your mother’s legacy, right? A marriage of convenience should do exactly that—secure power, eliminate risk. Jongin is a risk.”

You stared at him like you could see straight through the wall he was building with every word. “So you offered yourself instead? What kind of convenient marriage involves someone who told me—explicitly—that he didn’t see me that way?”

The question sliced through the air.

He gripped the edge of the kitchen counter, knuckles whitening.

“I’m stable,” he said flatly. “I know the hospital. The board respects me. I have no scandals, no secret fiancée, no bad press. We wouldn't have to pretend much, and we’d get the media on our side. You’d be safe. The hospital would be safe. It’s a rational solution.”

But even as he said it, his voice faltered at the end.

You stepped closer now, slow, deliberate. “So this is about logic?”

“Yes,” he lied.

You waited.

He didn’t look up. Couldn’t.

Because the truth had nearly spilled out earlier—I can’t stand the thought of you marrying someone else.

But he buried it. Deep.

Because feelings were messy. And you deserved clarity, not confusion.

So he said nothing more. Just stood there in his perfectly structured silence, hoping you wouldn’t notice the way his heart was hammering under his shirt.

On the next day, Jeonghan sat quietly in the sleek, dim living room of the Yoon estate, the tick of the vintage clock on the wall growing louder with every second of silence.

The dining table remained untouched—no one had the appetite to eat after his announcement.

“I’m going to marry her,” he repeated, tone clipped, businesslike. “It’s not romantic. It’s a business marriage. The hospital stays under her control, and in turn, the Yoon family’s reputation gains an institutional ally.”

His father leaned back in his chair, expression unreadable. “You do realize what you're signing up for, don't you?”

Jeonghan kept his chin up. “I do.”

His mother placed her glass down a little too loudly. “That family—her father has scandals trailing him like a shadow. You’ve seen the tabloids, Jeonghan.”

“I’m not marrying her family,” Jeonghan said evenly. “I’m marrying her.”

His younger sister scoffed. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

The tension hit like a sharp wind. Jeonghan could feel the weight of their warnings pressing into his spine.

“She’s… someone I trust. She’s capable. She doesn’t deserve to lose the hospital over a power play. This is the cleanest solution.”

His father shook his head slowly. “You don’t protect people like this, son. Not with your last name. Not with a ring.”

But Jeonghan’s voice didn’t waver. “This isn’t about protection. It’s about business.”

No one believed that—not fully. Especially not him.

Still, they didn’t stop him.

They just let him go.

The very next week, he arrived at the law office early. He had barely slept, but he looked sharp. Tailored blazer, no tie, and his fingers twitching slightly as he waited.

You walked in —expression composed, but Jeonghan knew how to read past that. The subtle tightness in your jaw. The way your eyes darted quickly toward the folder in your hand rather than meeting his.

He stood as you sat. You didn't greet him, just nodded.

Professional.

Just like he’d asked for.

His lawyer spread the documents across the table. “The key terms have been adjusted: one and a half years of legal marriage, public announcement optional, privacy clauses intact. Divorce may be filed on mutual grounds with assets protected under current holdings.”

You read through the text quietly, flipping each page like you’d done this before. Jeonghan watched you instead.

This wasn’t what you’d wanted. Not really. You’d looked for alternatives. You’d begged for options. And when those doors kept closing, you chose the least damaging one. Him.

“I added a clause,” you said, sliding the paper forward. “I’ll retain decision-making rights over hospital board matters. I don’t want you getting dragged into internal politics.”

He blinked. “That’s not necessary.”

“It is,” you said quietly. “You’re already doing enough.”

That silenced him.

Jeonghan leaned back in his chair. This was supposed to be a simple deal, numbers and clauses and black ink—but the air felt heavier than contracts should allow.

You cleared your throat. “You don’t have to—if there’s even a 1% chance you’ll regret this—”

“I’ve already regretted worse,” he cut you off gently. “At least this time, I’m choosing.”

That struck harder than expected.

The lawyer pushed forward two pens. One for you. One for him. When your fingers brushed as you reached out, you didn’t pull away. Neither did he. And for the briefest moment, something unspoken passed between you. Not affection. Not relief. Something quieter. Lonelier. Like two people agreeing to build a house with no intention of living in it.

He watched you sign.

Then he signed, too.

Later that evening, Jeonghan stood by his window, overlooking the city as the skyline blinked softly into the night. A message from Seungcheol sat unread on his phone.

“Are you really going to go through with this?”

He didn’t reply. Instead, he whispered to himself, almost bitterly, “It’s just business.” But his reflection in the window—the tightness around his eyes, the tremble in his hand—betrayed him. He hadn’t lied to you. He wouldn’t hurt you. But what he didn’t say, what he couldn’t say, was this: That part of him didn’t want to protect the hospital.

He wanted to protect you. And now, he was bound to you by paper and law—and silence. Because feelings had no place in business.

Right?

*

The courthouse was stark—walls painted a dull beige, fluorescent lights humming overhead, the faint smell of disinfectant and stale coffee lingering in the air. The atmosphere was anything but celebratory. There were no flowers, no music, no friends or family smiling and whispering behind gloved hands.

You sat rigid in the cold metal chair, hands folded neatly in your lap. Your outfit was businesslike—dark gray trousers and a tailored blazer, practical shoes. Not a stitch of white, no trace of sentimentality. You were here to do one thing: make this marriage legal.

Jeonghan arrived minutes early, his usual composure in place but with an edge of fatigue in his eyes. His black suit hung perfectly on his lean frame, but the absence of a tie made him look less like a groom and more like a reluctant businessman caught in an inconvenient meeting. His jaw was clean-shaven but tight, lips pressed into a thin line.

The clerk barely glanced up as she recited the required lines, voice flat and rehearsed: “Do you, Jeonghan Yoon, take Y/n to be your lawful spouse…” She handed him the pen first, and he signed without hesitation. Then it was your turn. Your hand trembled slightly as you picked up the pen, the sterile atmosphere pressing down like a weight on your chest.

“Congratulations,” the clerk said, but it felt hollow, like an echo in a room already emptied of meaning.

You both nodded curtly, standing side by side as if you’d just closed a deal on a corporate merger rather than pledged to share a life.

Outside, the sky was heavy with thick gray clouds. A cold wind tugged at your coat as you stepped into the parking lot, clutching the envelope of signed documents like a lifeline. Jeonghan was beside you, expression unreadable.

Then, from the corner of the lot, a figure emerged.

Your father.

His suit was tailored but brighter than appropriate, the kind of showy fabric meant to command attention. His smile was thin, practiced—a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. Those eyes scanned both of you like a chess master sizing up pawns.

“Congratulations,” he said smoothly, voice low but laced with something sharper. “I’m glad to see you’ve finally made the practical choice.”

Your shoulders stiffened imperceptibly, your breath catching for just a moment. Jeonghan’s gaze locked onto your father, cold and measuring.

“I see you’ve gone for political utility over sentiment,” your father continued, glancing at Jeonghan as if daring him to respond. “Smart move. The board will be swayed by this union, no doubt.”

“Don’t,” you said quietly, the word clipped but filled with warning.

Your father ignored you, stepping closer, his tone patronizing. “Now that the marriage is secured, the revised foundation charter is ready. You’ll find the documents waiting in your office.”

You paled, your fingers tightening around the envelope as your lips parted slightly—words trapped somewhere between anger and resignation.

Jeonghan stepped forward, voice steady but sharp. “Is this what this has been about all along? Using your daughter’s marriage as leverage for control?”

Your father’s smile remained unshaken. “Legacy isn’t sentimental, Mr. Yoon. It’s power. And power is survival.”

You didn’t move or meet either man’s eyes, instead staring down at the cracked concrete beneath your feet as if it might swallow you whole.

In that moment, Jeonghan’s posture shifted—his usual calm replaced by a simmering realization. This was no business arrangement for you. This was a battlefield, and you’d been fighting it alone.

He said nothing further, merely opening the car door with an automatic gesture of protection.

You slid inside silently, the door clicking shut behind you.

Jeonghan lingered a heartbeat longer, then followed, closing the door. The car’s interior was dim and silent, the weight of unspoken truths thick between you.

You held the envelope tightly, the crinkling paper sounding unnaturally loud.

Marriage, Jeonghan thought bitterly, should be a choice—not a chain.

He glanced at you, rigid and pale, and knew he had underestimated just how much this ‘business’ was costing you.

Jeonghan found himself in the sleek, glass-walled conference room of his family’s business headquarters a week later. The boardroom was large, with polished oak tables and leather chairs, the kind of place where decisions that shaped industries were made. Around the table sat key members of the hospital board—men and women whose loyalties were divided, some still unsure whether your father’s legal challenge could unsettle the current balance.

Jeonghan sat at the head of the table, his posture relaxed but authoritative. His sharp eyes scanned the faces before him, reading hesitation, doubt, and the flicker of ambition. With a quiet nod to his personal lawyer beside him, he opened the discussion.

“Thank you for coming on short notice,” he began, voice steady and deliberate. “I understand there has been some concern about the hospital’s future leadership and the potential legal complications following Mrs. Y/n’s recent loss.”

A few board members exchanged cautious glances.

“My wife’s inheritance is tied directly to the hospital’s legacy. It’s a responsibility she takes seriously—not just because of family, but because she believes in the institution’s mission.” He let the words hang for a moment, deliberately invoking a sense of duty and stability.

“But,” he continued, “there’s also the question of the will’s conditions—specifically, the marriage clause. Some have suggested it could be challenged, that your loyalties might shift.”

He reached forward and slid a thick legal dossier across the table, its cover embossed with the family seal. “Our legal team has reviewed every clause meticulously. The marriage between Mrs. Y/n and myself satisfies all stipulated conditions. Any attempt to invalidate this union on legal grounds would be both unfounded and harmful to the hospital’s reputation and stability.”

His tone sharpened slightly, no longer just informative but subtly warning. “We cannot afford the disruption that a public dispute would bring. Investor confidence, donor relations, patient trust—all of these depend on a unified leadership.”

The room was silent for a beat. Then, one elder board member spoke, voice low but firm. “Mr. Jeonghan, your family’s influence is undeniable. We want what’s best for the hospital, but we must ensure governance remains transparent and effective.”

Jeonghan nodded respectfully. “Agreed. Transparency and stability are non-negotiable. That is why my family is prepared to provide the necessary financial and strategic support to secure the hospital’s future.”

He could see the subtle nods around the table. The message was clear: resistance would be costly and futile.

*

Seungcheol stepped into Jeonghan’s apartment, letting the door close behind him with a quiet thud. His eyes scanned the space, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of you curled up on the couch or busy in the kitchen. But the place was quiet—too quiet for a newly married couple.

“She’s got a shift,” Jeonghan said simply, already walking toward the open kitchen. His sleeves were rolled up, and he looked like he hadn’t slept much.

Seungcheol nodded, settling into one of the stools by the counter. “Of course she does.” He watched Jeonghan pour himself a glass of water, the silence thick with unspoken questions. Then he asked, more lightly than he felt, “So… how’s married life?”

Jeonghan paused for a moment, leaning his weight against the counter as he stared at the glass in his hand.

“Strategic,” he said finally, his tone dry.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow.

Jeonghan sighed. “It’s complicated. The hospital isn’t just some legacy—it’s a battlefield. Her father’s been trying to claw his way back into control using every legal loophole he can find. The marriage? It was the only option left to secure her position before the board meeting.”

Seungcheol let out a low whistle. “That bad, huh?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Worse than I thought. The clause her mom put in the will was meant to protect Y/n, but it became a weapon the moment her father figured out how to twist it. I had to act fast. If we hadn’t gotten married when we did, she would’ve lost everything.”

Seungcheol leaned back, arms crossed. “And now you’re both stuck in a business deal wearing rings.”

Jeonghan didn’t respond immediately. He ran a hand through his hair, the exhaustion showing in the lines under his eyes.

“She’s doing everything she can to keep it together. Between the hospital, her shifts, and pretending all of this is fine…”

Seungcheol shook his head, a small frown forming. “Poor wifey.”

Jeonghan smirked faintly at the nickname, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. She didn’t deserve any of this.”

“How about a honeymoon?”

Jeonghan scoffed at the mere mention of the word.

“Honeymoon?” he repeated, half-laughing, half-exhausted. “Yeah, we celebrated with a three-hour strategy meeting and a rushed signature on a marriage certificate. Very romantic.”

Seungcheol chuckled as he opened a can of soda from Jeonghan’s fridge, shaking his head. “You’re unbelievable.”

Jeonghan slumped into the chair across from him, stretching his legs out beneath the table. “You’re the one who brought it up.”

“I mean, come on,” Seungcheol said, leaning on the counter. “You sign a deal that big—hospital, marriage, family reputation—and you don’t even take my best friend somewhere nice? Italy? Maldives? Hell, even Jeju?”

“She’s working,” Jeonghan muttered, eyes fixed on the floor. “There’s no time for beaches. We’re still cleaning up the legal mess her father left behind.”

Seungcheol’s smile faded. He set down the can and looked at his friend seriously. “Speaking of legal mess—I assigned you an expensive shark of a lawyer. Jung Haejin. She’s the best in estate protection and corporate inheritance. If anyone can outmaneuver her father’s moves, it’s her.”

Jeonghan glanced up, surprised. “You really did that?”

“You’re my best friend,” Seungcheol said, shrugging like it was nothing. “Even if this whole thing started out cold, I know you’re not going to let her fall.”

A silence settled between them—soft, but loaded.

Jeonghan gave a faint nod, running a hand through his hair again. “Thanks, Cheol. I mean it.”

“That’s why,” Seungcheol insisted, leaning forward, eyes gleaming, “plan a honeymoon already! You know how Y/n loves beaches, right?”

Jeonghan raised a brow, caught off guard. “How do you even know that?”

“Please,” Seungcheol scoffed, grabbing a handful of nuts from the bowl on the table. “She used to beg me to take time off and go to Busan during uni breaks. Even dragged me to a travel fair once, just to collect brochures of islands she couldn’t afford to visit yet.”

Jeonghan blinked, his lips tugging into something unreadable. “She never told me that.”

“Of course she didn’t. She probably thinks you’d laugh or roll your eyes.” Seungcheol pointed at him. “But I’m telling you—she’s a beach girl through and through. You want her to breathe? To stop thinking about the hospital for a second? Take her somewhere with sand and waves.”

Jeonghan exhaled slowly, mind already racing with a dozen tabs he’d need to open later—locations, flights, resorts.

“Think of it as strategy,” Seungcheol added, slyly. “A well-rested co-CEO is more effective in a boardroom.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the smirk forming. “You’re really pushing this.”

“You’re really resisting it,” Seungcheol shot back. “Let her live, Jeonghan. This isn’t just your name or your family legacy on the line anymore. It’s hers too.”

Jeonghan grew quiet, the weight of those words sinking into him. This wasn’t just business—at least not anymore. Not when her hands shook in secret after meetings with lawyers. Not when her shoulders tensed at every call from her father’s associates. Not when she didn’t complain, but her eyes told another story.

Maybe it was time he gave her something she didn’t have to fight for. Even if just for a weekend.

“Alright,” he finally said, grabbing his phone. “Let’s find her a beach.”

*

Jeonghan hadn’t exactly imagined his first honeymoon would come with a third wheel—especially not in the shape of Choi Seungcheol, who was now sprinting barefoot toward the water like a golden retriever let off the leash.

It was supposed to be two days of peace, just the two of you, tucked away in one of his family’s private villas in Busan. A short escape Jeonghan had been desperately looking forward to—a breath of air after months suffocating beneath hospital politics, endless meetings, and legal negotiations. After tirelessly working with the lawyer Seungcheol had assigned, attending back-to-back board meetings, and overseeing the investigation regarding the hospital owner’s misconduct, the decision had finally been made: the board would postpone any changes in ownership for at least two more years. During that time, they would conduct a thorough audit of your father while he served as vice director—buying Jeonghan and you some time, but also keeping everyone under scrutiny.

Still, as he trailed behind you, watching your face light up at the sight of the ocean, your smile wide and childlike as the waves crashed onto the shore, his irritation softened. Almost.

“This is supposed to be a honeymoon, you know,” he muttered, arms crossed, a mixture of amusement and mild annoyance twisting his lips.

You didn’t even look back. “As if that ever stops you from fucking me when he’s around,” you tossed the line over your shoulder so casually it knocked the wind out of him.

Jeonghan stumbled mid-step, coughing on his own breath. “Yah—!”

Too late. You had already taken off, splashing into the shallows with Seungcheol while laughter filled the air.

He sighed, staring out at the two of you like a man who’d just realized he was going to have to fight his way through his own honeymoon. And despite himself, he grinned.

You were going to drive him insane.

And he couldn’t wait.

The three of you lounged in the cozy villa living room, sunk deep into plush cushions after wandering the village in search of a good local restaurant. The salty air still lingered on your skin, and laughter from dinner hadn’t quite faded. But Seungcheol, sitting cross-legged on the rug with a can of beer in hand, was giving you and Jeonghan a look—as if you'd both sprouted unicorn horns right in front of him.

It wasn’t unfounded. Anyone paying close attention would’ve noticed the shift. The way Jeonghan’s arm had draped a little too comfortably around your shoulders on the walk back. The way you leaned into his touch like it was second nature. The subtle glances. The softness in your voice when you said his name. Seungcheol had known the two of you for years—but something was definitely different.

He narrowed his eyes, took a sip of his beer, and asked bluntly, “Are you two secretly dating or something?”

You rolled your eyes and tossed a cushion at him. “We’re married, you idiot.”

Jeonghan chuckled, his fingers brushing yours as if to prove the point.

Seungcheol blinked. “No, I mean like... actually married. Emotionally. This is giving... romance vibes.”

Jeonghan only raised an eyebrow, the ghost of a smirk tugging at his lips. You stayed quiet this time, eyes locked with your best friend's—because neither of you were ready to admit out loud that Seungcheol might be onto something.

Seungcheol groaned, dragging both hands down his face in exasperation. “God, I knew it! I freaking knew it.”

You blinked at him, amused. “Knew what?”

“That you two—” he gestured between you and Jeonghan like he was pointing out an obvious crime scene, “—have always had something. Even before all this marriage contract nonsense. The way you argued, the way you defended each other, the way you acted like you weren’t each other’s person when everyone could see you were.”

“I hoped I was wrong,” Seungcheol said dramatically. “Because if I’m right, that means I’ve been stuck in the middle of one long, slow-burn, emotionally constipated love story without getting any closure.”

Seungcheol had always known. Jeonghan never said it out loud, but it didn’t take a genius to see it—the way his eyes lingered on you a second too long, the way his tone softened when your name was mentioned in a conversation, the way he’d show up unasked, unnoticed, always around when you needed him most. He didn’t flaunt it. He didn’t make grand gestures. But he had this quiet, steady way of being there, of making it clear he wasn’t just looking out for a friend—he was holding space in his heart for something more.

But you? You had your head buried in textbooks, deadlines, and responsibilities, chasing excellence like it was the only thing that mattered. Love was a luxury, not a priority. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Until Seungcheol realized you were drifting onto the same ship Jeonghan had been sailing all along.

He called you that night, voice low and serious.

“I know you didn’t want to hurt him… or yourself,” Seungcheol said gently.

On the other end of the line, you hesitated. “I just…”

“I know, Y/n. Trust me. I always knew.”

Silence stretched between you like a string pulled too tight. Seungcheol could almost hear the thoughts racing in your head, the weight of things you’d buried deep finally making their way to the surface.

He sighed softly, his voice filled with something between sympathy and relief. “It finally hits you, right? That you like him. Not just as a friend.”

Still, you didn’t answer.

Then finally, in a voice so quiet it almost broke, you spoke.

“I… I don’t remember when it started, Cheol. But it just… happened.”

And Seungcheol smiled faintly, not because it was funny, but because after all this time, after all the dodged feelings and almost everything, you’d finally said what he always suspected.

“Yeah,” he said. “Love usually does.”

Jeonghan sighed beside you, slouched on the floor across from Seungcheol. He rubbed his face a little too roughly, the frustration clear in the way his fingers dragged down his cheeks.

“What do you want to hear, bro?” he muttered, voice low and exhausted—less from the conversation, more from everything that had been left unsaid for too long.

Seungcheol just shrugged, casual as ever, but his eyes were sharper than his tone. He gestured lazily between you and Jeonghan.

“You figured it out. You guys are adults anyway,” he said, pushing himself off the floor with a grunt. “Took you long enough.”

You glanced at Jeonghan, who stared at the floor with a small shake of his head, as if Seungcheol’s approval or commentary was the least of his concerns—but the pink tint rising to his ears said otherwise.

Seungcheol stretched his back and yawned dramatically. “Anyway, I’m heading to bed early. Got a long drive tomorrow and I really don’t want to get in the way of your honeymoon,” he said, the last word dripping with smug mischief.

He was halfway to his room before he turned back, poking his head around the doorframe with the most shit-eating grin you’d ever seen on his face.

“Oh—” he added, “just make sure to use a condom this time. You didn't last time at my place.”

Jeonghan froze. You stared. The silence in the room was deafening.

“Cheol!” you hissed, a pillow flying in his direction as he cackled and slammed the door shut behind him.

Jeonghan groaned, burying his face into the cushion beside him. “I’m going to kill him. Slowly.”

“Why is he so stupid?” you muttered under your breath, eyes narrowed in disbelief. “You both got vasectomies at my hospital. Together.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose, trying to wave away the sheer absurdity of the situation—not just the fact that Seungcheol blurted it out like it was nothing, but also that he knew you and Jeonghan had slept together and still had the audacity to tease you about it.

Jeonghan leaned his head back against the couch, sighing like the weight of his entire friendship with Seungcheol was too much to carry.

“That’s why I’m killing him,” he deadpanned, eyes closed as if he were mentally planning the most efficient method to end his best friend.

The laughter eventually faded, replaced by a quiet stillness between you and Jeonghan. The ocean outside whispered against the shore, and somewhere in the villa, Seungcheol had finally shut his door.

Jeonghan sat upright, arms resting on his knees, staring ahead without really seeing anything. You watched his profile, the way his jaw clenched slightly, the weight behind his silence.

Then he spoke, voice quieter than usual. “You know… I never really understood what line I wasn’t supposed to cross.”

You tilted your head, confused. “What do you mean?”

Jeonghan exhaled slowly. “With you. Us. I was your friend, right? That’s how it started. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t start feeling something more, years ago. I just… I didn’t know if it was worth risking the friendship.”

Your heart thudded once, uneven and loud.

“I kept telling myself it was better to just be near you—helping you study, listening to you rant about your professors, showing up to your part-time jobs with coffee.” He smiled faintly at the memory. “It was enough. Or I convinced myself it was.”

You remained still, letting him talk.

“But every time someone came close to you, like seriously close, I’d get... weird.” He gave a dry chuckle. “Petty. Distant. Sometimes too obvious. And I hated it. I hated that part of me. Because I thought friends weren’t supposed to act like that.”

You lowered your eyes, your own emotions swirling quietly.

“When Seungcheol told me you’re about to get involved with the Kim family, something in me just snapped. I couldn’t sit back and watch someone else take you—not for business, not for love, not for anything. So I did something stupid. I played the same game.”

“The marriage,” you said softly.

He nodded. “Yeah. I made it sound like business. And in some ways, maybe it still is. But I wasn’t honest—not with you, not with myself.”

There was another beat of silence before Jeonghan turned to look at you.

“I don’t expect you to feel the same way,” he said, voice steady despite the vulnerability in it. “And I’m not saying this to pressure you into anything. But I needed you to know that this isn’t just about protecting you or your family’s name. It’s you. It’s always been you.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Jeonghan offered you a small, tired smile.

“I know it’s a lot. We’re already in something messy and complicated. I just... I’d rather you hear the truth from me now than keep pretending I’m okay with being just your business partner.”

The waves outside kept rolling. The tension sat between you, thick and alive. But there was also something else now—something raw, maybe even freeing. Truth always had a way of stirring still waters.

A few seconds passed in silence after Jeonghan’s quiet confession. You could feel the sincerity lingering in the air, like smoke after a fire—thick, lingering, and oddly comforting. The vulnerability in his voice had peeled back a layer you never knew he kept hidden so carefully.

You took a deep breath, eyes still on him, and then—“That’s hot.”

Jeonghan blinked. “What?”

You grinned. “You being honest. It’s kinda hot.”

A slow, incredulous smile spread on his face as his brows lifted. “Wow. I bare my soul and you turn it into thirst content?”

You shrugged, the tension breaking into playful air. “I mean, what do you expect? You were emotionally constipated for years. Seeing you finally say what you feel? Sexy.”

Jeonghan groaned, leaning back against the couch like your words physically wounded him. “This is why I can never have serious moments with you.”

“And yet you married me,” you teased, scooting closer and nudging his knee with yours.

He glanced at you, something softer behind the usual amusement in his eyes. “Yeah. I did.”

You held his gaze a moment longer, before reaching for a throw pillow and gently thwacking him with it. “For a business deal, that is.”

He caught the pillow mid-air and raised a brow. “Sure. Business.”

You leaned in and whispered with mock-seriousness, “Very professional of you, Mr. Yoon.”

Jeonghan narrowed his eyes playfully. “Don’t tempt me to write that into the contract.”

You burst out laughing, and for the first time in a while, it didn’t feel complicated. It felt like the two of you again—just tangled in a bigger, messier story now. But at the center of it, still you and Jeonghan.

Jeonghan’s smile lingered as he nudged your arm, softer this time. “Thanks for not running away.”

You looked at him, warmth blooming behind your ribcage. “Thanks for finally saying it.”

And outside, the waves rolled on under the Busan moonlight. Inside, the silence between you no longer felt heavy—but full of something new, something promising.

*

You approached your mother, who had come all the way to attend your graduation ceremony, her eyes soft with pride. Behind you, Jeonghan and Seungcheol followed respectfully, both dressed sharply for the occasion. As they reached her, the two of them bowed politely.

“There’s Jeonghan and Seungcheol too,” your mother noted with a warm smile, acknowledging them with a slight nod. “Thank you both for supporting Y/n all this time.”

She then turned to you and handed you a bouquet of fresh white lilies and pale pink roses, wrapped in delicate paper. You took them with a small laugh, grateful but slightly embarrassed.

After a few minutes filled with cheerful conversation, light teasing, and a dozen photos with your friends—who had helped you prep tirelessly for this big day—you hugged them goodbye, waving as they left in different directions.

Your mother and you eventually got into the car waiting by the curb. She slid in beside you in the backseat while the driver started the engine. As the campus slowly disappeared behind the tinted windows, she looked over at you, pride still glimmering in her eyes.

“They’re wonderful friends, aren’t they?” she mused aloud. “They’ve been with you since junior high, right?”

You smiled at the thought. “Yeah. Unlike our parents, we weren’t friends for business.” There was a playful sarcasm in your voice, but the humor was clear.

Your mother chuckled, then gave you a sideways glance. “Never caught feelings for one of them?”

Her question made you pause. The teasing lilt in her voice was unmistakable, and she raised a knowing brow when you didn’t respond right away.

“Gotcha!” she said, triumphant.

You groaned. “Not that again! You say this every time you see them. They’re just my friends. There’s a reason we’re still friends after all these years.”

“Alright, alright,” she conceded, holding up her hands with a smirk. “So, I guess Seungcheol’s not your type…”

You wrinkled your nose dramatically. “Ugh, no way!”

She nodded slowly, her grin widening. “So it’s Jeonghan, then.”

“Mom!”

“I see you’re not denying it.”

“Moooom!”

She laughed out loud this time, satisfied with her small victory, while you buried your heated face in the bouquet, wishing you could disappear into the flowers.

*

Seungcheol sat quietly on the couch, the floral scent of rosella tea wafting up with the steam. He sipped it slowly, savoring both the warmth and the familiarity—it was always rosella at your house. Your mother insisted it was the healthiest tea, even if its tartness took getting used to.

“Thanks for taking care of Y/n, Seungcheol,” your mother said as she settled into the armchair across from him. Her voice was calm, laced with something deeper—something quieter than gratitude. “She’s such a handful sometimes.”

Seungcheol chuckled, setting his cup down gently on the saucer. “She’s like a sister to me,” he replied, smiling. “Loud, brilliant, too stubborn for her own good.”

Your mother’s laugh was soft, almost distant. “She gets that from me.”

There was a pause. Not heavy, but deliberate. She leaned back, fingers gently tracing the rim of her own teacup. Her eyes drifted to the window, watching the curtain sway in the light breeze before she spoke again.

“Seungcheol… I haven’t told her yet,” she said quietly. “And I don’t plan to until it’s time.”

He looked up slowly, his expression tightening just a little.

“I’ve been sick,” she said, her eyes finally meeting his. “The kind that doesn’t really go away.”

He didn’t know what to say. His throat caught on something—shock, sorrow, helplessness. The words hovered but didn’t land.

She offered him a small smile, like a mother comforting someone else's child. “Don’t look so heartbroken. I’ve had a good life, Cheol. And she’s strong. Smarter than I ever was.”

“But she needs you,” he whispered, unable to mask the weight in his voice.

“She’ll have you. And Jeonghan. And everything I didn’t know how to give her before.”

He swallowed hard, then nodded. “I’ll take care of her.”

Her smile deepened—not joyful, but full of trust. “I know you will.”

Your mother took a long sip of her tea, her fingers curling around the delicate porcelain as if bracing herself for the truth she was about to voice.

“I knew about my husband's affair,” she said, quietly but firmly. “For years. It was a doctor from the Busan branch. He thought I’d never find out.”

Seungcheol looked at her, surprised but respectful, his silence giving her the space to speak.

“I let it go. Not for him, but for Y/n. I stayed to protect what was mine—what should be hers. But now that I’m sick… I’m afraid the board might push the hospital into his hands once I’m gone.”

She set her cup down gently and folded her hands over her lap. “I want the hospital for Y/n. But she’s definitely not eligible to claim it on her own. Not now.”

Seungcheol leaned forward, slowly understanding where the conversation was going. “She needs an affiliate,” he said.

Your mother nodded solemnly. “She needs to be married. Someone with influence. With a name that can counterbalance her father’s power. And I don’t have anyone in mind other than you or Jeonghan.”

Seungcheol’s jaw twitched slightly, processing her words. “You might see how much I care for her,” he said carefully, “but I promise you—I’ve never seen her in that way. She’s family to me.”

“I know, son,” she said, giving him a soft, grateful look. “And that’s exactly why I trust you. But she’ll need more than love. She’ll need power.”

He stared into his half-empty cup, his lips pressing into a thin line. “Then… the Yoon family is the answer,” he said at last.

Your mother exhaled, as if she had been waiting for him to say it himself.

“Y/n likes Jeonghan,” she blurted, almost too casually.

Seungcheol’s brows lifted, but not with real surprise. He leaned back slightly and let out a quiet scoff, remembering the moment it all became clear. “She told you?” he asked.

Your mother gave a knowing smile.

He smirked faintly, but there was no humor in his eyes—only memory. It was during junior year. You dragged him to the beach after midnight. Said you were celebrating exam week being over. But you had a bottle of cheap soju in your hand, and all you did was cry about how happy Jeonghan seemed with his new girlfriend. Then you said it felt stupid, but every time you saw Jeonghan smiled at someone else, it burned.

He paused, looking down at the tea again.

“She loved him then. Maybe earlier. But she buried it.”

Your mother’s voice softened. “That’s what she does. She tucks things away so deep even she forgets they’re there.”

And in the quiet that followed, with the scent of rosella still lingering and the sun just beginning to sink behind the window, Seungcheol made another silent vow—one that felt heavier than the first.

Years later, Seungcheol smiled from his seat in the front row of the auditorium, dressed in a navy suit that hadn’t changed much from his usual styles—still a little snug at the shoulders. But his eyes? They were glassier now, a mixture of pride and nostalgia pooling in them as he watched you take the podium.

It was the ceremony announcing your appointment as the hospital’s new director. Your mother’s legacy, polished by your perseverance and finally, officially, placed in your hands. You stood tall in a crisp white blazer, your hair swept neatly to the side, your presence commanding. Yet there was a softness to your smile as you glanced at the crowd—at your people. At your family. Your voice rang with the clarity of someone who had long prepared for this day. There wasn’t a stammer, not even when you thanked those who believed in you “when I hadn’t even believed in myself yet.” You looked at Seungcheol, and he simply nodded once, as if to say I told you so.

Beside him, Jeonghan shifted slightly, cradling your firstborn daughter, Sera, against his chest. Her tiny head of dark curls peeked out beneath a miniature headband, her chubby arms reaching forward to grasp the first thing within reach—Seungcheol’s pinky finger. And once she had it, she refused to let go.

“She’s got your grip,” Seungcheol murmured to Jeonghan with a teasing grin, but didn’t try to pull away.

“She’s stubborn,” Jeonghan replied with a proud chuckle, rocking Sera gently in his arms. “Just like her mom.”

Sera gurgled at that, kicking slightly as if she agreed.

The room erupted into applause as you finished your speech, bowing graciously before stepping down. Your eyes scanned the audience once more—first finding Seungcheol, who gave you the softest, proudest smile, then falling on Jeonghan and the little girl in his arms.

You made your way to them slowly, shaking hands, accepting congratulations, until finally you reached them. Sera squealed when she saw you, arms flailing until Jeonghan helped her lean toward you.

“She didn’t let go of my finger the whole time,” Seungcheol said as he gently passed her into your embrace.

You kissed her round cheek and whispered, “She knows her people.”

Jeonghan smiled at you, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “So does her mom.”

"Do you have a plan after this, Uncle Seungcheol?" you asked, your voice high and teasing as you leaned slightly toward him, still bouncing Sera gently in your arms.

Seungcheol blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

You cleared your throat, scrunched your nose a little, then wiggled Sera’s tiny hand like a puppet and baby-talked, "Wanna babysit me~?"

Jeonghan nearly choked on his laughter beside him, covering his mouth as he leaned forward.

Seungcheol stared at the two of you—the smugness on your face and the completely unaware baby now drooling on your shoulder—and groaned dramatically. “Oh no. Not this again.”

“You said you were free,” you chimed sweetly.

“I said I was free for lunch, not free for life,” Seungcheol shot back, though he was already holding out his arms.

Sera squealed the moment he reached for her, latching onto his shirt like a koala. You smirked, triumphant.

Jeonghan patted Seungcheol’s back with mock sympathy. “Congrats on your promotion to part-time nanny.”

“I’m going to file for emotional compensation,” Seungcheol muttered, but he was already swaying gently with Sera in his arms, smiling despite himself.

And just like that, with the hospital behind you and your family by your side, the next chapter didn’t feel so daunting after all.

*

Later that afternoon, with the ceremony wrapped up and congratulations exchanged, you finally found a moment to breathe. Seungcheol had taken Sera to the garden with his girlfriend, Hana, who had instinctively stepped into a rhythm with Sera as if she'd known your daughter forever. You caught a glimpse of the three of them through the large glass windows—Seungcheol holding Sera up high while Hana clapped from the side. Your baby’s laughter echoed faintly through the hallway, and it melted your heart.

“Should we feel guilty?” you asked, sipping from a paper cup of iced coffee as you leaned against the railing of the hospital rooftop.

Jeonghan looked over at you, hair tousled a little by the wind, one hand in his pocket and the other holding your half-eaten sandwich. “For what? Letting Uncle Cheol discover his true purpose in life?”

You snorted, nudging his elbow. “I meant for sneaking off like this.”

He smiled, soft and knowing. “We don’t get many days like this, Y/n. You deserve a moment.”

You let the silence stretch, comfortable and easy. The city buzzed beneath you, the familiar hum of Busan wrapping around the rooftop like a lullaby. You felt his fingers brush against yours, subtle and warm, before he laced them gently together.

“I still remember when we couldn’t even hold hands without making it weird,” you murmured.

Jeonghan tilted his head, amusement tugging at his lips. “You mean when you pretended that sitting on my lap during beach bonfires was totally platonic?”

You laughed, cheeks warming. “That was for warmth! The wind was freezing!”

He pulled you a little closer, pressing a kiss to your temple. “Sure. Just like how marrying me was only for business.”

You leaned your head on his shoulder, your smile lingering. “Well, if this is business, I guess I signed the best contract of my life.”

Down below, Seungcheol was now lying dramatically on the grass while Sera bounced on his chest, and Hana took a photo with an amused grin. You and Jeonghan watched them in fond silence.

“Do you think we’ll get to do this forever?” you asked softly.

Jeonghan looked at you with eyes that held all the answers. “With you? I hope we never stop.”

Jeonghan picked you up from your office the next day right on time, leaning against the side of his car with his sleeves rolled up and his tie loosened, looking like he stepped out of a magazine but still very much your husband. The sun was dipping low, casting gold along the pavement as you walked toward him, your steps finally relaxing after a long day.

“Where’s Sera?” you asked as you slid into the passenger seat, slipping off your heels with a sigh of relief.

“With my mom. She’s already winning them over with her toddler charm,” he replied with a smile as he started the engine. “So tonight, we get a few hours of just us.”

You glanced at him, curious. “What’s the plan?”

Jeonghan shot you a boyish grin as he turned the wheel. “I planned a dinner. Three-star Michelin. Like your favorite.”

You blinked, eyebrows rising. “Wait, seriously? You got us a reservation there?”

He chuckled. “I pulled a few strings. Remind me to thank Seungkwan later for calling in a favor.”

Your heart swelled at the thoughtfulness, and you reached over to gently rest your hand on his arm. “You didn’t have to go all out. A street cart and you beside me would’ve been enough.”

“I know,” he said, glancing over at you with that soft, slow smile that still made your stomach flip. “But you’ve had a hell of a year. You deserve more than enough.”

Your throat tightened a little at that. Sometimes, Jeonghan’s words slipped past your defenses so easily.

“You’re really good at this, you know?” you murmured.

“At what?”

“At making me fall for you all over again.”

Jeonghan let out a quiet laugh as he reached for your hand and brought it to his lips. “Good. Because I plan to keep doing it for the rest of our lives.”

As the car glided through the streets lit by soft city lights, Jeonghan kept your hand in his, occasionally stealing glances at you when he thought you weren’t looking. You caught him once, lips tugging into a smug little smile.

“You’re staring,” you teased, turning slightly in your seat to face him.

He didn’t even flinch. “Of course I am. My wife’s glowing after bossing an entire hospital today.”

You laughed, leaning your head on the headrest. “You’re ridiculous.”

He squeezed your hand. “Ridiculously in love.”

You groaned at the cheesiness, but your cheeks warmed. “You sound like Seungcheol’s girlfriend when she drinks too much wine.”

“Then I’m in good company,” he said, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a soft kiss.

The restaurant was everything he promised—romantic, elegant, but still private enough that you felt like it was just the two of you in the world. He helped you with your chair, ordered your favorite dish before you even had to say it, and poured your wine with a flourish like he was auditioning for a drama.

“You’ve really upgraded your husband skills,” you commented, swirling your glass.

Jeonghan winked. “Sera’s been giving me performance reviews. Apparently, I’m doing well.”

You leaned closer over the table, whispering like it was a secret, “You know… if you keep this up, I might just fall harder.”

He mirrored your lean, eyes warm and playful. “That’s the plan. Every day, a little more.”

The rest of the night passed with soft laughs, clinking glasses, shared dessert bites, and the kind of conversation that felt like soul food—filled with dreams, memories, and plans you both had yet to chase.

Later, as you stood by the elevator in your apartment building, he quietly laced his fingers with yours again.

“Want to dance with me?” he asked suddenly.

“Right now?” you blinked.

“Yeah. No music. Just us.”

You laughed, but you let him pull you into his arms anyway. There, under dim hallway lights, Jeonghan swayed with you—no rhythm, no reason, just warmth and love. You let your head fall to his shoulder, giggling as he twirled you softly like you were in a ballroom instead of outside your apartment door.

“I think I’m the luckiest,” you mumbled.

He kissed your temple and whispered back, “No. I am.”

And in that quiet, almost ordinary moment, you knew—this was the kind of love that would last lifetimes.

*

Such nights were a rarity, a treasure tucked away in the chaos of everyday life, when exhaustion didn't weigh you both down, and the demands of parenting didn't siphon the last drops of your energy. Jeonghan was poised above you, the warmth of his skin a comforting contrast against the cool sheets. He drew back from a lingering kiss, his breaths mingling with yours in the dimly lit room. As he entered you with a slow, deliberate rhythm, a moan slipped past your lips, a symphony to his ears that matched the gentle hum of the ceiling fan above. His hips moved with a precision that spoke of intimate knowledge, hitting that perfect cadence that sent shivers spiraling through your body and left your eyes fluttering in bliss. God, how he adored that expression on your face.

“You like it, huh?” he murmured softly, his voice a low, tantalizing whisper as he thrust a little more forcefully, igniting a spark of raw pleasure that danced between you both. His primal instincts stirred, driven wild by the sound of you crying out his name and the intoxicating sensation of your body responding to his. It was a heady mix of addiction and ecstasy, a dangerous concoction that he craved.

“Jeonghan...” you gasped, a desperate plea as he found that elusive sweet spot within you, the one that sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins.

“Hm... What is it, baby? You want me there?” he teased, his voice laced with playful mischief, as he deliberately shifted his angle, leaving you yearning, aching for that precise touch once more.

“Please... Jeonghan...” you begged, your voice a breathless whisper, drenched in longing and desire.

He grinned, the kind of devilish, all-too-pretty smile that should have been illegal on such a cherubic face, and pushed your knees wider with his hands. “God, I love you,” he whispered, almost reverent, then buried himself in the rhythm, driving you both toward that singular, shattering point of bliss.

You lost all sense of time or consequence, the room collapsing around the epicenter of your bodies, the tangled sheets and half-open blinds dimly visible through haze. Your fingers clung to his shoulders, blunt nails leaving marks you’d find the next morning. He was unhurried but relentless, the slow, deep surges building in intensity until you could barely remember your own name, let alone worry about the prospect of Seungcheol’s inevitable wrath.

At the moment you broke, shuddering and stifling a cry against the pale slope of his neck, Jeonghan wrapped his arms around you so tightly you were sure you would shatter, right there, under the weight of him and the enormity of what you felt. The world righted itself only after, in the lull where your ragged breaths mingled, and you realized you were delicately cradled, as if he could keep you together with gentle hands alone. For a long moment, neither of you spoke, content to let limbs remain tangled, hearts thundering in asynchronous duet.

Jeonghan was the first to move. He propped himself on one elbow, brushing the hair from your damp forehead, his eyes still swimming in the afterglow. “Are you alive?” he asked, and the laugh that escaped you was small, shaky, but sincere.

“I think so,” you managed, voice thick. “I might need CPR.”

“Please. You always say that,” he teased, rolling onto his side and pressing kisses to your collarbone, the line of your jaw, the tip of your nose.

It was somewhere between a breathless laugh and a whispered “I love you” when the soft cry of your daughter filtered through the baby monitor on the nightstand.

You both froze.

Jeonghan groaned dramatically, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Why is our daughter’s timing so impeccable?”

You giggled, brushing the sweat-matted hair from his forehead. “She’s your daughter. Born to be dramatic.”

He sighed, rolling off you gently and grabbing a shirt from the edge of the bed. “I’ll go. You rest.”

You watched him pull the shirt over his head, the faint moonlight casting a soft glow over the stretch of his back. He still moved like a sleepy prince—even when interrupted mid-magic.

“Tell her she owes us twenty more minutes when she’s a teenager.”

He chuckled, already halfway out the door. “I’ll invoice her.”

You lay back on the pillows, heart still thudding from both the intimacy and the sudden interruption. Through the monitor, you heard the door to Sera’s room creak open, followed by Jeonghan’s soft, sleepy voice.

“Hey, princess... what’s wrong, huh?”

Her tiny sobs grew quieter, replaced by hiccups and his quiet hums—probably the lullaby he made up that never made sense but always calmed her down.

You smiled to yourself, listening to their voices mingle. It wasn’t the ending you had planned for the night, but somehow, it felt even better. Because this was your life now—love, laughter, messy timing, and a little girl who stole both your hearts.

A few minutes later, the bedroom door creaked again. Jeonghan tiptoed in, climbing back under the covers.

“She just wanted a cuddle,” he whispered, slipping his arms around you. “Guess she’s like her mom.”

You chuckled against his chest. “Did you just call me clingy?”

“I said cuddle-loving.” He kissed the top of your head. “But yes.”

You swatted his chest lightly. “I was about to give you the best night of your life.”

He grinned, already pulling you closer. “We’ve got a lifetime of nights. But for now... I’ll take cuddling both my girls.”

And just like that, tangled together in the quiet, you drifted into sleep—interrupted, imperfect, but full of love.

The end.

[thedensworld]

Duty Finished | C.Sc 

Pairing: Duke Seungcheol x reader Genre: Noble House Au! Type: Romance, Angst, Smut (mdni!) Word count: 22k Summary: The wife and the son of Choi's house went missing one night. 

“Sir…”

Seungcheol didn’t bother lifting his head right away. He was halfway through a glass of aged whiskey, the ice barely clinking as he swirled it in his grip, eyes still scanning the reports on his desk. His office—sleek, dim, and built like a vault—reeked of silence, save for the sharp interruption of his right-hand man’s voice.

When Mingyu barged in, slamming the door open with the kind of recklessness he should’ve known better than to display, S eungcheol finally glanced up. His gaze was frigid. Controlled. The kind that made men squirm and executives sign whatever he wanted just to escape it. Mingyu stood just inside the threshold, his breathing tight, jaw clenched like he was trying to bite back a disaster. He didn’t speak right away, which meant only one thing—this wasn’t just bad. It was catastrophic.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he placed the glass down on the leather blotter. “This better be worth the noise,” he said, voice smooth but carved with warning. “Or I’ll personally remind you of protocol.”

Mingyu swallowed. “It’s… your wife. And your son.”

That got a reaction. Barely. One brow ticked upward. Seungcheol’s mind flicked briefly, vaguely, to you. And the boy. When was the last time he saw either of you? He had to think. It all blurred together. Boardrooms. Contracts. Private jets. Endless handshakes. The house was his base, not his home. You were part of the arrangement—an accessory that came with it. And the child? A product of timing. Nothing more.

He left both of you in the care of his mother, the Duchess. But you never complained. Not seriously, anyway. You knew what this marriage was. Five years of luxury, power, and cold silence. You got the title. He got the freedom. That was the deal. A marriage crafted from ink and strategy, not affection.

An arrangement.

The Choi family’s wealth was forged—literally—in fire and steel. Their legacy built on the backs of blacksmiths, blades, and the unyielding rhythm of iron mines. For centuries, they supplied the royal army with weapons and armor, their influence woven into the very skeleton of the kingdom.

But not all legacies are immune to decay.

Twenty years of mismanagement had nearly bankrupted the family. Lavish galas, failed ventures, and an aging patriarch too obsessed with tradition to adapt—it had all but dragged the Choi name through the mud. The empire of steel had rusted.

And then came Seungcheol. Sharp. Surgical. Unforgiving.

He returned from his education abroad not with fanfare, but with a scalpel in hand—cutting out inefficiencies, dismantling old loyalties, and selling off sentiment piece by piece. The boy they once dismissed as too cold, too ambitious, had become the man who would not flinch while setting fire to his own house just to build it back stronger.

He didn't save the family for pride. He did it because he hated failure. Now, the Choi name gleamed again. Polished. Feared. Powerful.

The silence that followed Mingyu’s words was weighted. Heavy. Not with grief—Seungcheol didn’t operate in emotions—but with calculation.

“What happened,” he asked at last, voice like chilled steel.

“They were kidnapped.”

Kidnapped.

The office door opened again, this time more cautiously. Seokmin stepped in, still in uniform, dust clinging to the hem of his coat and sweat slicking his brow. He looked like he had run—like he had failed.

“Sir,” he said, breathless.

Seungcheol didn’t raise his head. “You were assigned to her today.”

Seokmin froze in the doorway. “Yes, sir. I—I was. I didn’t leave her side… until West Gwanrae.”

A beat passed.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair slowly, folding his hands together. “Explain.”

“We stopped by a boutique. Lady Choi wanted to try on a dress. She was with her lady-in-waiting. I checked the perimeter twice. There were no signs of threat—nothing. But when I came back inside, the store was empty. Everyone gone.”

“You lost them in a boutique?” Seungcheol’s voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

Seokmin flinched. “The store was a front. We’re looking into the workers now, but the boutique was staged. There were no real records of the staff. The surveillance cameras were wiped clean. Whoever planned this… they were prepared, sir.”

Silence followed, thick and brutal.

Seungcheol stared at the unopened letter on his desk. His jaw ticked once.

“And the boy?”

Seokmin swallowed. “They took him too.”

Still no emotion. Not visibly. Not in his face, not in his posture. Just a colder shift in his gaze, like steel icing over.

Mingyu stepped forward, holding something in his hand. “A letter arrived at the estate,” he said. “No return address. It was hand-delivered through a driver—anonymous. The staff didn’t question it. They thought it was routine.”

He passed the envelope across the desk.

“They used paper,” Mingyu added. “No traceable signal. No digital footprint. If this is a kidnapping, sir… it’s a careful one.”

Seungcheol didn’t react immediately. He stared at the envelope—ivory, expensive paper, sealed with red wax. Old-fashioned. Deliberate.

“This was a move,” Seungcheol muttered, almost to himself. Then, finally, he broke the wax seal.

The letter inside was handwritten. Cursive. Expensive ink. “If legacy is all you care about, we’ve taken your future.”

No ransom. No demands. Just a warning. Who dares to warn Choi Seungcheol?

Seungcheol didn’t pace. Pacing was for the uncertain. He stood behind his desk like a statue carved from winter stone, fingers drumming against the glass surface with chilling precision. One beat. Two. Three.

“Find out who’s behind this,” he said, his voice smooth and flat like polished obsidian. “The ones who’ve been sniffing around our territory. The ones who smiled too long at that last summit dinner. I don’t care if it’s a silk-suited investor or a sewer rat with a grudge—dig them out.”

Mingyu stood straighter, but something in his shoulders betrayed him. A delay. Barely noticeable—unless you’d spent a decade watching a man read war tables like bedtime stories.

Seungcheol’s gaze slid to him, a flick of ice under shadow. “You’ve got names in mind already,” he said, not asking. “Start there.”

Mingyu opened his mouth, then shut it. His throat moved with a slow swallow. “Understood.”

The air tightened between them like an old wound reopening.

“Good,” Seungcheol muttered, already turning away, as if dismissing both the man and the moment. “And Mingyu—”

He paused at the window, eyes cast toward the distant skyline, where the horizon bled rust and coal smoke.

“If someone thinks they can take what’s mine, make sure they understand the cost.”

The silence that followed rang louder than any threat.

Mingyu nodded once, firm—but when he left, his steps weren’t as sharp. And for the first time in a long time, he didn’t head straight for the security floor. He took a detour. Past the portraits no one dusted. Past the closed doors where your laughter used to echo before it fell into absence.

And when he stopped, it was in front of one painting. Yours. Just for a second. Then he kept walking.

*

“What’s going on, Seungcheol? My birthday is in a week, and your wife and son went missing? Are they insane?”

His mother’s voice pierced through the marble halls of the estate like a thorn catching on silk—sharp, persistent, unwelcome. Seungcheol barely glanced at her as he passed, his coat still dusted with the chill of dusk, jaw clenched with exhaustion. The Choi household, once a fortress of routine and elegance, had descended into chaos. Guards scrambled across city districts. His right hand, Mingyu, was stretched thin with investigation routes. And Seungcheol—he was running out of patience.

“If only your late father had been in his right mind,” his mother continued, trailing after him in her usual designer heels. “That marriage—what good has it brought? Nothing but problems. Look where it’s led us. And now, of all times—before my birthday party!”

He stopped at the base of the grand staircase, one hand gripping the railing tighter than necessary. His mother caught up, her perfume too sweet for his senses, too loud for the grief she pretended to wear. Her expression faltered when she met his gaze—cold, unreadable, and far too silent for comfort.

“I’m sorry, son,” she said softly, her voice trembling just enough to sound rehearsed. “I’ve just… been lonely lately. Your father’s gone. Your wife never cared for me, and the boy—he avoids me like I’m a ghost. And now they’re missing. I only wanted someone to talk to. Someone to understand.”

She folded her arms, her sorrow wrapping around her like a well-tailored coat. A performance—quiet, pitiful, tragic.

Seungcheol took a breath, long and steady, his eyes drifting past her to the portrait of his father hung above the hallway. A man with vision but no spine. A legacy he had to rebuild with blood and bone.

“I understand, Mother,” he said at last, voice controlled, cold. “But right now, I need silence. And space.”

He turned away again, leaving her standing at the foot of the stairs in her designer grief.

Seungcheol passed your room on his way to his own, but his steps faltered at the familiar curve of the mahogany doors. Without a thought, he turned, hand reaching for the ornate brass handle. The door creaked softly as it gave way under his push.

He stepped inside.

A scent lingered—soft, distinct. Yours. That subtle blend of lavender and something sweeter, something warmer. It hadn’t even been ten hours since you vanished, but the room still breathed you in every corner. It was as though the space had been carved around your presence—crafted to cradle only you.

He walked further in, letting his eyes sweep over the room he never truly looked at. Not until now. He had never wandered here—not out of curiosity, not even out of care. Usually, if he needed you, he came to your bed. If he needed to speak to you, he summoned you to his library. Cold, efficient. Just like him.

But now, he noticed the details.

The delicate lace curtain that fluttered slightly with the wind. The vanity table with brushes still holding strands of your hair. The books stacked haphazardly beside your bed, half-read. A teacup on the nightstand, still stained with lipstick.

"It’s her favorite color."

A voice broke the silence.

Seungcheol turned. Minyeong stood by the doorway, hands folded tightly in front of her apron. She had served your family for decades, and had been assigned to you ever since your wedding. Her gray hair was pulled into a neat bun, and though her body was aging, her eyes were as sharp as ever.

Seungcheol’s gaze dropped briefly to the soft lilac sheets before meeting hers again. “I suppose you have something to say to me?”

His tone was flat—too calm. It was the calmness before a blade struck, laced with something colder than anger. Minyeong bowed, trembling faintly.

“I failed, sir. I should have protected the lady and the young master.”

“That’s exactly what you were meant to do, Minyeong. And yet—they’re gone.” His voice didn’t rise, but the weight in it pressed against the room like a storm cloud. “Do you know if my wife ever received any threats? Any enemies she failed to mention?”

Minyeong looked hesitant, her brow furrowing. “It’s hard to say, sir. The lady rarely entertained guests. She barely had friends in society. Most of the time, she stayed here… or in the garden.”

Seungcheol’s jaw ticked as he scanned the room once more.

“Then someone must’ve watched her from the outside,” he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

Minyeong wrung her hands tightly, her knuckles whitening. She stepped forward, her voice trembling as she fell to her knees in front of Seungcheol.

“Please, sir… you must find her. The lady—she may not speak much, but I see things.”

Seungcheol's eyes didn’t waver. He watched her with the same stillness he offered his enemies in negotiation—silent, unreadable.

“She bore the weight of this marriage without complaint,” Minyeong continued, eyes brimming with guilt. “Never once did she dishonor the Choi name.”

His gaze flickered at that, just slightly.

“She never asked for anything,” Minyeong whispered. “Not love. Not affection. Just safety. For herself. For Jiho. And I failed to give her even that.”

Seungcheol looked down at her—an old woman who had watched over your days like a silent guardian, now crumpled before him. He didn’t kneel. He didn’t speak words of comfort. But his voice, when it finally came, was low and steel-edged. “Get up, Minyeong. I’ll find them. That’s a promise.”

And when he turned, his footsteps carried something heavier than usual—a crack in his otherwise flawless control. As Seungcheol stepped out of your room, his shoes silent against the marble, the lingering scent of you clung to the air like smoke after a quiet fire. Lavender and something faintly citrus—he never bothered to ask what you used. He just knew it had always been there, soaked into the sheets, the curtains, the collar of his shirt when he walked too close to you.

He hadn’t intended to think of you tonight. But something about the silence of your room, the untouched comb on your vanity, the faint imprint on the armrest where you used to sit and read—unsettled him. Not in grief. Not in worry. In disturbance. Like a room missing its weight. A system missing its balance.

You’d entered his life five years ago—unwanted, inconvenient, and needed. A solution. Your family’s downfall had brought you to his door like a merchant pushing damaged goods wrapped in silk. He hadn't wanted a wife. He wanted leverage. Political gain. A calm household. A woman who wouldn’t scream. Instead, you had the gall to challenge him.

You walked into the Choi estate in that faded navy hanbok, spine straight, eyes sharp, and mouth far too honest. You questioned everything—the contract, the house rules, even the arrangement of his schedule. You moved through his life like a storm in slow motion, unraveling the stiffness in his perfect world.

He hadn’t liked you. But he hadn’t hated you either. You were just… noise. Eventually, like all things, the noise faded.

The storms dulled. Your voice softened. The fire in your chest smothered itself into embers. He watched it happen gradually—arguments turned into nods, sharp words into silence, protests into polite compliance. You stopped decorating your days with resistance. You stopped speaking unless spoken to. You became still.

And Seungcheol—he thrived in stillness.

He never told you to change. He never needed to. Your defiance melted the longer you stayed, and what remained of you was quiet, predictable, peaceful. He didn’t love you. He didn’t hate you. You were just… there. Like furniture that fit the room too well to be noticed.

You gave him peace without touching him. You gave him space without absence. And that was the closest thing to comfort Seungcheol had ever known.

Then the child came.

Jiho. A small, soft echo of you. A boy with your eyes and your uncanny quietness. At first, the sound of his laughter grated him. Too alive. Too human. But one night, Jiho had fallen asleep on his office couch, book in hand, head tilted back. Seungcheol had watched him for minutes without understanding why. He didn’t touch the boy. Just stood there.

Now… that boy was gone. You were gone. And peace was cracking at the edges of his life again.

He reached the study, fingers grazing the edge of his mahogany desk, his reflection staring back from the glass of the scotch bottle he didn’t touch. Seungcheol didn’t mourn. He didn’t fear. 

But the quiet wasn’t peaceful anymore. It was hollow.

Seungcheol woke with a violent jerk, breath caught sharp in his throat. The sheets were tangled around his legs, damp with sweat, his chest rising and falling in uneven gasps. Moonlight spilled through the curtains, soft and silver, illuminating the untouched side of the bed beside him.

It was just a dream.

But the phantom weight of your body still clung to his arms—limp, warm, then terrifyingly cold.

In the dream, you had curled into him after the haze of an intimate moment, skin bare against his, your voice still hoarse from whispering his name. His hand had rested on the dip of your waist, fingers tracing the soft line of your spine, when he felt something wet. Sticky.

He pulled his hand back. Crimson.

He remembered shouting your name, once—twice—his voice breaking the peace of the room. You had turned your head slowly, eyes glassy, your lips moving without sound before your body slumped against him. Blood soaked through the sheets like spilled ink, blooming across white cotton in uneven circles.

Then Jiho appeared. Small feet pattering against the wooden floor.

“Appa!” His voice cracked. 

“Appa!”

The boy’s tiny frame stumbled into view, hands outstretched, his nightclothes soaked in blood up to his elbows. Not yours. His. He was crying but not sobbing—just calling, repeating the word like a broken hymn.

Seungcheol reached for him— And the dream shattered.

Now, in the stillness of his room, the air felt heavy, oppressive. He sat up, elbows on his knees, dragging both palms across his face, trying to scrub away the remnants of the nightmare. His heart wouldn’t calm down. It thudded with unnatural rhythm, out of sync with the silence around him.

He looked at the empty side of the bed again. The pillow still held the faintest indentation of where you used to sleep, as if your absence had weight.

The scent of your skin, the softness of Jiho’s voice—he could still feel it in his bones.

Was it guilt? Fear? Loss?

Seungcheol didn’t know. He didn’t care to name it.

He stood, slowly, quietly, as if afraid the wrong sound might call the dream back. He moved to the window, looking out over the dark courtyard, the lights of the estate flickering like the last embers of a dying fire.

Somewhere out there, you were breathing. Alive.

At least, he told himself that.

And somewhere out there, someone was playing with his mind. Twisting his fears into letters. Into silence. Into images that crept into his dreams like poison.

He would find you. He had to. Because if the nightmare ever became real— He wasn’t sure there would be a man left in him to crawl out of it.

*

The ballroom shimmered under a thousand crystal droplets, chandeliers glinting like stars caught mid-fall. Music swelled, delicate and distant, barely cutting through the sound of expensive laughter and clinking glasses.

Seungcheol stood with a glass of aged champagne in hand, sharp in a tailored navy suit embroidered with fine gold thread that curled like ivy across his lapels. The suit was commissioned weeks in advance, as always. His presence alone demanded perfection—and he delivered.

Then you arrived.

A soft blue dress, simple in its silhouette. No jewels. No embroidery. No lace, no drama. It barely touched your ankles, and the neckline was too modest to flatter. Next to him, you looked like a shadow of yourself—muted, out of place, and hauntingly quiet.

He had turned to say something that night. Something biting. The words were already in his mouth: “You’re underdressed.”

But he said nothing. Not because he approved. Because he didn’t want to argue. Not there. Not now.

Still, the memory of your first ball played in his head like an echo—louder than the orchestra. You had stormed into his study with silk swatches and sketches, your arms full of fabrics, babbling about tone and fit and social expectations.

“It has to match,” you’d said with bright insistence. “You in dark navy, and me in silver. Or black. Or deep emerald—something with character, Seungcheol. People talk about these things. I won’t have them saying your wife dresses like an afterthought.”

You were alive then. Not just breathing, but burning. And now… you dressed like a ghost. Clothes dull. Accessories absent. Hair always pulled back in the same low bun, practical, forgettable.

“Do you think my wife has an enemy?” Seungcheol asked, his voice low and steady as the car rolled through the city, tinted windows blurring the passing world into streaks of gray.

Mingyu, seated beside him, turned slightly in his seat. The silence between them had lingered for most of the ride until now.

“She was a bit vocal,” Mingyu said carefully, “but watching her all this time… I don’t think there’s anyone who would hate her. Not truly.”

Seungcheol arched a brow, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Are you sure?” His tone held weight. “No one in the house? Among the servants?”

Mingyu hesitated, then gave a small shake of his head. “Your wife baked everyone cookies last winter.”

The words pulled Seungcheol’s gaze toward him, his expression unreadable. “Cookies?”

“Mm,” Mingyu nodded, lips twitching faintly. “I got one too. Peanut butter and cinnamon. They were pretty good.”

Seungcheol leaned back in his seat, letting his elbow rest against the car window as he stared out. The tension in his shoulders didn’t ease. If anything, it pulled tighter.

“I didn’t receive any.”

Mingyu glanced at him. “You were buried with the railroad project, remember, sir? You barely came home that month.”

The car went quiet again, the soft hum of the engine filling the space between them. Seungcheol didn’t respond—not immediately. But his jaw tensed, and a flicker of something unreadable passed through his eyes.

He hadn’t even known you baked.

Seungcheol stepped into his office with the weight of a storm dragging behind him. The heavy doors shut with a soft thud, muffled by the thick carpet covering the marble floor. The space was cold as ever—sleek black furniture, sharp-edged shelves lined with files and books no one dared touch unless permitted. The glass windows stretched wide behind his desk, revealing the smoky outlines of Gwanrae’s skyline blurred by early morning fog.

Before he could sit, Seokmin entered quietly, his presence firm, respectful.

“Sir,” he said, approaching with something folded carefully in his gloved hand. His face looked drawn, strained.

Seungcheol turned halfway, eyes narrowing as Seokmin held it out.

A flash of red.

It didn’t need unwrapping. Even from a distance, the fabric bled familiarity. Seungcheol’s steps slowed as he approached, gaze fixed on the item like it might vanish if he blinked.

The scarf. Your scarf.

Worn and soft from use, it still carried the faint scent of your perfume—floral with a hint of musk. Years ago, he’d given it to you without much thought after he noticed how you tugged at your collar to hide the bruises he'd left the night before. It wasn’t an apology, not quite. It was possession disguised as protection.

Now it was evidence.

“Who else knows about this?” Seungcheol asked, his voice quiet but sharp, a blade hidden in velvet.

“Just the search unit. They haven’t spoken to anyone.”

He gave a single nod, eyes still fixed on the red scarf in his hand, thumb grazing a fraying thread near the hem. His mind flickered—your neck wrapped in that scarf, your voice low against his chest, your hand twitching in sleep as you pulled it tighter around yourself.

Seungcheol’s fingers paused mid-fold.

There, at the very tip of the scarf—just above the frayed hem—faint ink bled into the threads. It was subtle, like it had been brushed in haste or with something barely permanent. He squinted, bringing the fabric closer to the pale morning light.

A line of handwriting.

Almost delicate in its curve. Almost playful.

“So beautiful but this scarred? Can’t wait to take off more than this scarf.”

The ink was uneven. Someone had written it quickly, perhaps without care—or maybe with too much pleasure. The handwriting was unfamiliar. Not yours. Not Seokmin’s. It wasn’t the neat, meticulous penmanship of his staff or the strict, cold lettering from official documents.

Personal.

Seungcheol’s chest tightened with a sick heat, as if something vile had begun to churn slowly under his ribs.

He read the words again.

So beautiful.

But this scarred?

Who had seen you up close enough to write this?

The scarf had hidden a bruise, a bite, a scar—one left by him. He remembered that night. How you turned your face away as you buttoned your blouse. He hadn’t apologized, and you hadn’t asked him to.

But someone else had noticed. Someone who had looked. Touched. Written this message.

The fury came like a low flame, slow and silent. It didn’t need a burst to burn—it simply simmered, eating through logic and restraint, until his fingers curled tightly around the fabric.

Not only were you taken. Someone had been near enough to you to leave this behind. Near enough to humiliate him, to provoke him. To mock him.

This wasn’t just a disappearance. It was a challenge. A message dressed as a taunt.

His reflection glared back at him in the glass of his office window—sharp suit, expression like stone, eyes void of softness. For a man known for never flinching in courtrooms or boardrooms, something now stirred within him. Something ancient. Primal.

He looked down at the scarf one last time before slipping it into his inner coat pocket. Not like a keepsake. Like evidence.

Whoever wrote that message had no idea what they'd started.

*

A week had passed since your disappearance, yet rumors swirled like wildfire—fanned further by his mother’s lavish birthday party, held defiantly even as family members vanished without a trace. The glittering ball went on, but Seungcheol arrived burdened, exhaustion etched into the lines of his face and the slump of his shoulders.

He stepped through the grand doors with the weight of sleepless nights pressing down on him, every movement heavy. His plan was simple: greet his mother, offer the obligatory birthday wishes, and retreat swiftly to his office to bury himself in the endless updates about you and Jiho.

Choi Jiho—his son. The name still felt strange on his tongue, foreign yet tethered to his heart in ways he didn’t fully understand. After Jiho’s birth, your world had shifted. Your attention poured into your son with a fierce protectiveness that left little room for him. Seungcheol’s role was clear-cut: provide. Make money. Supply everything you and Jiho could need.

But sometimes, when work allowed a brief reprieve, he caught glimpses of Jiho wandering into his home office. The boy would settle himself on one of the leather couches with surprising ease, fingers busy sketching on scraps of used paper strewn about. No words passed between them—just presence. Quiet companionship.

Those moments peeled back years. They reminded Seungcheol of the early days of their marriage.

You, sitting patiently on the couch nearby, engrossed in a book or your journal, brows furrowed in thought. He remembered the way your eyes would occasionally flick up toward him—focused, calm, sometimes weary. A stark contrast to his own sharp, guarded expression.

And every time his gaze fell on Jiho, it was as if he was looking at a perfect carbon copy of you: the same gentle concentration, the same subtle intensity. In those moments, the cold, ruthless man he was softened, caught off guard by the echo of your presence in his son.

“Seungcheol.”

He turned slightly to find Hong Jisoo—an old friend of yours—approaching from behind a marble column. Impeccably dressed in a muted gray suit, the heir of the Hong family from East Gwanrae always carried an air of soft elegance. His eyes, though gentle, now bore a solemn weight.

“My deepest condolences,” Jisoo said quietly once he was close enough. “I heard about Y/n and your son. I… I can’t imagine the weight you're carrying.”

Seungcheol didn’t flinch. Didn’t nod. He simply returned the gaze, still and unreadable. The golden light made his tired face look sculpted from cold stone—sharp, shadowed, untouched by grief in any conventional sense.

“Thank you,” he replied, voice smooth and devoid of emotion.

Jisoo hesitated, then offered, “If there’s anything I can do—my men in the East are reliable. If you permit me, I’ll send them to sweep that side of Gwanrae. Discreetly.”

There was a pause. A thin, sharp one.

Seungcheol’s expression didn’t shift. “I appreciate the offer,” he said with practiced politeness. “But I prefer to handle my family’s matters internally.”

Jisoo studied him for a moment, as if trying to read what lay behind the cool surface. But Seungcheol gave him nothing. No worry, no despair—only poise carved out of discipline and restraint.

“Of course,” Jisoo replied after a beat, offering a small bow. “Should you change your mind, I’ll be around.”

Seungcheol inclined his head once, and watched as Jisoo disappeared into the sea of well-dressed guests. The noise of the party returned in full as the space between them widened, but inside Seungcheol, everything remained quiet. Still.

Because wavering now would be a crack in the foundation—and if he cracked, the whole house would fall.

“Seungcheol…” his mother began, catching his arm just as he approached to greet her.

“Everyone’s talking about your wife and your son! This is my party!” she hissed through a tight smile, her voice kept low behind her glass of wine as Seungcheol offered nods to her circle of well-dressed friends.

“I told you to postpone it,” Seungcheol replied, his tone measured and calm, but with the faintest edge of warning.

His mother scoffed softly, brushing imaginary dust from her sequined sleeve. “Remind me to punish your wife once she returns. This level of disrespect toward the Choi family can’t go unchecked. I’ll speak to her family personally.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. The weight of her words sank heavier than usual tonight. Something about the way she spoke—so cold, so performative—rubbed against the unease already nesting in his chest. He cleared his throat, a silent attempt to dispel the building discomfort.

“I think you’ve said enough, Mother,” he said, voice clipped with restraint. “Perhaps you should enjoy your party. I won’t be staying long.”

Before she could respond, Seungcheol bowed politely. “Happy birthday,” he said simply, then turned on his heel, walking past the soft glow of chandeliers and champagne flutes, out of the suffocating warmth of the ballroom—and toward the silence of his office, where duty and dread awaited him in equal measure.

The scent of paper and aged mahogany greeted Seungcheol as he entered his office—a sanctuary from the shallow glitter of the ballroom. He barely had time to close the door behind him when his eyes fell on something out of place.

A single envelope. It sat in the center of his desk like it had been waiting.

His gaze swept the room with calculated precision, eyes narrowing slightly. Every item seemed untouched, precisely where he left it. Yet the letter’s presence felt like an intrusion. Quiet, deliberate, and too bold.

Without removing his coat, he pressed the intercom.

“Mingyu. My office. Now.”

He didn’t sit. He stood before his desk, gloved fingers pulling the envelope open in one slow motion. The paper inside was thick, almost luxurious, as though it were meant to mock him in its elegance. But it was the handwriting that made his breath pause—neat, feminine, unfamiliar.

“He looks exactly like you. Do you know he’s mute?”

The words didn’t strike—they clawed.

A slow-burning fury flickered in Seungcheol’s chest, tempered only by years of discipline. His eyes darkened, and when the door creaked open behind him, he turned sharply, holding the note up.

“What is this supposed to mean?” His voice cut through the silence, firm and low.

Mingyu paused at the threshold. His expression faltered—not from fear, but hesitation. “Sir…” He stepped in slowly. “I didn’t know you didn’t know.”

“Didn’t know what?” Seungcheol’s tone remained steady, but the weight behind it was unmistakable.

Mingyu lowered his gaze to the floor, exhaling quietly. “Jiho… Your son... he’s barely spoken.”

Seungcheol’s lips parted slightly, but no words came out. His fingers clenched the paper tighter. All those moments—Jiho silently watching him, quietly doodling, smiling without sound—they flooded his mind in sharp, disjointed flashes.

The air in the room felt heavier. He slowly lowered the letter to his desk and turned toward the window, eyes distant, yet sharpened with a quiet storm.

The letter still sat open on his desk, but Seungcheol’s gaze had drifted toward the couch across the room.

That old leather seat, worn smooth at the edges, once held a different kind of weight—your weight. Now, he saw Jiho in your place. His small figure curled up, legs barely reaching the edge, papers sprawled before him. A single crayon tucked behind his ear, his little fingers busy sketching something only he understood. His head would tilt, brows furrowed just so, lips parted ever so slightly in concentration.

He didn’t make a sound. He never did.

And yet Seungcheol saw you.

Five years ago, it was your body stretched across that couch, draped in a silk robe or one of your too-large knits. Your legs would swing lazily, a journal balanced on your lap, your pen tapping the pages as your thoughts spilled freely. You used to talk then. A lot.

“Seungcheol, don’t you think this room needs better curtains? Or should we get one of those antique globe bars?”

“I saw Lady Jung’s daughter wearing canary yellow at the ball—do you think I’d look good in that shade?”

You were bold, curious, utterly unfiltered. Sometimes he listened. Sometimes he didn’t. But he had always heard you.

It was strange. At the time, he thought you were exhausting. Always pushing at boundaries, filling silences he once treasured. Yet now, in the stillness, all he could think about was how much color you had brought into this room. Until that color faded.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe it was after Jiho was born. Maybe it was before that.

Your voice softened. Your steps grew quieter. You stopped suggesting changes to the curtains. You stopped speaking about colors and dresses and opinions. You simply… adapted.

You scribbled in silence. You waited in silence. You moved through the house like a shadow he had grown used to but never truly studied.

“Journal…”

The word left his lips in a whisper, as if spoken too loudly, it would break the thread of memory he was clinging to.

He remembered it—faintly—seeing a book on your vanity. A worn leather-bound journal, the corners soft from years of turning, its spine slightly cracked from frequent use. At the time, he hadn’t thought much of it. Just another one of your habits. Another thing you kept close.

But now, it felt urgent. He rose from his chair with a suddenness. His strides were long, purposeful. The echo of his shoes down the hallway broke the house’s stillness, like a force too large to be quiet anymore.

The bedroom still smelled faintly of you—of jasmine and the warm, almost nostalgic scent of dried lavender. It hadn’t changed in the past week. Everything remained untouched, as if time itself was reluctant to erase you from this space.

And there it was.

Sitting right where it always had—on the vanity, beside your untouched bottle of perfume and a silver hairpin he bought you years ago in Vienna. The journal.

He reached for it slowly, as if it might vanish. His fingers hovered just a second longer before making contact, brushing over the soft cover. It was warm from the afternoon sun slipping through the lace curtains. He held it in both hands, staring.

You wrote. Every day, almost. He remembered catching glimpses of it—your hand furiously scribbling after arguments, after dinners, even on lazy mornings where you stayed curled in bed long after he had left. You used your journal like a vault, locking pieces of yourself away when you couldn’t say them aloud.

Seungcheol sat on the edge of the bed—your side. The weight of the mattress sank just as it used to when you lay there. He cracked open the journal, pages filled with your looping script, so familiar and yet so distant now.

His breath caught when he read the first line on the open page. Seungcheol’s eyes traced the words again, but this time, their meaning twisted deeper into his chest.

“I sold all the accessories my husband had given to me this morning. But I failed to hide the new dresses. She got mad.”

*

“You know where my wife is…” Seungcheol said, voice low and tight, the moment the last servant slipped out and the door clicked shut behind them.

His mother barely lifted her gaze, swirling her tea as if his words were no more significant than idle gossip. “What nonsense are you talking about, Seungcheol?”

But there was nothing nonsensical about the storm building in his chest. The weight of guilt, disbelief, and a boiling rage pressed down on his shoulders, making it hard to breathe. Seungcheol remained still, but his hands trembled slightly at his sides, fists curling and unclenching.

“I think you’ve hidden them—my wife, my son.” His tone was calm, but every syllable was laced with something sharp, jagged. Accusation.

His mother let out a soft chuckle, amused. Amused. It made his stomach turn. “You’ve lost your mind, my son.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed, the muscles twitching. He didn’t blink. Didn’t speak. Just stared, as sentence after sentence from the journal echoed relentlessly in his head.

“She hit me again today for making her go to the ball instead of me. She met her enemy: Duchess Kim.” “Minyeong has treated my wound, but it was still hard to sleep last night.” “She put Jiho in the cupboard. I couldn’t do anything but cry. I’m sorry, Jiho.”

His hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles whitened, veins visible beneath his skin. Guilt gnawed at his gut like rust. All this time, he had thought he was protecting you by providing, building an empire so you and Jiho would never lack anything. But while he was drafting deals and signing contracts, you were being dragged through hell under the same roof. By his own blood.

“You lost your mind hitting my wife behind my back,” he said, voice as brittle as cracked glass.

She lowered her cup then, finally sensing something in his tone. Her eyes narrowed. “She told you?” Her voice was low, disbelieving. There was no remorse—only the offense of being exposed. “How dare she,” she muttered, her lips curling.

The air thickened between them, tense and suffocating.

“I don’t know her whereabouts,” his mother snapped, lifting her chin. “Maybe she went somewhere. Maybe she was kidnapped. Either way, she deserves it. That woman was a pain in this family.”

Pain.

The word echoed in his chest. What she called a pain—he now knew as suffering. Suffering you endured in silence, under his roof, while he turned a blind eye.

He turned his back to her, not because he was retreating, but because he couldn’t look at her anymore without feeling sick. His voice dropped into a tone colder than stone. “Say that again, and I’ll cut your funds immediately.”

She gasped behind him, rising from her seat. “My son, don’t let a woman’s tantrum undo your reason. You forget how she came here—she wanted our money. Her parents sold her, and I suppose she’s no better than they were.”

His steps were slow, deliberate, echoing on the marble floor as he walked toward the door.

Every word she said now sounded like static in his ears. His body felt hollow and burning all at once, his heart pounding like a war drum. He had failed you. He had failed Jiho.

He paused at the door and turned his head slightly, enough for her to see the disdain now written in his eyes.

“From today,” he said, “your accounts are frozen. Until my wife and my son are back, not a single coin will reach your hands.”

Then he stepped out, not looking back—not for her, not for excuses, not for explanations.

Ten days since you were gone.

The world kept turning—ballrooms were lit, contracts passed hands, and the morning sun still crept through the windows of the Choi estate. But for Seungcheol, everything had stopped. Days blurred into nights, and the silence of your absence grew louder with every tick of the clock.

His work was a mess.

Documents piled on his desk, untouched. Reports sat unanswered. Meetings were postponed, calls ignored. He couldn’t sit through briefings without seeing your face flash in the expressions of strangers. Couldn’t look at maps without wondering if you were somewhere cold, scared, or worse.

He couldn’t even think straight. Every time someone knocked on his door, a violent hope bloomed in his chest—that it was you. That someone had found Jiho.

But it was never you.

Never.

Seungcheol sat slouched in his office chair, eyes hollow, staring blankly at the open folder in front of him. He didn’t even know who the client was anymore. Their voice on the speaker was just noise.

When the man across the table mentioned “transport,” Seungcheol flinched.

“You say something about moving her?” His voice was suddenly sharp.

The client blinked, confused. “I was talking about coal—shipping routes to the West—”

Seungcheol stood up so fast his chair scraped against the floor. Mingyu rushed in before he could throw the folder across the room.

“You think I care about coal when my wife and son are gone?” he barked, eyes bloodshot. “Why are you all still talking about shipments and investments like this is normal?!”

The man stammered an apology before fleeing the room. Mingyu stayed quiet, closing the door behind him with a heavy sigh.

Seungcheol pressed his hands into the desk, head hanging. His breath was unsteady, raw with exhaustion. A man who once commanded fear with composure now looked like a soldier losing a war no one else could see.

“I can’t do this, Mingyu,” he muttered. “I can’t even look at people without wondering if they had something to do with it. I sit in front of allies and I wonder if they betrayed me. I see enemies and I can’t decide if they’ve hidden her out of spite.”

He looked up, eyes gleaming but empty. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”

*

It was five months into the marriage when Seungcheol pushed open the bedroom door without knocking, only to find you brushing your hair in front of the vanity. You looked serene, like a painting—but he knew better. You were always eerily quiet when you were angry.

“You didn’t leave the room all day,” he said, leaning against the doorframe. “I assume the bed’s more interesting than our entire estate now?”

Without looking at him, you replied, “I didn’t realize I needed to submit a movement report.”

“I’m your husband. I think I’m allowed to ask.”

You let out a low chuckle. “Since when do you ask anything without sounding like it’s an interrogation?”

He stepped into the room. His eyes caught the reflection of your face in the mirror—expression calm, but your tone cut like glass.

“You’re mad at me again.”

“No, Seungcheol,” you said, finally turning to look at him, “this is just my face. Turns out five months of marital bliss leaves me glowing.”

He ignored the jab. “I’ve been patient with you, Y/n. But I come home and find you locked up in here like some moody debutante. What do you want from me?”

“Oh, you want honesty tonight?” you quipped. “Interesting choice.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Don’t start.”

“I think I’m pregnant, Seungcheol.”

The words fell heavy—but not soft.

He blinked. “You think?”

You shrugged. “Unless nausea and crying at toothpaste commercials is just a charming new hobby of mine.”

Seungcheol stared at you for a moment. His reaction was unreadable, which only fueled your irritation.

“Right. There it is,” you said bitterly. “You look more panicked than when the market crashed.”

“I’m just... processing.”

“You mean calculating,” you snapped, standing up. “You’re already thinking about how this messes with your timeline, your quarterly goals, or—God forbid—your public image.”

“I never said that,” he said, jaw tight.

“You didn’t have to,” you shot back. “You speak in silence better than you do with actual words.”

“And you don’t speak at all unless it’s laced with attitude.”

“At least it’s real.”

The room buzzed with tension—resentment, sarcasm, the ache of two people who couldn’t stop clashing because they both refused to bend first.

Still, as always, it ended the way it always did: your bitterness crashing into his restraint, your fingers eventually finding his shirt collar, his hand gripping your waist too tightly. No solution. No apology. Just another night pretending friction meant intimacy.

Seokmin barged into the office, breathless, eyes wide. “Sir—they found her. Your wife and son are on their way to the estate. They were spotted in East Gwanrae market.”

The room froze for a split second before it snapped into motion.

Seungcheol shot up from his seat, already reaching for his coat. Mingyu was two steps behind, phone pressed to his ear, barking instructions as they stormed down the hallway.

“Driver!” Seungcheol shouted. “Pull up the car. Now.”

The black vehicle cut through the city like a blade. Inside, silence hovered thick between them, save for the low murmur of Mingyu speaking on the phone with Seokmin.

Seungcheol’s hand rested on his knee, knuckles pale. His voice broke the silence, low and rough. “What did Seokmin say? Is she okay?”

Mingyu hesitated—just for a second. Too quick for most to catch, but Seungcheol noticed. His eyes darted toward his right hand, waiting.

“They looked like they were… escaping someone,” Mingyu finally said, his voice carefully measured. “Your wife was with Jiho. She was holding him close, keeping low in the market crowd. Someone recognized her and followed the trail. They were scared. Hungry, probably. But alive.”

Seungcheol’s eyes narrowed. “Escaping?”

“Yeah,” Mingyu said, avoiding eye contact. His jaw tensed faintly. “Seokmin thinks they were trying to run from the person who had taken them.”

The words lingered in the air, cutting deeper than Seungcheol expected. He leaned back against the seat, staring at the blur of the road outside, expression unreadable.

But Mingyu didn’t speak again. He only tightened his grip on the phone, as if holding in something more.

Something he wasn’t ready to say.

*

Seungcheol didn’t wait for the car to stop completely. As soon as the estate’s iron gates creaked open, he pushed the door and ran—feet heavy, breath sharp. The guards barely had time to bow before he was past them, storming through the halls he built but never cared to live in.

In his mind, you were collapsed in a corner. Maybe barefoot, trembling. Your clothes torn, hair matted, Jiho sickly pale and clinging to you for warmth. That image had haunted him for days—kept him up, fed his guilt like a slow poison.

But what he saw when the door opened made him freeze in the doorway.

You were sitting on the bed.

Clean. Dressed in a simple beige dress, hair slightly tangled but tied loosely at the back. Jiho curled against your side, his small hand holding your scarf like a lifeline. You were whispering something to him, too soft to hear. Both your eyes turned to the door at once.

And in that moment, Seungcheol felt like a ghost standing in his own home.

You weren’t the broken image he had imagined. You didn’t look like a victim of some wild, tragic escape. No bruises on your face. No desperation in your posture.

But there was something in your eyes—tired, aged, older than the woman he married. A hollow sort of peace. Like someone who had already buried too many things inside herself to count.

“Y/n…” his voice cracked before he could stop it.

You blinked slowly, saying nothing.

“You’re… okay,” Seungcheol breathed, as if trying to convince himself.

“I’m here,” you replied, voice calm. “We both are.”

But you didn’t stand. You didn’t run into his arms or cry or scream or ask where he had been. You just looked at him, as if he was a stranger at the edge of your door.

And for the first time since this madness began, Seungcheol didn’t know what role he was supposed to play anymore—husband, father, or something far more irrelevant.

“Do you want a doctor? Food? I can call someone—” he started.

You shook your head once. “We ate. We’re not sick.”

He nodded slowly, unsure. Everything he imagined saying, every question and command, shrank in his throat.

You weren’t what he expected.

Seungcheol approached slowly, as if afraid that the moment would vanish if he moved too fast. The mattress dipped under his weight as he sat on the edge of the bed. His eyes dropped to Jiho, small and still, curled against your side with one hand tucked beneath his cheek.

The boy looked peaceful, untouched by the storm Seungcheol had imagined—but that only stirred more chaos in him. His gaze shifted to you. You were watching him, chin slightly lifted, as if measuring his intentions. Without speaking, his hand reached out, hesitating before his fingers gently traced your cheek. It was still soft, full, with that natural flush you always had when you were annoyed or caught in the middle of a sarcastic remark. Alive. Still you.

“You’re okay?” he murmured.

You tilted your head slightly, eyes unreadable. “Why? You worry?”

There was a teasing lilt to your voice—subtle, sharp, the same tone you used when you knew exactly how to push his buttons. But your eyes didn’t match it. They were colder. Distant.

Seungcheol bit his lip, gaze dropping. Was it worry? Or curiosity? He wasn’t even sure anymore. All he knew was that something clawed at his chest the moment he saw you again, like he’d been underwater for too long and just found air again.

“I…” He paused, swallowed. “I couldn’t think straight.”

You looked at him with a slight teasing glint, voice soft but tinted with edge. “Why?”

“You disappeared.”

“And?” Your tone was flat. Testing.

“Jiho too.” His eyes flickered to the child again, still fast asleep against your side.

You hummed faintly, tightening your arms around Jiho’s small frame. It was a protective gesture, but it also told him everything he needed to know—you didn’t trust him yet. Maybe never had.

“Someone took you.”

You bit your lips, your jaw tightening. Then, a sigh escaped. “What are you trying to say, Seungcheol?”

He let out a long, shaky breath, fingers gripping his knees. “I… I’m glad you’re fine, but… I’m angry. I’m furious at the people who took you, and I promise you—I’ll catch them. I’ll make them pay.”

Your brow quirked. “You’re acting odd, Seungcheol. The fact that you were running in here like a madman, with this look on your face, is odd.”

His lips parted, but you cut in before he could explain.

“You never ran for me before,” you added coolly, eyes locked on his. “Not when I cried. Not when I begged you to talk to me like I was a person. But now—suddenly—I disappear, and it’s like you remembered I existed?”

There was no venom in your voice, but it stung worse than any shout would’ve.

He flinched. “That’s not true.”

“No?” You raised a brow, blinking slowly. “You said you couldn’t think straight. Is it because you missed us? Or because you lost control?”

His mouth opened again, but nothing came out. You’d hit the mark, and he knew it.

You exhaled deeply, your tone softening only slightly. “We were surviving, Cheol. Me and Jiho. Out there, with no money, barely any food, and always looking over our shoulders. Do you know how many times I had to lie just to keep him safe?”

His jaw flexed.

“And now you’re here, talking about revenge,” you said. “But you weren’t the one suffering. You weren’t the one hiding bruises, or calming down a mute child in the middle of a nightmare.”

“I didn’t know,” he whispered.

“You didn’t ask.”

That landed like a punch. The silence stretched. Thick. Bitter. But still, you didn’t tell him to leave. And he didn’t stand up.

Because somewhere beneath all the resentment and ruined intentions, something lingered—small, quiet, broken. Something still tethered.

*

You heard from Minyeong that Jiho had accidentally knocked over your mother-in-law’s favorite vase that afternoon. The moment her words reached your ears, a cold dread climbed up your spine. You knew how she was—unyielding, cruel when it suited her. And you knew what that meant for Jiho.

Without thinking, you bolted through the halls of the estate, heart pounding like a war drum. You burst into the room where they said Jiho was, only to find him wailing—his tiny body trembling in the arms of unfamiliar servants, his face streaked with tears and fear.

“Get my son down, right now!” you shouted, your voice raw with panic and rage. You stepped in only to freeze—halted by the icy presence of your mother-in-law, seated calmly in the armchair as if the chaos around her were just a matter of inconvenience.

“Not until his mother learns how to educate her son,” she said coldly, standing with deliberate grace to approach you.

You tried to keep your voice from breaking. “Stop this. Please… I beg you.” Your knees wobbled as your eyes locked onto the small cupboard where Jiho had just been shoved. The servants had locked him inside, and the sound of his muffled cries—sharp, panicked, and unrelenting—cracked your heart in two.

Your mother-in-law’s lips curled into a twisted smile as she watched you collapse to your knees, the humiliation like a crown she placed upon your head.

Then came the sting. A slap, hard and merciless, sent your head snapping to the side. Your cheek burned, and tears spilled from your eyes—not just from pain, but from helpless fury.

Still trembling, you didn’t have time to recover before she gripped your hair and yanked your face upward to look at her. Her gaze was icy. Unforgiving.

“You and your son better learn some lessons, Y/n,” she hissed. “Do you know how easily you can be replaced? You and that unfortunate, mute child of yours.”

Her words sliced through you sharper than any blade.

“First, you tried to hide those dresses my son sent you—expensive things, meant to honor this family. I told you to give them back. I told you to stop wasting his generosity.” Her voice dripped venom with each word.

“And now,” she gestured toward the cupboard, where Jiho’s sobs still echoed, “your little beast breaks my most treasured vase.”

She shoved you backward, and you stumbled to the floor as she turned to the servants.

“Lock them in here,” she ordered coldly. “No food until dinner tomorrow. Let them reflect on their behavior.”

You cried out, but the door had already slammed behind her.

And in that moment, with your son trapped and your body aching, you knew: no one was coming to save you—not even your husband.

You married Choi Seungcheol not out of love, but out of necessity—at least, that’s what you used to tell yourself.

Your family, once noble and revered for their long-standing loyalty to the Choi family, had fallen into disgrace. Years of quietly aiding them behind war lines and political tides came to nothing when your father’s business collapsed into bankruptcy. Reputation meant survival, and survival meant sacrifice.

So your parents turned to the Choi estate, heads bowed with desperation, asking for a marriage alliance to preserve what little dignity your bloodline had left. You were the offering. The last, obedient daughter of a once-great military household.

You didn’t protest. In fact, you thought of it as an escape.

A way out of your father’s suffocating expectations, the cold lines on his face drawn deeper every time you dared to speak for yourself. You thought marriage to Seungcheol—Choi Seungcheol, the heir with a good name and a better record—would at least mean gentler days. He was calm, level-headed, generous when it mattered. Not once had you seen him raise his voice. A respectable man, people said. One of the best this generation could offer.

And for a while, you believed it. Even in the early months of your marriage, he was attentive in his own reserved way. He didn’t try to love you, but he didn’t hurt you either. That, in itself, was a mercy.

When Jiho was born, everything changed.

The cruelty didn’t come from him—not at first. It came from your mother-in-law, the regal matron of the house with eyes colder than marble. She said it started because of your attitude. Because you were “spirited.” Because you were "too free" for a woman who should’ve been grateful to be saved from ruin.

The abuse began with a slap—one sharp sting across your cheek when you failed to greet her with the right tone. Then came the days without food, long hours in the nursery with Jiho where no one entered. The isolation. The servants looking through you like you were something to be tolerated, not served. You weren’t allowed to step outside the estate without her approval. Even your letters to Seungcheol were filtered. Some were likely never sent.

Seungcheol never knew—because he was away.

Your mother-in-law believed your "rebelliousness" would one day convince Seungcheol to cut the financial cord. That you would poison him against his duty. She believed that if she broke you, caged you, tamed you—then you’d stop trying. Then you’d surrender to the role they assigned you. And Seungcheol, their golden heir, wouldn’t be distracted from the real goal: protecting the name.

You were awakened by the sound of the door unlocking. A quiet click in the dark, but enough to jolt your senses. Eyes wide, you scanned the room—Jiho was still curled up inside the cupboard, the space too small for a child, his soft breaths uneven from earlier cries.

Your heart lurched.

Without thinking, you shot up and sprinted barefoot through the hall. The cold marble bit into your feet with each step, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t even know where you were going—only that you needed someone. Anyone.

You collapsed against the corridor wall. A tall figure came running to you. Surprised and worried.

“What’s wrong, Lady Choi?” Mingyu asked, crouching beside you. His voice softened at the sight of your shaking figure, your palms scraped and dirty from crawling.

“My son…” your voice was barely a whisper, “Jiho… they locked him in the cupboard. He’s still inside. Please, Mingyu. Help me…”

Mingyu’s expression changed. Just a flicker. Concern replaced courtesy, and for a second, something else—fury, maybe—flashed through his eyes.

“I’ll get him,” he said, standing up. “Stay here.”

And you could only nod, pressing a hand to your chest as your breath fought its way in and out—because for the first time in so long, someone had heard you.

*

You held Jiho close to your chest on the bed. His small frame trembled in your arms, his fists curled into your shirt, though the tears had long since stopped. The silence between you was heavy, but not empty. You could feel it in his breathing—shallow, uneven. In the way he clung to you like a lifeline. He didn’t cry anymore. But you were his mother. And you knew.

This child—your child—carried too much for a body so small. Too many things he didn’t know how to name. Pain. Fear. Confusion. He had grown up in a house where love was spoken like a foreign language. A house where his parents barely looked each other in the eye, where tension hung like fog. His grandmother’s cruelty had only carved the wounds deeper, branding trauma into him before he even learned how to defend himself. Before he even learned how to speak.

And now, he doesn't speak at all.

Muted—not by choice, but by trauma. And no one seemed to understand. 

You gently ran your fingers through his hair, kissing the crown of his head as your heart ached. You asked yourself—again and again—what was best. For him. For you. For both of you.

Was staying here a form of protection? Or just a slower kind of destruction? You didn’t know. But you knew you had to keep trying. Because Jiho deserved more than this silence. He deserved safety. He deserved love.  Even if you had to crawl through fire to give it to him.

The night after Jiho’s trembling subsided and he finally drifted into sleep—still curled tightly against your side—you sat in the dark and stared at the moonlit ceiling. Eyes wide open, heart numb.

You had cried all you could. It was no longer grief that kept you awake. It was resolved. Something in you broke that night. Or maybe, something in you finally woke up. You had to get out. Not just you—but Jiho. He deserved more than a prison guarded by tradition and cruelty. And you… you deserved a life where you didn’t flinch every time a door opened.

One morning, you waited in the garden until you saw him.

Mingyu.

He was one of the few people in this house who had always looked at you with a trace of human decency. Loyal to Seungcheol, yes. But not blind. Not heartless.

“Mingyu,” you whispered from the corner of the rose wall. “I need your help.”

He looked hesitant at first, glancing around. “Is something wrong?”

You stepped forward, showing him the bruises you had covered the night before. Not with pride, but with desperation. And when you said, “It’s not just me. It’s Jiho, too,” something in his expression shifted.

Still, he hesitated.

“I serve your husband, Lady Choi. You know I—”

“I’m not asking you to betray him,” you cut in softly. “I’m asking you to help a mother protect her son. That’s all I’m asking, Mingyu. Please.”

He stared at you. At your trembling hands. By the way your eyes, even when dry, screamed for help. And then… he nodded. It was the smallest gesture, but it changed everything.

Together, the plan began. Fake kidnapping. Enough to throw the house into chaos. You’d vanish without a trace. Just gone. Long enough for Seungcheol to search, for his mother to squirm, and for you to slip far beyond the reach of this gilded prison.

You needed one more piece. So you wrote a letter. With careful words and shaking hands.

“Dear Jisoo, I hope this finds you well. I have no time to explain everything, but I need you more than ever. I’m trying to escape with my son. I know this is asking a lot, but if you ever saw me as your friend, please—help me disappear. With all my heart, Y/n.”

Jisoo had been your friend from the years before marriage. Gentle, quiet, kind-hearted. He had always seen past your mask. Past your name. The kind of friend who noticed sadness even when you smiled.

The response came swiftly—disguised in a box of imported tea.

“Tell me when and where. I’ll make sure you’re safe.”

No one will find you. You clutched that letter to your chest the night it arrived.

You didn’t just want to leave. You wanted them to feel it. You wanted the Choi family to suffer in confusion, to twist in paranoia. To question their power, their security, their control over you. You wanted Seungcheol to see what happened when he turned a blind eye. You wanted his mother to choke on her arrogance.

They thought you were weak. They mistook endurance for submission. Mistook silence for obedience. But you had been watching, learning. Smiling at every slap. Bowing after every insult. Playing your part—until it was time for the curtain to fall.

Mingyu swallowed hard. “You’re colder than I thought.”

You smiled darkly. “Yes, this is who I've been the whole time.”

You disappeared in silence. Like a shadow slipping into dusk.

That night, you imagined Seungcheol pacing the estate in rage. You imagined his mother screaming at the staff, flipping porcelain in hysteria, all while you sipped tea in a warm cabin nestled deep in the property Jisoo owned.

“They’ll lose their minds,” Jisoo said calmly, reading your expression.

You leaned back, watching Jiho chase butterflies through the window.

“I want them to,” you replied, smiling without warmth. “I want her to think someone took me the same way she took everything from me.”

Jisoo stared for a moment. “And Seungcheol?”

You sipped your tea and set it down gently. “He doesn’t get to play the victim. He left me there for four years. If guilt’s what haunts him now, let it grow roots. Let it rot.”

Your tone was soft. But your words were razor sharp.

You hadn’t run to be free. You had vanished to make them remember you in fear.

And when the time came—if it ever came—you wouldn’t return as the girl they once tried to break.

You would return as the ghost that taught them how it feels to lose everything.

*

The Duchess Choi stepped into the room like a queen returning to her throne, the smug curl on her lips unmistakable. Her heels clicked on the polished floor, every sound like a warning bell. Jiho’s small fingers tightened around yours, and you could feel his pulse racing—just like yours. You gently shifted him behind you, body instinctively shielding his.

"Nice to see you come back," she began, her voice honeyed but hollow. "I finally can breathe."

You didn’t say a word. You just looked at her—truly looked. She was thinner, her cheekbones sharper, and the usual glint of superiority in her eyes had dulled slightly, just slightly. Ten days without Seungcheol’s money must have felt like ten years in exile for a woman like her.

You had learned a lot in those ten days.

That fear could turn to fury. That silence could scream louder than words. That a journal—carefully placed on a vanity Seungcheol would pass by—could rewrite the entire narrative.

Even if you sprinkled salt into the wounds, embellished the bruises, and emphasized Jiho’s silence as irreversible, your husband wasn’t the type to fact-check a bleeding truth. He would feel it. And it was his feelings you counted on. The man who once watched you from a distance was now looking too closely for comfort.

Before your mother-in-law could raise her hand—as she had so many times before—you beat her to the blow.

"My husband wouldn’t like it," you said sharply, voice low but sure, "if he knew you hit me again. Would he?"

The words cut the air like a dagger. And for the first time, her hand faltered mid-air.

The duchess laughed—a dry, unimpressed sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Bold, are you?” she scoffed.

You tilted your head, smiling just faintly. “No. Just smarter.”

You stepped forward, careful but steady. Jiho clung to the back of your dress, and your voice dropped to a whisper meant only for her.

“Now we wouldn’t want the court hearing things about what’s been happening behind closed doors, would we? Or the charity ladies you love so much.”

Her jaw tightened. The way her fingers curled at her sides told you she wanted nothing more than to hit you, but the risk outweighed the impulse.

“I don’t know what nonsense you fed my son,” she hissed.

“You raised him to swallow a good story.” You stepped back with a shrug, “I just wrote a good story.”

Her voice slithered back into the room like a shadow that refused to leave.

“I shaped him, Y/n,” she said, one heel pivoted against the marble, eyes gleaming with poisonous pride. “Do you think I can’t unmake him?”

You froze only for a breath. Jiho’s head tucked against your side, his small fingers still curled around your dress, a living reminder of what she once tried to break.

Your lips twitched into a cold, almost amused smile. You stood tall, one hand protectively on Jiho’s back.

“You shaped a puppet,” you replied, your voice calm but laced with steel. “But I raised a soul. One you never understood.”

Her jaw clenched. You saw it. That flicker of fear that she was losing control. The very thing she thrived on was slipping through her fingers.

“I won’t let you,” she whispered, venom behind each word.

You stepped forward, not backing down. “You’ve already tried. For years. With silence, with fear, with violence.”

You bent slightly, meeting her gaze at eye level.

“And yet—here he is. Still standing. Still whole.”

That silenced her.

She turned with a dramatic sweep of her gown, fury stiffening her spine. But before she left, she paused at the door and glanced at Jiho. His wide, scared eyes met hers.

“You’ll regret this,” she said coldly.

You leaned down, pressing a kiss to Jiho’s temple. “No,” you murmured, meeting her stare without flinching. “You will.”

And then she was gone.

You exhaled—deeply, slowly—and wrapped Jiho in your arms. His little hands were still trembling, but your body had stopped shaking. 

For the first time in years… You weren’t afraid of her anymore.

*

Seungcheol leaned against the doorframe, his eyes softening at the sight before him. You were seated on the carpeted floor, a handful of colored pencils scattered around you as Jiho clung to your side, intently focused on the sketch he was making. His small hand moved across the page in childlike strokes, your hand resting gently on his back, steadying him.

It was quiet, peaceful even—too peaceful for what he expected after hearing that his mother had come to see you.

He cleared his throat deliberately, breaking the silence.

Your hand stilled mid-stroke, and you slowly turned toward him. Jiho instinctively leaned closer into your side, his small frame tense again.

Seungcheol stepped in. “I heard my mother was here,” he said, voice unreadable.

“She was.” You didn’t look away as you said it, your tone flat but not hostile. “She left just before Jiho finished drawing this.” You held up the picture—a messy house, two stick figures, a sun drawn in orange rather than yellow. He knew it wasn’t a coincidence. Jiho always drew the sun in yellow.

Seungcheol stepped closer, eyes trailing over the drawing, then back at Jiho. His son didn’t meet his gaze.

“You didn’t call me,” he said, watching you.

He crouched down finally, close enough to see Jiho’s trembling lip, though the boy quickly masked it. “Jiho…” he called gently.

But Jiho only pressed his face further into your side. Seungcheol’s hand twitched like he wanted to reach out, but he didn’t.

“He needs space,” you said quietly. “And time.”

He nodded, understanding. “I came to check on you,” he said after a moment. “Not just because of her.”

“Jiho, Mingyu is outside and he wanted to draw with you in my office,” Seungcheol said, his voice unusually gentle. Jiho turned his head toward you, seeking approval with those quiet eyes of his, still wary—still unsure.

You gave him a soft nod. “Go ahead, sweetie.”

Jiho stood, clutching his crayons, and after a small, almost hesitant glance at Seungcheol, he shuffled out of the room.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and just like that, silence swallowed the room again.

You didn’t move.

Seungcheol remained standing for a beat, as if unsure how to begin. But then his voice came, low and heavy.

“I read your journal.”

Your fingers froze mid-reach toward a colored pencil. You slowly lifted your eyes to him, quiet but unreadable.

He took a step forward. “I don’t know what I was expecting when I found it—maybe anger. Accusations. But not…” He trailed off, brow furrowed. “Not that.”

You tilted your head. “Not what? The truth?”

His jaw clenched. “Some of it,” he admitted. “But you made it sound like I left you here knowing what would happen. Like I… abandoned you on purpose.”

“Didn’t you?” you asked, voice like calm water over a sharp stone. “You never asked. Never checked. Four years, Seungcheol.”

His shoulders tensed, but he didn’t defend himself. Instead, he let the weight of your words fall where they must.

“I didn’t know.”

“No,” you said. “You didn’t want to know.”

Silence.

He ran a hand through his hair, stepping closer, something burning just beneath his expression. “You made me believe you were okay. You wrote letters, you smiled when I called—”

“Because if I told you, she would’ve hurt Jiho more.” Your words cracked then, the first sign of emotion leaking through. “So I smiled and lied.”

Seungcheol’s face twisted at that. Regret carved deep into his features.

“She told me you hid the dresses I bought for her,” he muttered. “That you were wasting my money. She said you were trying to turn Jiho against the family.”

“And you believed her?” you asked with a hollow laugh. “You believed her over your own wife and child.”

“I don’t anymore,” he said quickly. “Not after reading that. Not after seeing Jiho.”

You looked at him for a long moment, your expression softening—but only slightly. “Then do something. Don’t just stand there feeling bad. You were raised by that woman, Choi Seungcheol. You know what she’s capable of.”

He stepped closer again, his voice lower, almost hoarse. “I didn’t know it would come to this. I—I should’ve protected you.”

Seungcheol’s eyes didn’t leave yours, but there was something different in them now—no longer just regret or guilt. Something quieter. Something breaking.

His voice was softer when he spoke next, almost hesitant, like he wasn’t sure if he deserved to say it. “Can I…” he paused, his gaze flickering down for a moment before rising again. “Can I hug you?”

Your breath caught, not because you were surprised, but because of how long it had been since he asked. Since he even thought to ask. You looked at him—not as your husband, not as the man the world respected—but as the man who once held your trembling hands on the altar and swore he'd make you feel safe.

You didn’t answer right away.

The silence stretched between you like a thread pulled taut—threatening to snap.

And then you gave the faintest nod.

He stepped forward slowly, carefully, like you were glass he had shattered and was trying not to cut himself on the edges. When his arms finally wrapped around you, they felt different—not like a husband who claimed, but like a man who begged to be allowed back in.

You stood still at first, tense in the circle of his embrace, memories flashing like scars beneath your skin. But as his warmth bled into you, you felt the steady rhythm of his heart—fast, unsure, human.

And slowly… your hands lifted to rest on his back. You didn’t melt into him. You didn’t collapse. But you let him hold you. And that, after everything, was the beginning.

Your plan has run well so far.

*

Seungcheol felt the small tug at the hem of his coat just as he was about to step out. He turned on instinct, ready to brush it off—but then he saw him.

Jiho.

The boy was in his slippers, hugging a drawing book against his chest with one hand, the other still gripping his coat tightly. His eyes wide, silently pleading.

That silence—it hit Seungcheol like a brick to the chest.

Jiho couldn’t call his name. Couldn’t say “Appa” like other kids might. And yet here he was, tugging him back with all the strength his little body could offer.

Seungcheol glanced at his watch. He was already late. A meeting with regional heads, important people.

But the promise he made to you echoed louder than any ticking clock.

“I’ll change,” he had told you.

So, without a second thought, Seungcheol looked over his shoulder and called, “Mingyu, push the meeting back. Two hours.”

He crouched to Jiho’s height, his voice softer, careful, like something sacred could break between them.

“Jiho… what’s wrong?”

The boy hesitated only a moment before holding out the sketchbook and colored pencils, then pointed toward the garden with a hopeful look.

Seungcheol followed the gesture, noticing the sunlight pouring gently through the windows. The air outside looked crisp and golden.

“You want me to draw with you?” he asked, still unsure if he was reading it right.

Jiho gave a shy nod, his eyes flickering down like he was preparing for rejection.

But Seungcheol didn’t hesitate. “Let’s go to the garden,” he said.

And just as he straightened up, ready to guide Jiho forward, he felt it—small fingers wrapping around his own. A warm, hesitant hand slipping into his.

He looked down, stunned.

It wasn’t much.

But to Seungcheol, that little hand holding his was louder than any word Jiho could’ve spoken.

It was trust. Maybe even forgiveness.

And for the first time in a long time, Seungcheol let the weight of work fall away as he stepped outside—not as a chairman, not as a Choi, but as Jiho’s father.

The crayons rolled lazily on the blanket as Seungcheol added a pair of long ears to the rabbit he was drawing. Beside him, Jiho carefully shaded the butterfly’s wings in a bright orange, his tongue peeking out slightly in concentration. It was peaceful—quiet but warm, like the sun filtering through the trees around them.

Seungcheol leaned back on one hand, glancing at Jiho’s drawing and then back to his own. “I think mine looks like a dog,” he chuckled softly. Jiho looked up and tilted his head, lips twitching like he might have laughed if he could.

But the calm was broken by distant shouts.

“Jiho!”

Seungcheol turned his head, brow furrowing as he caught sight of two figures darting through the hedges—your voice unmistakable, calling for your son. Minyeong was behind you, looking just as panicked.

You skidded to a stop when your eyes finally landed on the garden, where Jiho and Seungcheol were sitting casually on the picnic blanket, surrounded by scattered drawings and crayon boxes.

Your shoulders dropped, relief flooding your face as you exhaled. “Jiho!” you cried, hurrying toward them. “You scared me.”

Jiho’s head whipped toward you, startled by your tone, and he immediately clutched the sketchbook to his chest, eyes wide.

Seungcheol stood, brushing his hands on his pants, still confused. “What’s going on?”

You knelt down beside Jiho, checking him over as if making sure he hadn’t vanished and reappeared. “He wasn’t in his room. He always waits for breakfast after class. No one saw him leave. I thought—” your voice broke off, the worst-case scenarios unspoken but loud in your expression.

Seungcheol’s brows lifted as he finally understood.

You let out a shaky breath, gently tucking Jiho’s hair back. “You can’t just disappear like that, sweetheart. I got scared.” Your voice softened as you held his cheek, thumb brushing under his eye.

Jiho looked down, guilt plain in his body language.

"He's safe here. You don't need to worry," Seungcheol said, his voice calm, his stance steady.

But his assurance didn’t sink into your chest the way it should have. Not with the image of the Duchess still fresh in your mind—her cruel smirk, her venomous words, the way her shadow still lingered in every corner of this estate. Not with the memory of Jiho's trembling form, locked away and crying for someone who would never come.

You tightened your arms around your son, cradling his fragile body to your chest as if your heartbeat alone could shield him. “He’s too precious,” you murmured, your voice low, heavy with everything you couldn't say. Too precious to be used. Too precious to suffer. Too precious for this house to break.

Seungcheol didn’t say anything at first. He looked at you, at Jiho, at the way your hand cupped the back of your son's head protectively. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I understand,” he said quietly. “He’s important to me, too.”

You looked up, your eyes sharp and cautious.

Seungcheol stepped closer, dropping to a knee so he was eye-level with the both of you. “Whatever happens,” he said, voice more serious now, “I’ll work hard to protect him… to protect you. So you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

Your breath caught.

You wanted to believe him—so badly—but belief wasn’t trust, and trust wasn’t earned overnight. Not after years of silence. Not after years of being left behind.

Last night, the nightmare returned.

The same one that gripped you with icy fingers every time you dared to close your eyes. The same twisted scene that played over and over like a curse etched into your subconscious. You had thought that leaving the estate would quiet it—give your mind the peace to heal—but it only followed, sinking deeper into your bones each night.

It always began the same: silence. A vast, suffocating silence that wrapped around you like a veil.

Then, the halls of the estate. Dim, echoing, endless. You'd find yourself running, barefoot and frantic, the cold stone floors numbing your feet. Your heart thundered louder than your steps.

Then her—Duchess Choi.

Her figure always emerged from the dark, regal and terrifying. Her hands were always red—soaked, dripping. Her eyes gleamed with something inhuman.

And Jiho...

You never reached him in time. No matter how fast you ran, how loud you screamed, you always arrived just a second too late. The final moment always burned itself into your soul: Jiho's lifeless eyes, his small body limp in her cruel arms, as she whispered, "You should’ve obeyed."

You jolted awake, drenched in sweat and breathless, clutching your chest as if it could steady the madness storming inside.

But the room was silent.

Beside you, Jiho slept peacefully, his tiny hand curled into a fist near his face. The innocence of his slumber clashed cruelly with the horror that still lingered in your veins.

You pressed a kiss to his forehead and laid back down, eyes wide open, unwilling to risk sleep again. You couldn’t. Not when the nightmare was always the same, and the ending never changed.

Your mind whispered over and over: What if the dream was a warning? What if it wasn’t just a dream at all?

Seungcheol’s voice cut through the heavy silence, gentle but firm. He noticed the weariness etched into your face—the dark circles beneath your eyes, the distant glaze that made you look like you were somewhere far away.

“You should rest, my wife,” he said softly, stepping closer. “Leave Jiho to Minyeong for a while. Let yourself breathe.”

His words carried more than just concern; there was a quiet insistence, a promise that you didn’t have to carry everything alone.

You blinked slowly, the exhaustion weighing down your lids, and for a brief moment, you almost wanted to say yes. To give yourself permission to stop fighting, even if only for a little while.

But the nightmare still lingered behind your eyes—the bloody hands, the silent screams.

*

The door creaked softly as Seungcheol stepped into your room. The curtains were drawn halfway, letting in a dim wash of moonlight that etched pale shadows across the floor. The air was still, thick with silence. You were curled up beneath the covers, your body barely moving, your eyes open and distant—staring at nothing.

He stood at the threshold for a moment, just watching. You looked so small like that, fragile in a way that struck him in the gut. His chest ached. He wondered how long you’d been surviving in this half-state, quietly unraveling while he stood blind beside you.

“You haven’t slept again,” he murmured, voice soft as cotton.

You didn’t answer—just turned your head ever so slightly in his direction. The motion was slow, like it took effort.

He approached the bed and sank gently onto the edge, careful not to startle you. For a moment, he didn’t say anything more. His hand lifted, tentative at first, before his fingers brushed beneath your eye, tracing the bruised hollows of exhaustion there. Then down to your cheek—warm, familiar, trembling.

You let out a breath that wasn’t quite a sigh. “Are you just here to touch me?” you asked, your voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper, but with an edge of bitterness beneath it.

Seungcheol���s brows pinched, his thumb ghosting over your temple.

“I’m here because I want to carry what you’ve been carrying alone,” he whispered. “I turned my eyes away when I should’ve looked closer.”

Your throat constricted as tears swelled. You bit your lip hard. “I’m already broken, Cheol.” Your voice cracked. “This house… your mother… everything. I—I don’t even recognize myself anymore. I tried to be what you needed, but I’ve only ruined it. You don’t deserve someone like me.”

He closed his eyes briefly, jaw tight with pain. And then he leaned forward, pressing his lips to your forehead—delicate, unwavering.

“I don’t care,” he whispered against your skin. “You’re my wife. Convenient or not. I made vows, and I meant them. I still do.”

A sob shuddered up your throat as your defenses collapsed. The tears you’d swallowed for months broke free.

And when he kissed you, it wasn’t hurried or full of hunger—it was slow and aching. His mouth moved against yours like he was memorizing you again, trying to soothe every invisible wound. You clung to him, fingers fisting the front of his shirt, desperate for something solid, something real.

There was no need for words anymore.

Clothes slipped off like old armor. His hands didn’t rush—they moved over you gently, like you were something he thought he’d lost. His touch was reverent, worshipful. He kissed the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, the softness of your stomach like they were all parts of a story he refused to forget.

Your fingers threaded through his hair, trembling. “I’m scared,” you admitted into the dark.

“I know,” he breathed against your skin. “But I’m here. I’m here.”

When he entered you, it wasn’t a conquest—it was a return. A slow, desperate need to feel something real between the both of you again. You moved together like the world outside didn’t exist. Like grief and shame and regret could all be held at bay if only you stayed close enough.

Your breaths synced, ragged and warm. Gasps turned into moans, moans into whimpers. The sound of your name on his lips was unlike anything—hoarse, reverent, as if it hurt to say but he couldn’t stop saying it.

You cried through it. Not just from the sensation, but from all the pain that had piled up between your bodies for months. Seungcheol held you through it all, brushing your tears away with his lips, whispering apologies and I love you’s and I’m so sorrys between every kiss.

He whispered your name like a vow. Like a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he breathed over and over, not possessively, but like a truth he clung to. “You’re my wife. You’re mine.”

That night, the bed wasn’t just a place of desire—it became a sanctuary. A fragile, fleeting pocket of warmth where two hearts could find their way back to each other.

Morning crept in quietly, the rain having washed the world into a pale stillness. The sky was soft and gray beyond the curtains, the kind of morning that asked the world to slow down.

Seungcheol stirred beside you, his hand instinctively brushing a lock of hair away from your face. You were still asleep, finally at peace. Something in his chest loosened at the sight. For a moment, it felt like maybe, just maybe, things were starting to heal.

Then his phone buzzed on the nightstand. He reached for it lazily, intending to silence it, but froze when he saw the name.

Seokmin. Your personal guard.

The blood drained from his face as he opened the message. The screen burned into his vision. The phone nearly slipped from his hand.

Not kidnapped. Requested. Lied.

His lungs stopped working. He stared at the words, willing them to change, to rewrite themselves, to offer any other meaning. But they stayed the same, cold and damning.

The room shrank. His pulse pounded in his ears. Everything—their night, your tears, your trembling voice saying “I’m already broken”—all of it twisted now. He looked at you lying there, still, peaceful, the soft blankets rising and falling with each breath.

And suddenly, he didn’t know what that peace meant anymore.

He stood from the bed, the sheets pulling slightly as he moved. He was still half-dressed from the night before, hair a mess, lips bruised from kissing someone he thought he knew.

You stirred, frowning slightly at the absence of his warmth. Your voice was sleepy, unguarded. “Cheol?”

He turned, and you saw the expression on his face. The way his jaw clenched. The way his eyes looked at you like he didn’t recognize you anymore.

“Did you sleep with him?” he asked. The words were low, cold, and jagged.

You blinked, sitting up abruptly. “What?”

“Hong Jisoo,” he repeated, more biting this time. “Did you sleep with him? Is that why you ran off and let me think you were taken?”

“Cheol—no.” You shook your head, panic rising. “I didn’t. I would never—how could you even—?”

“Then what was it?” he snapped. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t betrayal. Don’t tell me you didn’t look me in the eye every day and pretend nothing was wrong while you were planning your escape behind my back!”

You flinched like he’d struck you.

Your voice wavered, but you forced the words out. “It wasn’t cheating. It was surviving.”

The silence that followed was sharper than any scream. It cracked through the air between you, full of things neither of you had said for months—maybe years.

His throat worked around the lump forming there. “You lied to me,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “You stood in front of me, wore the ring I gave you, and lied every damn day.”

You stood too now, trembling, bare feet on the floor, your arms crossed tightly over your chest like you were holding yourself together. “You neglected me,” you said quietly, but it came out sharp. “You left me to rot in that house, alone. Your mother made me feel like dirt and you—you never even looked at me.”

“I was trying to protect you!” he shouted. “You think I didn’t know how bad she was? You think I didn’t want to fight her? I was trying, but you never let me in! You never told me how bad it got!”

“Because I didn’t think you'd believe me!” you cried. “You kept brushing it off. You said I was being too sensitive. Every time I tried to tell you, you told me to be patient. So I stopped talking.”

“You gave up on us,” he said, venom trembling behind each word. “You chose him.”

“I chose myself, Seungcheol.” Your voice cracked. “I had no one. No one listened. Not you, not your family, not the people I was supposed to trust. So yes—I ran. I asked Jisoo for help because I didn’t want to die in that house.”

His face twisted. Pain and rage warred behind his eyes. “You should’ve come to me.”

“I did,” you said. “You just didn’t hear me.”

He backed away from you like your words physically pushed him.

“I didn’t cheat on you,” you said again, voice quieter, but no less steady. “I lied. I’m not proud of that. But I did what I had to do.”

“You don’t get to rewrite this like you’re the victim,” he muttered bitterly. “You lied. That’s the one thing we swore we’d never do to each other.”

“And you swore to protect me,” you said, eyes burning. “You failed me first.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke.

Two people who once promised forever, now standing in the ruins of misheard cries and emotional silence. Both of you hurt. Both of you right, and both so terribly wrong.

Seungcheol looked away, jaw flexing. “I don’t know how to come back from this.”

And this time, you didn’t answer. Because neither of you did.

*

Seungcheol slowed his steps as the raised voices reached him—fierce, trembling, far too close to a breaking point. He stood just shy of the corridor’s edge, where the marbled hallway met the staircase landing, his hand resting on the wall as if grounding himself from a storm he hadn’t yet seen.

And there it was.

You—face flushed, eyes glassy with fury and something dangerously close to heartbreak—stood between his mother and your son. Your arms were slightly outstretched, like a shield. Jiho stood behind your legs, barely visible, clutching his sketchbook tightly to his chest, his small frame tense like a frightened deer in the open.

Seungcheol didn’t move. Couldn’t. The weight of your voice froze him in place.

“You’ve always blamed him for existing,” you said, each word like a shard of glass cutting through the thick silence. “He’s a child. Not a burden. Not your second chance to twist another soul.”

His mother's lips curled, cold and disdainful. “You should’ve taught him obedience instead of weakness. No wonder he turned out like this. You coddle him like he’s glass—”

“He is!” your voice cracked, but you didn’t waver. “Glass that you keep trying to shatter. He’s traumatized—because of you! Because of this cursed house! You broke every child that passed through your hands and now you want to break him too—”

“Watch your tone,” she snapped.

“Or what?” you challenged. “You’ll hurt me? You already have. But I won’t let you lay a single finger on him.”

Your breath was coming in hard, shallow bursts, your voice trembling with the desperate kind of love only a mother could understand. And Seungcheol—watching from the shadows, unseen—felt something rip open in his chest.

Then it happened.

Jiho, who had been so still, so silent—stepped forward. A tiny hand tugging on your skirt, eyes flickering between the two adults in confusion and fear. He didn’t speak, couldn’t speak. He only wanted to stop the fighting. To reach you. To help.

And Duchess Choi turned. Sharp. Too sharp.

“Don’t touch—!”

Her hand flew in a gesture meant to shove you back—but Jiho was there. Too close. Too small. Her arm struck him across the chest, not hard enough to harm a grown-up, but more than enough to unbalance a child on the edge of stairs.

Seungcheol’s heart stopped.

Jiho’s sketchbook flew from his arms, pages flapping like wings of a broken bird.

And then—time cracked.

Jiho stumbled backwards. One small foot slipped. He tilted.

“Jiho!” Your scream pierced the hallway like a siren, raw and anguished.

Seungcheol was already moving. But he wasn’t fast enough. Jiho fell. Head first, down the staircase. His tiny body bounced off the steps in an unnatural, horrifying rhythm. The final thud—when his head hit the marble—echoed through Seungcheol’s ears like a gunshot.

Everything was silence after that.

You screamed again, louder this time, but it sounded distant in Seungcheol’s head. He sprinted, feet hitting the ground too late. You were already at the bottom, shaking, your hands trembling as you pulled Jiho’s limp frame into your arms.

“Jiho—Jiho, baby, no—” your sobs came in gasps, hoarse and broken, like something inside you was shattering.

Seungcheol collapsed beside you, his hands fluttering uselessly, hovering over Jiho’s blood-matted hair. The boy whimpered faintly, eyelids fluttering, a soft sound that should have been a relief but only deepened the horror—because it meant he was still conscious through this pain.

“Eomma… don't cry.”

“Mingyu,” he said quietly. The butler had already rushed into the hall. “Get the doctor. Then gather the guards.”

“My lord—” the duchess began, but Seungcheol didn’t even look at her.

“You’re no longer welcome in this house,” he said coldly. “Not near me. Not near my wife. And not near my son.”

His mother’s breath hitched. Her mask finally cracked. “I raised you—”

“And you nearly unmade me,” he snapped. “You will not get the chance to do the same to my son.”

He turned back to you and Jiho, kneeling once more, brushing Jiho’s hair back gently as the boy leaned into him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. “You’re safe now.”

“Appa…”

*

Seungcheol sat heavily in the armchair, the dim light from the window casting long shadows across his worn face. His eyes, dark and stormy, never left you as you sat on the edge of Jiho’s bed, watching your son sleep. Jiho’s breathing was soft and steady now, peaceful in the fragile safety of the moment—his small face untouched by pain, save for the faint bruises and bandages that marked the night’s horror.

The silence between you was suffocating—thick with everything left unsaid, every wound raw and aching beneath your skin. Your heart pounded in the quiet, the weight of what had happened pressing down like a heavy shroud.

Then, your voice—low, brittle but unwavering—cut through the stillness.

“I knew this was coming.”

Seungcheol’s breath caught a subtle hitch that betrayed the storm inside him. His gaze sharpened, hanging on every word you spoke.

“I dreamed of this,” you said, voice trembling like a fragile thread stretched too thin. “Over and over. How your mother would... harm him.”

Your hand clenched into a tight, desperate fist at your side, knuckles whitening. You didn’t want to look weak, not again—not now—but the tremor in your chest betrayed your fierce vulnerability.

“That’s why I turned to Jisoo,” you whispered, the words heavy with bitter truth. “Because my own husband wouldn’t. Because you don’t have the heart to turn your back on your mother. And I understand... because I’m a mother too.

Seungcheol’s jaw tightened, a war raging behind his eyes—between blood ties and love, duty and desperation, guilt and regret. He felt torn apart, the impossible weight of loyalty clashing with the raw, aching need to protect the family he claimed as his own.

You finally met his gaze, your eyes shimmering with tears you fought to hold back—an ocean of pain, exhaustion, and pleading that spilled over despite yourself.

“Let us go, Seungcheol,” you said, voice breaking but steady. “We’ve suffered enough.”

The words hung in the room like a fragile glass between you—beautiful, sharp, and ready to shatter. It was a plea. A reckoning. A heartbreak that neither of you could deny. For a long moment, the world outside ceased to exist. Only the quiet breaths, the unspoken fears, and the fragile hope that maybe, somehow, healing could begin.

Seungcheol’s jaw clenched, his breath shallow and uneven. The words you’d just spoken echoed in his mind, sharp and unyielding. He wanted—needed—to say something, anything, to hold on, to fight, but the weight in his chest crushed his voice before it could form.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Silence hung between you like a thick fog, suffocating and endless.

His eyes, dark and conflicted, searched yours, but no answer came. The battle raging inside him was too fierce—between love, loyalty, guilt, and despair.

Three years later, Seungcheol sat behind the grand oak desk in his government office, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on his shoulders. The sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting long shadows across the room lined with books, maps, and official decrees.

Now appointed as the regional governor of Gwanrae by the kingdom, he was tasked with ruling a land both vibrant and challenging—a region ripe with opportunity but tangled in its own conflicts and histories.

Papers scattered across his desk demanded his attention: petitions from villagers, reports on trade and security, letters from the palace, and reminders of the delicate balance he must maintain between power and justice.

He leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair, feeling the years of lessons pressed into every decision. The role was demanding, each day a test of wisdom, patience, and strength. But Seungcheol carried it with quiet determination, fueled by a desire to forge a future where pain like his family’s could be undone.

Though the past still lingered—ghosts of mistakes and loss—he focused on what lay ahead. His kingdom, his people, and perhaps, one day, the chance to heal the fractures within himself.

Seungcheol sat behind his polished desk, papers neatly stacked but momentarily untouched as Mingyu entered the room with a purposeful stride.

“Mingyu,” Seungcheol greeted without looking up, his tone measured yet weary.

“Sir,” Mingyu replied with a slight bow before standing straight. “I wish to update you on young Jiho. He has recently commenced his studies at the elementary academy in Southeast Gwanrae.”

Seungcheol finally raised his eyes. “Is that so? And how does the child fare? Has he begun to speak more freely?”

Mingyu nodded respectfully. “Indeed, my lord. Though reserved, Jiho has begun to articulate himself with increasing confidence. His progress, while gradual, is promising. He shows signs of resilience reminiscent of your own.”

A faint expression softened Seungcheol’s features. “That is reassuring to hear. It has always been my hope that he would find his voice in his own time.”

“Also, the Ministry of Trade has confirmed your presence at the opening ceremony for the new provincial market in Southeast Gwanrae. It’s scheduled for the second week of the coming month.”

Seungcheol paused in his writing, his pen hovering just above the parchment. “Southeast Gwanrae?”

“Yes, sir,” Mingyu replied, maintaining professional composure. “The region has seen significant growth in recent years. The local business community has funded and organized the new market plaza. You’ll be expected to deliver an address and conduct a ceremonial inspection of the trade facilities.”

Seungcheol’s jaw tensed subtly, though his expression remained neutral. “And who oversees the business council there?”

Mingyu met his eyes with a steady nod. “The chairwoman is Lady Ji.”

Silence followed—not strained, but still.

Seungcheol leaned back slightly in his chair, folding his hands before him. “Did she submit the invitation herself?”

Mingyu hesitated, then answered carefully. “It came through the council secretary, but her name was signed at the end of the official document.”

A long breath filled the room.

“I see,” Seungcheol said quietly, gaze distant now.

Mingyu added, “It’s not a personal summons, sir. It’s a public obligation. The council is aware of your history, but they believe your presence will lend prestige to the event.”

Seungcheol gave a slow nod, eyes shadowed but steady. “Prepare the itinerary. Notify the guards. We’ll proceed with the visit as expected.”

“Yes, sir.”

As Mingyu turned to leave, Seungcheol’s voice called him back—quieter, tinged with something more thoughtful. “Send word ahead. I expect nothing more than a formal greeting. She owes me nothing else.”

Mingyu bowed low. “Understood.”

*

You stood before the mirror, adjusting the silk ribbon at your waist with trembling fingers. The fever had come quietly the night before—subtle aches, a flush that crept beneath your skin. But the ceremony couldn’t wait. Not when months of preparation and the trust of so many local merchants rested on your shoulders.

You dabbed a touch of powder to your cheeks, trying to mask the pallor that clung stubbornly to your skin. The dizziness made your limbs feel like they moved underwater, but you anchored yourself with deep breaths and the steady hum of responsibility.

Outside, the town square of Southeast Gwanrae buzzed with anticipation. Banners hung from the rooftops, merchants lined the stalls with wares, and citizens gathered around the ceremonial platform. The new market was not just a structure—it was proof of survival, of self-reliance. Of rebirth.

You walked slowly toward the platform, Jiho’s small hand in yours. He looked up with curiosity, unaware of the way your steps were measured, your breaths shallow. Jisoo hovered nearby, eyes watchful.

Then you saw him.

Governor Choi Seungcheol. Cloaked in ceremonial robes, his stature even more commanding now. His gaze swept the crowd with practiced poise—until it landed on you.

And it lingered.

You didn’t falter, not outwardly. But your heart tripped painfully in your chest as heat bloomed behind your eyes—not from the fever this time, but from something older. Deeper.

He stepped forward at the cue of the master of ceremonies. Applause rose around him. You bowed your head in respect as protocol demanded, hiding the slight sway in your posture.

He took the podium. His voice, when it came, was steady and regal. But in the middle of his speech, there was a pause—so brief that only those watching closely would notice.

You didn’t look up, but you felt it.

“Was that the Lady Ji he married to?”

“They didn’t even make eye contact.”

“They used to be married, didn’t they?”

You kept your chin lifted, hands folded tightly in front of you to hide the tremor. Jisoo shifted subtly beside you, standing tall, a quiet shield against the public’s prying eyes. Jiho tugged at your sleeve, sensing something even in his young innocence, but you only gave him a weak smile.

The ceremony pressed on. Names were called, the market gates opened, and trade resumed with festive cheer. But around you, eyes still flicked between your back and Seungcheol’s retreating form. Between the woman who had rebuilt from nothing, and the man who had once vowed to build everything with her.

The hotel’s reception hall was lavish but subdued, echoing the tone of formality befitting a governor’s visit. Crystal glasses gleamed under soft golden light, and the long table was dressed in cream linens and lined with carefully arranged refreshments—fine teas, traditional pastries, imported fruits, and small plates that suggested abundance without ostentation.

You sat with practiced grace near the center, across from the Governor himself. Your pale cheeks were touched with a hint of makeup to conceal the fever’s lingering shadow, though the heaviness in your limbs remained. Jiho was safely with Minyeong elsewhere; this part of the evening was no place for a child.

The air around the table buzzed with polite conversation. Influential dukes from surrounding provinces, regional council members, and a few trade lords from the merchant guild sat in a semi-circle. Discussions drifted from recent drought relief efforts to tariffs on imported grain, yet somehow always curved back to Gwanrae’s rapid development under Governor Choi’s new policies.

You remained composed, offering observations when appropriate, your voice even but soft. You noticed how Seungcheol glanced your way only when no one else was looking—quick, unreadable flickers of something unspoken. Perhaps it was memory. Or curiosity. Or guilt.

You couldn’t tell.

“The Lady Ji’s market district in Southeast Gwanrae has seen the highest citizen satisfaction index in the last quarter,” one of the younger councilors noted, smiling at you respectfully. “The property restructuring method she adapted from Sir Hong was a success. Her initiative has inspired the outer provinces.”

A few nodded in agreement.

You inclined your head politely. “We simply provided what people needed—affordable space to grow. Most of the credit belongs to the people who dared to try.”

“Well spoken,” Seungcheol said then, his voice calm but commanding.

It was the first time he had addressed you directly.

The room stilled just slightly—not noticeably, but enough that your spine straightened. You lifted your tea to your lips, hiding the flicker of surprise in your eyes.

And the whispers… started again. Not out loud, not yet. But in glances. In tightened smiles. In the careful politeness that only arose when something unspoken filled the space between two powerful figures.

By the time dessert was served, the room looked orderly again. But beneath it all, the air hummed with possibility—and a tension that even fine porcelain couldn’t mask.

You rose from your seat with the same poise you had maintained all evening, offering a quiet apology to the table. “Please excuse me for a moment,” you said, your voice gentle, unshaken. No one questioned it.

But as you stepped into the hallway beyond the reception hall’s doors, the air shifted.

The soft murmur of noble chatter faded behind you, replaced by the hush of a long, carpeted corridor lit with wall sconces and the distant patter of staff footsteps. You pressed a hand to the wall as your balance faltered—the fever had been steady all day, but now it surged again, making the corners of your vision blur and pulse. Your breath caught. The polished tiles swam beneath your feet, the weight of the night catching up to you.

You leaned your back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut, willing the dizziness to pass. Your fingers curled lightly around your stomach, the warmth of your palm a weak shield against the chill pooling in your limbs.

This wasn’t the place for weakness. Not with officials gathered, not with him in the next room.

But your body disagreed.

Your throat was dry, and the soft layers of your hanbok, though elegant and stately, felt heavier with each breath. You took another slow step forward, then another, intending to reach the small powder room at the end of the hall. But your legs buckled slightly.

And that’s when you heard him.

“Y/n—” Seungcheol’s voice, low and sharp with concern, cut through the silence.

You turned your head, just enough to see him striding toward you. His expression had shifted from formal restraint to something rawer, something dangerously close to the man you used to know. His eyes scanned your face, your posture, the way your fingers trembled against the wall.

“I’m fine,” you said quickly, instinctively, but your voice betrayed you—it cracked like paper.

“You’re not,” he said, already beside you. His hand hovered at your back, hesitant but prepared to catch you if you faltered again. “You’re burning up.”

You opened your mouth to dismiss him, to deny him, but the weakness clawing through your spine left no room for pride.

The world around you dimmed slowly, like a lantern flickering in the wind. Your breath grew shallow, your limbs impossibly heavy. You tried to take one more step, tried to hold your chin high despite the spinning in your head—but it was too much.

Then you heard him.

“Mingyu, prepare a room. I’m going there.”

His voice was firm. Urgent. No longer the voice of a distant governor or a man hardened by time and power—but of Seungcheol. The man who once held you like you were made of glass and fire.

You felt the warmth of his hand wrap around yours, the way it used to, anchoring you. Your knees buckled, and the last thing you registered was the sensation of being caught—his arms solid around you, strong and familiar, just before everything faded into darkness.

*

Seungcheol sat in the armchair beside the bed, a stack of reports resting in his lap—mostly unread. His eyes kept drifting toward your sleeping figure, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest beneath the covers. The doctor had said you were dehydrated and exhausted, the fever pushing your body past its limit. You’d been given a shot to bring it down, and now you finally rested—still, pale, and far too quiet.

The soft creak of the door opening caught his attention. Footsteps—small, hesitant—tapped gently against the floor.

Seungcheol turned, and there stood Jiho.

The boy’s eyes were wide, glassy with worry. He stood frozen in the doorway until he whispered, “Mother…”

The sound nearly undid Seungcheol.

It wasn’t just the word—it was the way Jiho said it, the clarity in his tone. After years of delayed speech and silence, the word shattered something inside him.

Seungcheol rose from his chair, slowly. “She’s going to be fine,” he said gently, his voice low. “She just needs rest.”

Jiho stepped forward, inch by inch, as though afraid that if he moved too fast, it would all disappear. When he reached the bedside, he reached out with a trembling hand and took yours.

“Thank you, Father…”

Seungcheol stood in place, the words echoing in his mind. His heart clenched—not out of pain this time, but something bittersweet and unfamiliar. Jiho’s voice, his gratitude… it was more than he deserved.

He swallowed hard, blinking back the emotion stinging behind his eyes.

“You don’t need to thank me,” he said hoarsely. “She’s your mother. She’s everything.”

Jiho didn’t answer, but his hand remained firmly wrapped around yours.

And for a moment, in that quiet room filled with the steady sound of your breathing, Seungcheol felt something he hadn’t in years.

A glimpse of what could have been.

Or perhaps… what could still be.

Seungcheol watched Jiho in silence, unable to tear his eyes away from the boy’s small hand wrapped around yours. His chest rose with a slow, heavy breath as something bloomed in him—warm, unfamiliar, and overwhelming.

Jiho had grown.

Not just in height or how he carried himself—but in spirit. The timid little boy who once hid behind your skirts was now standing tall beside your bed, speaking clearly, and holding your hand like he could protect you.

It struck Seungcheol with a force that left him breathless.

He knelt beside Jiho, eye level with him now. “You’ve grown a lot,” he said softly, his voice a bit rough around the edges. “You’re strong… just like your mother.”

Jiho looked at him, his eyes uncertain but bright. “I practiced,” he said shyly. “Talking. Writing. Reading.”

Seungcheol nodded, swallowing the emotion in his throat. “I can tell.”

He reached out, gently brushing Jiho’s hair back, something he hadn’t done in so long it felt like a forgotten memory brought to life. “I’m proud of you, Jiho.”

The boy blinked, stunned, before a small, careful smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“Will she wake up soon?” he asked.

“Yes,” Seungcheol said, his hand still resting lightly on Jiho’s head. “She just needs rest. You gave her a reason to rest easy.”

Jiho’s small fingers clutched yours a little tighter, his eyes still fixed on your sleeping face. Then, after a pause, he glanced up at Seungcheol—uncertainty flickering in those big, dark eyes.

“Father isn’t here to take me from my mother, right?”

The question landed like a blow to Seungcheol’s chest.

He froze, caught off guard by how quietly it was said, how much fear and understanding hid behind such simple words. Jiho wasn’t asking as a child guessing. He was asking as someone who remembered. Someone who had lived through absence. Through tension. Through loss.

Seungcheol lowered himself again, this time more slowly, until he was eye level with Jiho once more. His throat tightened, but he didn’t look away.

“No,” he said, voice low but steady. “I’m not here to take you away from her.”

Jiho searched his face for a long moment, as if trying to decide whether he could believe him.

“You have nothing to be afraid of. Not from me. Not anymore.”

Jiho nodded slowly, still watching him. And then—quietly, cautiously—he leaned just a little toward Seungcheol’s shoulder, not quite touching, but not pulling away either.

It was the smallest shift.

*

“Rest…”

Seungcheol’s voice, deep and hushed, wove into the stillness like the final note of a lullaby. It wrapped around you gently just as your eyes fluttered open, lashes blinking against the soft golden light that seeped through the curtains. The scent of chamomile lingered faintly in the air—either from the tea or from the linen sheets recently changed—and for a brief moment, the world felt hushed, like it was holding its breath.

You stirred slowly, your body sore but lighter, the fever that had held you hostage now a fading ache. Disoriented, you mumbled, “Why are you here?”

He was already there—by your side. Sitting on the edge of the bed like he belonged in that room, like he’d never left your orbit. The light caught the edges of his sharp features, softened by fatigue and something quieter. Something more tender.

“Taking care of you,” he said, his voice low, smooth like worn velvet. His hand reached out, calloused yet gentle, brushing against your forehead. Cool skin against warm. The kind of touch that made your heart betray you with its sudden stutter.

“Your fever’s gone down,” he murmured, eyes studying you. “But you still need rest. Are you hungry? I can have something sent up.”

You turned your face toward him, blinking slowly as you tried to anchor yourself. The pillows cradled your head, the comforter tucked around you like arms you couldn’t name. It was your hotel, your room, and yet it felt like he had brought the air with him—changed it just by being there.

“We’re strangers now, Seungcheol…” you said, your words barely above a whisper, unsure if they were meant to remind him or to protect yourself.

A faint laugh escaped his lips—low, breathy, amused in that familiar way that always managed to stir something under your ribs. “Strangers usually call me Lord,” he teased, already pulling out his phone, fingers dancing across the screen.

Your brow furrowed. “This is my hotel,” you muttered, frowning. “You can’t just order people around like you own the place.”

He leaned back slightly, still so at ease. “Their boss is sick,” he said with a sly smile, “so naturally, they should tend to you.”

A quiet hum filled the space between you. The distant clink of silverware being prepared downstairs, the muffled rush of staff moving through the halls, and the slow, steady rhythm of your breathing. The air was laced with something fragile and unspoken, like the moment before a confession or the second before dawn.

“You’re weird,” you said softly, your eyes not quite meeting his.

Seungcheol’s smile grew—smaller, more personal, like he didn’t want the world to see it. “You always said that when I did something nice.”

“And you always acted like it meant nothing,” you whispered back, your voice thinning, unraveling.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was full—of everything unsaid, of the ache of almost everything, of a past that still lived in the corners of the room. The kind of silence that made your heart flutter even as it weighed down your chest.

“You’re the chairman of the council,” Seungcheol said quietly, eyes narrowing slightly as he watched the way your fingers trembled just a bit when you reached for the glass of water. “Yet no one seemed to notice you were sick.”

You gave a soft, rueful smile, pressing the glass to your lips before setting it down again. Your voice came gentle, laced with fatigue and a hint of something more resigned. “The art of noticing…” You let the words settle, your gaze drifting to the window where morning light filtered through gauzy curtains. “It’s not easy. Needs a lot of practice.”

Seungcheol stilled. Something in your tone made his chest tighten—not with guilt, but with recognition. You weren’t talking about the council. Not entirely.

“Jiho came earlier,” Seungcheol said, his voice gentler now, changing the subject. He leaned back slightly, eyes still fixed on your face. “He was worried… You shouldn’t worry your son like that.”

A soft breath escaped your lips, not quite a sigh—more like a breeze of guilt brushing through your chest. You didn’t look at him right away, only let your gaze fall to the folds of the blanket between your fingers.

“Hmm…” you murmured, then turned to face him with a small, grateful smile. “Thank you for reminding me.”

“You’re far too calm for this situation…” Seungcheol muttered, his voice low and taut with frustration. He wasn’t looking at you—his eyes were fixed on the half-open window, where sunlight spilled lazily across the room.

You tilted your head, watching him quietly. “Why?” you asked softly. “Are you… feeling something, Seungcheol?”

A silence fell between you. Not the comfortable kind, but a loaded pause that felt like holding your breath underwater. He didn’t answer right away—just clenched his jaw, the flicker of emotion twitching behind his eyes.

“Hm… old things,” he finally said, his voice quieter. “But I don’t want to talk about this.”

You nodded once. “Okay.”

Another silence—quieter this time. The wind outside rustled the trees. Somewhere down the hall, a servant’s footsteps echoed faintly and then faded again.

Then, like a whisper dropped into the stillness, he said, “I miss you.”

Your breath caught in your chest. For a moment, the room felt smaller, like everything folded in around those three words.

These visits became a quiet rhythm over the months—small, almost unnoticed, but impossible to ignore. You were immersed in the latest market expansion reports when Jeonghan appeared, calm as ever, his tablet tucked beneath one arm.

“My lady,” he said gently, “Governor Choi was seen in the lobby again.”

Your pen hovered but you didn’t look up. “Again?” you asked, voice steady but with just a hint of something beneath.

Jeonghan nodded. “His fourth visit this year.”

You said nothing, turning the page deliberately. The room filled with a heavy silence as Jeonghan lingered, waiting for a crack in your carefully guarded composure. But none came.

This pattern repeated over time: subtle visits, thoughtful gifts.

One afternoon, Jeonghan appeared with a small, carefully wrapped package. “Governor Choi has sent painting equipment for the young master,” he said softly.

You accepted it with a quiet “Thank you,” your heart catching briefly before your face smoothed into neutrality. These gifts carried more weight than paint and canvas.

Later, Jeonghan returned, a slight smirk on his lips. “Lord Seungcheol asked for a recommendation on a local restaurant.”

You met his gaze evenly. “Tell him the best place is the one he hasn’t discovered yet.”

Jeonghan’s knowing smile lingered as he left, the door clicking softly behind him.

Month after month, these quiet reminders arrived—unspoken words and careful gestures, threading their way through your days, stirring memories you tried not to name.

It was near sunset when Jeonghan entered again, the golden light casting long shadows across your office floor. He stood with both hands behind his back, his voice as composed as ever.

“My lady,” he said carefully, “Lord Seungcheol has asked… if he could take the young master for a stroll around the city.”

You looked up from the correspondence in your hand, eyes resting on him a second longer than usual.

The question hung in the air like incense—unexpected, warm, and slightly disorienting.

“For how long?” you asked, though your voice was quieter than intended.

“An hour or two,” Jeonghan replied. “He said he wants to show Jiho the market square lights… and the new flower lane.”

You glanced toward the window, where faint sounds of the evening city buzzed below. Jiho had asked about the flower lane just days ago.

And now Seungcheol remembered.

You closed the document before you slowly nodded. “Tell Lord Seungcheol… as long as Jiho wears his coat.”

Jeonghan gave a slight bow. “Yes, my lady.”

As he exited, your eyes lingered on the door he’d just left through, a quiet ache swelling in your chest. You knew Seungcheol wasn’t just walking through the city. Somewhere else you didn't want to name.

*

Seungcheol opened the door of his hotel room, his tie loosened and sleeves slightly rolled up, only to pause at the unexpected sight.

You stood there, framed by the soft hallway light, holding a familiar bottle of red wine cradled in your arms—his favorite vintage.

“Room service,” you said with a small, wry smile.

A quiet laugh escaped him, subtle but real, as he stepped aside. “I should’ve known this hotel had excellent service.”

You stepped inside, the wine bottle cool in your hand as you made your way to the small sitting area. The room smelled faintly of cedar and old paper—his cologne mixed with the remnants of long hours and unopened reports. You settled onto the couch with practiced ease, the weight of the years between you both momentarily suspended in the soft click of the bottle setting down on the table.

“How was the stroll with Jiho?” you asked, your tone casual, though your eyes lingered longer than they should.

Seungcheol took the seat across from you, his gaze steady. “Peaceful. He asked questions about every flower and every vendor. He’s bright... very much like you.”

You gave a faint smile, looking away as if brushing off a compliment that hit a little too close to the chest.

“I didn’t expect your visit,” he said finally, voice quieter now, more careful.

You shrugged lightly, fingers tracing the rim of a wine glass. “I didn’t expect to be here either. But I figured I’d be a terrible host if I didn’t personally greet one of our most loyal guests. You come here almost every month, Lord Seungcheol. That’s an impressive amount of... business in Southeast Gwanrae.”

His eyes didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something in them—soft, vulnerable, almost sheepish.

“I find the region… welcoming,” he murmured.

“Mm. I’m sure you do,” you replied, pouring the wine with quiet grace, the room now bathed in the quiet hum of night and all the things that remained unsaid.

The wine settled between the two of you like a truce—rich, deep, and aged with memories. Seungcheol swirled the glass in his hand, the deep crimson catching the lamplight in slow motion.

“So,” he began after a sip, voice low, “how’s business been treating you?”

You leaned back against the couch, crossing one leg over the other as your fingers reached for a slender silver case from your coat pocket. With practiced fingers, you pulled out a cigarette and placed it between your lips.

You lit it without hesitation, exhaling softly, the smoke curling into the warm air like a secret.

“Depends on the day,” you answered. “Some days I feel like I own half of Southeast Gwanrae. Some days I feel like I’m drowning in numbers and neck-deep in egos.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, watching the trail of smoke dance above your head. “And today?”

You glanced at him, lips tugging in a wry smile. “Today I’m drinking wine with the governor and pretending we’re just old friends catching up.”

He leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, gaze intent. “You don’t have to do that,” he murmured.

“Do what?”

He tilted his head toward your cigarette. “That. You don’t have to put on the show. Not with me.”

A soft laugh escaped your lips, laced with tired amusement. “You know I’m not here to be your business partner, Seungcheol. This isn’t a deal. This—” you gestured around with your cigarette, “—is just tradition. Wine, smoke, talk. It keeps people from asking the real questions.”

He looked at you quietly for a moment, then nodded slowly. “Still. You don’t have to play the game.”

You met his gaze, then took another drag, the cherry at the end of your cigarette glowing faintly. “We all play, Seungcheol.”

Silence stretched between you like silk, delicate and taut. Only the quiet ticking of the wall clock and the soft clink of his glass broke through it.

“I never expected to see you like this,” he said finally. “Cigarettes in one hand, a thousand thoughts behind your eyes, carrying everything on your own.”

You looked at him then, really looked—and for a second, it felt like the years hadn’t passed. Like your hearts had never broken, like the city hadn’t swallowed you both in different directions.

“You were the one who shaped me,” you replied, voice steady, though the wine had begun to warm the ache in your chest. “You don’t get to hate the woman I had to become.”

He didn’t speak. He only nodded once, solemnly, before refilling both your glasses.

Seungcheol watched as you took your third drag, the smoke curling lazily from your lips, the ember glowing faintly in the dim light. He frowned, a flicker of concern tightening his features. Rising from his seat, he moved toward you with measured steps, until he stood beside the couch.

Without hesitation, his hand gently closed over your fingers, pinching the cigarette between them and pulling it away. The sudden loss startled you, but you didn’t pull back.

“Enough smoking,” he said quietly, eyes searching yours. “It’s not good for a woman.”

You inhaled sharply, the edge in your voice barely masked. “I had worse,” you mumbled, the silence that followed thick and heavy.

Seungcheol stepped closer, the space between you shrinking until his breath brushed your cheek. His voice softened, almost pleading. “Stop this mask, right now.”

You looked up at him, steady and unflinching. “I don’t wear any mask, Seungcheol. Never.”

His eyes darkened with something unsaid, a mixture of frustration and longing. The tension between you pulsed in the still room, neither willing to break, yet both craving the truth beneath the carefully crafted walls.

For a long moment, you simply held each other’s gaze—raw, honest, and dangerously close.

Then, slowly, he released your hand, the cigarette forgotten between his fingers.

“Maybe,” he whispered, “it’s time we stop pretending.”

You swallowed hard, your breath catching as his hand slowly lifted to cup your cheek, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw with a tenderness that belied the tension in his stance.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath.

Your eyes fluttered closed as his face dipped closer, the warmth of his breath mingling with yours. Time slowed—every second stretched thin with the weight of what was about to happen.

And then, finally, his lips found yours—soft, tentative at first, as if testing the waters of a long-denied connection. The kiss deepened slowly, a silent confession that spoke louder than any words ever could.

All the pain, the silence, the masks—they melted away in that moment, leaving only raw, honest truth between you.

Seungcheol’s lips brushed against yours again, softer this time, but no less intense. His voice was low, rough with something like hunger.

“Stop pretending, Y/n. I don’t want the mask—I want you.”

You trembled beneath him, eyes searching his. “I’m not sure I know how to be anything else.”

His fingers tightened around the fabric of your blouse. “Then let me show you.”

With a slow, deliberate motion, he undid the buttons, his breath warm against your skin. “You don’t have to hold back with me.”

Your pulse thundered as he trailed a finger along your collarbone, voice dropping to a whisper. “Not here. Not anymore.”

You swallowed hard, heart pounding, and whispered back, “Seungcheol...”

He silenced you with a deep, searing kiss, his hands tracing the curves he’d longed for, claiming every inch with a touch that was anything but innocent.

Seungcheol’s kiss grew more urgent, his hands tightening slightly as he pressed you closer. The room seemed to shrink around you, the air thick with heat and longing. Your breath hitched, heart pounding wildly as his lips trailed down your jaw, then the curve of your neck, each touch leaving a trail of fire.

Seungcheol’s hands moved with purpose, peeling away the barriers between you as if memorizing every inch of your skin. His lips never left yours, devouring and tender all at once, a fierce mixture of restraint and need.

“Do you feel it too?” he murmured against your mouth, his voice rough yet intimate.

You nodded, breath hitching, fingers threading through his hair. “I’ve never stopped.”

His gaze darkened, intense and unwavering. “Then stop hiding from me. Let me in—completely.”

With that, he gently laid you back onto the bed, his body following, warm and solid against yours. The world outside the room ceased to exist as his hands and lips explored with a slow, deliberate hunger, every touch igniting fire beneath your skin.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, fingers tracing a path along your jaw, “I’m listening.”

Your voice trembled, honest and raw. “I want to stop pretending. Just be with you… like this.”

A low, satisfied growl escaped him as he closed the distance again, sealing your confession with a kiss that promised no more masks—only truth and desire.

Fingers deft and confident, he began to undo the buttons of your blouse, each movement sending shivers down your spine. His touch was far from innocent—possessive, claiming, demanding without words.

You parted your lips, breath mingling with his as his hands explored, every brush of skin a promise, every lingering touch a confession. The line between restraint and abandon blurred until it vanished entirely, leaving only the two of you tangled in a heat too fierce to ignore.

Seungcheol’s breath hitched as his fingers traced the curve of your jaw, steadying you in the quiet storm between heartbeats. The air around you thickened, charged with a magnetic pull neither of you could resist. His eyes darkened, searching yours for any flicker of doubt—but found none.

Slowly, deliberately, he closed the space between your lips, the world narrowing to the soft press of his mouth against yours. The kiss deepened, hungry and fierce, as if trying to make up for all the years of silence and restraint. Your breath caught, trembling beneath the weight of his touch, the heat of the moment wrapping around you like a consuming flame.

His hands slid lower, warm and urgent, tracing the lines of your body as he lowered you back onto the bed. The sheets whispered beneath you, cool against skin that burned with anticipation. The tension in the room thickened—every inch of space between you charged with unspoken desire, fear, and a longing that had refused to die.

Seungcheol’s voice came low, almost a growl. “I’ve waited too long for this.”

Your pulse thundered in your ears as the distance between hesitation and surrender vanished. In his arms, all your defenses began to crumble—raw, exposed, but never more alive.

The golden morning light spilled lazily into the room, tracing soft lines over the floor, the sheets, and the scattered remnants of last night’s heat — a blouse hanging off a chair, his watch forgotten on the nightstand, your heels crooked beneath the desk. The room smelled of perfume, wine, and something intimate, like skin warmed under candlelight.

You woke to a quiet stillness, broken only by the faint rustle of sheets and the distant hum of the city outside. The clock on the bedside table glared with urgency, a rude interruption to the warmth that still lingered between your tangled limbs and the imprint of Seungcheol’s arm curled loosely around your waist.

He was already awake beside you, eyes open, watching the way your lashes fluttered before you even spoke. A lazy smile twitched on his lips — affectionate, knowing.

“We’re late,” you murmured, voice low and still wrapped in sleep.

His smile didn’t fade, but there was a flash of clarity in his eyes. “No time to waste.”

And then the spell shattered.

The room erupted into a controlled chaos. You both moved with half-hearted haste — clothes tugged on backward, then corrected; buttons mismatched, hair smoothed with hurried fingers. There was laughter between curses, near stumbles, and shared glances that betrayed the rush with something softer.

You slipped on your heels, feeling the bite of time catch up to you, and turned to find him — shirt half-buttoned, collar askew, eyes still locked on you like you were the only thing in the room that made sense.

Your steps toward him were quiet but purposeful. The carpet cushioned the urgency beneath your feet, but your heart beat loud with everything unspoken. You stopped in front of him, reached up, and pulled him into a kiss — not rushed, not frantic, but deep. Measured. A pause in time.

His lips tasted like memory and morning, like the ache of missing someone too long and finally having them again.

“I have a meeting,” you said as you pulled back, your breath brushing his lips, hand cupping his jaw. “I’ll meet you for lunch, alright?”

Seungcheol’s hands slipped to your waist, grounding you with that steady strength he always carried. His touch was warm, possessive in the gentlest way — not demanding, just there.

“I’ll wait for you,” he whispered, low and sure.

There was no space for doubt in that voice. No hesitation. He would wait for you, just like how you had waited for him.

You smiled, fingers lingering a second longer on his jaw before you stepped back, turning toward the door.

The day was calling — but behind you, in that hotel room still steeped in shared heat and the haze of closeness, a kind of quiet longing bloomed.

It fluttered in your chest, soft and stubborn.

Like the start of something secured.

Like hope.

The end.

[thedensworld]

Stupid Drunken Call | C.Sc

Genre: fluff, office au!

Summary: After submitting your resignation letter, you drunkenly called your boss of seven years. After that, his behavior toward you changed unexpectedly.

You heard the elevator ding softly in the hallway—the unmistakable signal that your superior had arrived, as he did every morning at precisely this time. You stood from your desk, smoothing your blazer and preparing to greet him as usual. Moments later, he appeared: Choi Seungcheol, followed closely by Jeonghan, your colleague and his main secretary, who read the day’s schedule to him in a steady, practiced voice. Confidence radiated from both men as they walked, commanding the room's attention without trying.

When Seungcheol passed by your desk, you bowed politely, offering a respectful, “Good morning, Mr. Choi.”

He paused, surprising you by stopping in front of your desk rather than continuing down the corridor. “Morning,” he replied, his voice low but steady. After a brief pause, he glanced at you and asked, “Where’s Mingyu? Isn’t today his first day of training?”

You nodded, feeling a twinge of something bittersweet. Mingyu, a new recruit with undeniable talent, was here to train as your replacement. After seven years of routine mornings, assisting the superiors through countless meetings, projects, and unexpected crises, you were leaving. Resigning had been your choice, but the weight of this change hadn’t truly hit you until now, standing here in the familiar morning light of the office.

“Yes, Mr. Choi,” you replied with a slight smile, “He should be arriving shortly. I’ll bring him over as soon as he does.”

Seungcheol gave you a curt nod, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer, a glimmer of something unreadable in his eyes before he continued down the corridor.

“Mingyu… That guy should know to be on time,” Seungcheol muttered, a hint of irritation in his voice. “His training is two months, right?”

You nodded as Jeonghan stepped out of Seungcheol’s office behind him, finally able to relax. He let out a sigh. “I can’t believe you’re really leaving.”

You offered him a knowing smile. “Me either. But it’s been seven years.”

Seven years ago, you and Jeonghan had been recruited and trained together to assist Mr. Choi, Seungcheol’s father. When Mr. Choi passed away, the board quickly assigned Seungcheol to take his father’s place. Thankfully, he was gracious enough to retain both you and Jeonghan as part of his secretary team, easing the transition for everyone.

Jeonghan suddenly looked at you with a hint of panic in his eyes. “Did you book the restaurant I asked about? Mr. Choi has that lunch meeting with the client, remember?”

You gave him a thumbs-up. “All set. I even double-checked that they have vegan options on the menu.”

Jeonghan clutched his chest dramatically. “I have no idea how I’ll manage after you leave me with Mingyu!”

Just then, a tall, slightly disheveled guy with a backpack hurriedly appeared, out of breath and looking a little flustered. “Sorry I’m late!” Mingyu panted, giving you both a quick nod. “There was an accident—the bus I took lost a wheel!”

You and Jeonghan exchanged unimpressed glances, trying not to laugh at Mingyu’s unusual excuse. He was here to take over your position, but it was clear he had some big shoes to fill—and that he might need a few more lessons in time management.

After the lunch meeting, Jeonghan placed a takeout box on your desk, right as you were deeply focused on the manual you were putting together for Mingyu. You glanced up, intrigued by the unexpected treat.

“Mr. Choi finally declared his favorite secretary,” Jeonghan announced, leaning casually against your desk with a sly grin.

You raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “Really?” you asked, your tone dripping with doubt. In all your years working for Seungcheol, he had never done anything like this.

Jeonghan nodded, his eyes narrowing playfully. “Is there something going on between the two of you that I don’t know about?” His tone was teasing, hinting at the kind of office romance you'd only read about in novels.

Rolling your eyes, you smirked. “You wish. Besides, you know he’s dating that model,” you replied, thinking of the stunning woman Seungcheol had brought to a recent social event.

Jeonghan shrugged nonchalantly. “Maybe he’s softened up since you handed in your resignation. Maybe he’s finally realized what an incredible secretary he’s losing.”

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Shut up!”

Before Jeonghan could reply, your phone rang, interrupting the moment. On the third ring, you picked it up, recognizing Seungcheol’s deep voice on the other end, summoning you to his office. Through the glass wall of his office, you noticed him looking—no, glaring—your way. You weren’t entirely sure what he was thinking, but the intensity of his gaze made you stand up quickly, leaving no time for second-guessing.

“He called. Gotta go,” you said to Jeonghan, setting down the phone and straightening your blazer.

He gave you an exaggerated nod and moved back to his own desk across from yours. “Alright, Ms. Secretary,” he called after you with a wink, making it clear that the teasing was far from over.

You knocked on the office door before opening it and stepping inside. Seungcheol was there, his suit jacket draped over his chair, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sight of him in this more casual state threw you off, even if only for a moment—you were never fond of this job, but professionalism kept you grounded.

You bowed politely, standing a respectful two meters from his desk, hands clasped in front of you. As he looked up from his paperwork, his gaze lingered on you, his eyes scanning you from head to toe. You felt oddly exposed under his scrutiny.

“Are you always this rigid, Ms. Ji?” he asked, a slight scoff in his voice.

You blinked, caught off guard. Had you been? “I’ve always been this way, sir,” you replied, keeping your tone professional. You prided yourself on maintaining boundaries; that’s why you were leaving—to stay true to your professionalism.

He nodded thoughtfully. “What do you think of Mingyu?”

Resting his chin on his clasped hands, he watched you intently as you spoke. “From what I’ve seen, he’s quick, sharp, and adaptable, which is promising. He’s also retained everything I’ve shown him so far, so I don’t think you need to worry.”

Seungcheol nodded, but you caught a hint of dissatisfaction in his expression. It seemed there was something he didn’t quite like about Mingyu, though he didn’t say so outright.

“He can be a little clumsy,” you admitted, recalling with a slight grimace how Mingyu had spilled Seungcheol’s coffee that morning. “But he’s working on it.”

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow. “Yes, please guide him well. Are you sure two months will be enough?”

After this morning, you weren't so sure. But prolonging your stay here wasn’t an option you wanted to consider. “I’ll ensure he makes significant progress within two weeks, sir. If more time is needed, I’ll let you know.”

He nodded, seemingly satisfied, and you took this as your cue to leave. But you couldn’t help noting how strange this was. Oddity number two: he rarely called you into his office; normally, communication was handled over phone or email. That, combined with the unexpected lunch takeout, left you wondering if this was all coincidence—or if something had shifted in Seungcheol's usual demeanor.

“You can go, Y/n,” Jeonghan called out as he wrapped up his final check of the materials for tomorrow’s meeting, catching you by surprise.

“Who says?” You turned, eyes wide.

“The boss himself,” he replied with a smirk. “I know he’s been acting a little strange. Face it, Y/n—he’s trying to keep you here. I think he’s finally realized just how essential you are to this place,” Jeonghan added playfully.

You chuckled, shaking your head as you grabbed your things. “I’m flattered, but I’m taking this as my cue to go. It’s been so long since I finished work at this hour,” you said, smiling as you headed for the elevator.

Once outside, you flagged down a cab, sinking into the back seat as it pulled away. You couldn’t help but reflect on the day. Oddity number three: Seungcheol letting you go home early.

Staring out the window at the city lights, you resolved to stay focused. You’d given this company seven years—enough was enough. You were moving forward, and no amount of unexpected gestures could change your decision.

*

You sat uncomfortably in Seungcheol's car as he drove the two of you to a lunch meeting with Hong Group. Normally, you'd be the one arranging transportation, but today you hadn’t. In fact, you couldn't—because you didn’t know how to drive. You still remembered the brief flash of surprise in his eyes before he smoothly took the driver’s seat, saving you the trouble of calling a driver at the last minute.

“I’m sorry, sir, I should’ve arranged for a driver earlier,” you mumbled, embarrassed. For the first time in your career, you felt humiliated by something so trivial. Maybe you really should take driving lessons after this.

Seungcheol only chuckled behind the wheel. Ahead, a sea of cars sat at a standstill in traffic, making you curse yourself a little more for this uncomfortable situation.

“It’s alright,” he reassured, glancing over. “It’s been a while since I’ve driven myself, actually. Jeonghan usually handles it—and he’s a great driver.”

As he turned his attention back to the road, you recalled Jeonghan’s parting words before you left the office. “See? I told you—he’s trying to win your heart, Y/n,” Jeonghan had teased, though you’d brushed it off.

The silence stretched, until Seungcheol finally broke it. “Is it rude to ask why you don’t drive?” He sounded curious, as if this was unusual for someone in your position.

“Oh, it’s just... a bit of a silly reason,” you admitted. “I’m actually scared of driving.” You glanced down, hesitating. Even just sitting in the front seat made your heart race a little; the thought of being behind the wheel terrified you.

He seemed to take that in, and then, with surprising gentleness, asked, “But are you comfortable now? You seem a bit tense.”

You were caught off guard but exhaled, realizing he’d noticed your fidgeting hands and the way you avoided looking at the road ahead. “I’m fine, sir. I’m sorry if I seem distracted,” you said quickly, grateful when the restaurant finally came into view.

Inside, Seungcheol introduced you to Mr. Hong and his son, Joshua. As the three men began discussing business, you took notes on key points. Seungcheol was interested in investing in Joshua’s new automotive line, and you tried to focus, but following the conversation was difficult. Every so often, Mr. Hong or Joshua would turn to you for your opinion, and you felt your confidence waver. This wasn’t your area of expertise; Jeonghan was the one who shone in meetings like these. You started to regret agreeing to join the lunch.

“You didn’t seem to enjoy lunch earlier,” Seungcheol commented as the two of you headed back to the office, now seated in the back while the driver took over. You were relieved you’d managed to arrange a driver before the meal ended, sparing you from any more time on the front seat.

“Oh, no, sir. I enjoyed it very much,” you replied, forcing a polite smile. But even as you spoke, you had the strange feeling that he’d seen through you.

Seungcheol sighed softly, then spoke to the driver, instructing him to close the soundproof partition between the front and back seats. Your curiosity stirred—why would he need privacy? But the next thing he did startled you even more. He turned, looking at you with an expression you’d never seen on his face before: a mix of hesitation and vulnerability.

“Let me be honest,” he began, his voice low and sincere. “When you first submitted your resignation letter, I wasn’t bothered. I thought you simply wanted to develop your career in ways that maybe our company couldn’t provide.”

Your breath caught, heart thudding as you tried to anticipate where he was going with this.

“But when you called that night…” he continued, pausing as if weighing his next words. “I—I felt like a very bad person. I didn’t realize how my actions might have affected you, and for that, I want to apologize, Ms. Ji.”

His words struck you like a bolt, leaving you reeling. What was he talking about? What call?

“I’ve been thinking about it ever since,” he went on, his gaze never leaving yours. “And your idea… it seemed very tempting. So if the offer is still valid, I’d like to take you up on it.”

What on earth was he talking about?

You felt panic creeping in as you tried to process his words. You called him? You couldn’t remember ever calling Seungcheol outside of office hours, let alone making him an offer. And what kind of offer could you possibly make to someone who, practically speaking, owned your career for the next two months?

Heart pounding, you took a steadying breath, unsure of what to say. Yet the words slipped from your lips before you could stop them. “Of course, sir…” you heard yourself reply.

A small, almost relieved smile crept onto Seungcheol’s face as he turned his gaze to the window. He seemed content, as if a weight had lifted from him.

Was it about your resignation? Had you asked to delay your departure without remembering it? Jeonghan had hinted that Seungcheol might not want you to leave. Or was it something else entirely? Questions buzzed through your mind as the car pulled up to the company building.

“Talk to you later, Ms. Ji,” Seungcheol said, his face lighting up with the dopiest smile you’d ever seen on him as he exited the car.

Jeonghan, waiting by the entrance, raised an eyebrow, clearly as perplexed as you felt. Mingyu, the new hire, looked at you like he’d seen a ghost, noting the stunned expression on your face and your unusually pale complexion.

*

You did call him.

You really did, the night after you submitted your resignation letter—the night when you grabbed can after can of beer, drowning yourself in them like a madwoman, trying to forget everything.

You let out a heavy sigh, collapsing onto the bed. What happened that night when you called him? Why was he suddenly treating you so differently? And what exactly was the offer he mentioned this afternoon?

You felt the weight of the questions pressing down on you, swirling in your mind, but no answers came. Just more confusion.

Your phone rang, startling you. The caller ID displayed Choi Seungcheol, your very boss himself, calling you outside of working hours.

"Good evening, Mr. Choi. Is something wrong?" you answered, your voice betraying a hint of confusion.

You could hear him chuckling on the other end. "I can't call you?"

The casual tone caught you off guard. "Yes—I mean, no! I just thought… you never call at this hour, so I assumed you needed help with something."

"Actually, I do. I was looking over the presentation you sent me this morning, and I need you to get it ready by tomorrow morning."

Wait, he sent you home early, yet now he expected you to work overtime?

You couldn’t help but wonder: Is this the reason I wanted to leave this company?

"Please let me know which section you want me to edit," you said, trying to remain professional.

"No, actually… I’m in the office right now. Come in, and I’ll show you exactly what I need."

Great, you thought to yourself.

"Alright… I'll be there," you replied, hanging up.

Thirty minutes later, you arrived at the office. The lights in Seungcheol’s office were on, and you could feel a knot forming in your stomach. You knocked on the door, announcing your presence.

"I'm sorry to drag you back here," Seungcheol said as you entered. "I need this material first thing in the morning."

You walked over to his desk, studying the part of the presentation he wanted changed. As you did, he stood and stepped aside, letting you sit in his chair to examine the presentation on his computer—he hadn’t printed anything out.

"Jeonghan had to leave. Today’s his anniversary with his girlfriend," Seungcheol added, his tone almost apologetic.

You nodded in acknowledgment. "You know, I didn’t want to be the jerk boss who makes him stay late on his anniversary," Seungcheol said.

You tilted your head slightly, waiting for him to continue.

"I called you because, well… I’m already the jerk boss to you," he added, his voice lighter than before.

"Sorry?" Your hand froze over the mouse as you processed his words.

Seungcheol let out a soft, almost playful laugh. "You called me a jerk boss that night, Ms. Ji."

Your heart skipped a beat. His casual tone, combined with the unexpected mention of that night, made you feel a sudden heat rise to your cheeks.

You had a blind date that night—the first one in seven years, after working yourself to the bone for Seungcheol. But just as you were getting ready, Seungcheol sent you a voice note an hour before you were supposed to leave. He needed you to reschedule his entire agenda for next week because he was taking a vacation.

A vacation. Was it with the supermodel girlfriend he’d brought to the last social event?

With a heavy sigh, you dove into his agenda, making calls, negotiating with a dozen third parties. It took far longer than you expected. And by the time you finally finished, you received a text from your date.

"If you're too busy with your work, let’s cancel our date."

The words hit you harder than you expected. You remembered crying all week because of Seungcheol, how he had treated you so poorly, despite everything you had done for the company. That was it. You were done. You made up your mind—you were going to resign. You wrote up your resignation letter and handed it to him first thing in the morning.

The night after, you drowned yourself in cans of beer. And somewhere between the haze of alcohol and frustration, you remembered calling him.

“Jerk!”

You heard nothing on the other end.

“Jerk! Are you there?” you called again, louder this time, the anger boiling in your voice. Finally, he responded, his voice tight with confusion. “Ms. Ji, are you drunk?”

“Don’t ask me if I’m drunk! The reason I’m drunk right now is you!” you snapped.

“Ms. Ji? Where are you?” His voice softened, but you could hear the undercurrent of concern.

You chuckled bitterly. “Don’t act like you care. All you’ve done these years is take advantage of your quiet secretary. You’ve never treated me fairly, but I’ve been doing everything for you, bending over backward for the company. You're a jerk!"

And then the words you’d held in for so long spilled out in a rush. “And what? You’re going off on a vacation with your model girlfriend while I’m stuck here, working my ass off on your schedule? You’re a total jerk, Choi Seungcheol! You heard that?”

*

You gasped as the memory of that conversation came rushing back, like a freight train you couldn’t escape. Your hands shot up to cover your mouth, and your eyes widened. You did call him a jerk.

"I missed my blind date last week because of you, Choi Seungcheol! Do you know how lonely I've been, working for you? I bet you don’t, because you're off gallivanting with your supermodel girlfriend while I’m stuck with your endless schedule!"

"Ms. Ji, I don’t have a—" Seungcheol started, but you cut him off, your words coming faster than your brain could keep up.

"How are you going to take responsibility for that, huh, Mr. Choi? Do you even want to be my date? No? Well, then there’s no reason for me to stick around. I’m out of here! I’m leaving, you jerk! You big, dumb, heartless jerk boss!"

You leaned back in his chair like you were starring in your own drama series, dramatic pause and all. Of course, you tried to keep your distance, but Seungcheol was standing right next to you, practically breathing down your neck. The closest you could get to escaping was a meter away—one meter—as if that would be enough to save you from this mortifying moment. You could practically hear the earth laughing at you, but not helping you disappear.

"You remember now?" Seungcheol’s voice was amused, like he’d just stumbled upon a hidden gem. "I see, you forgot about it. No wonder you’ve been acting all... normal since then."

You should’ve been taking a dramatic exit, but instead, your brain was screaming for you to run to the nearest plane out of the country. You were so done.

"I’m sorry, Mr. Choi. It was... I mean, I... It’s just..." You froze, completely out of words. The awkward silence between you was so thick, you could cut it with a knife. You shoved your hands over your face, wishing you could just melt into the desk.

You quickly tried to apologize, your voice trembling slightly. "I—I'm really sorry, Mr. Choi. I didn’t mean to... to... say all that. It was just the alcohol talking, you know? I wasn’t thinking clearly."

Seungcheol paused for a moment, his expression shifting from teasing to something more thoughtful. He didn’t look angry. In fact, he seemed... grateful? “You know, I actually appreciate your honesty. I didn’t realize how badly I’ve been treating you.” His eyes softened as he continued, “I guess it took you saying all that for me to really get it.”

You blinked, not sure how to respond. Was this really happening? Did Seungcheol just thank you for calling him a jerk? You were still in shock, but it felt... different now. Not bad, just unexpected.

Seungcheol leaned forward, his voice suddenly turning serious. “You called me a jerk, but... about that offer to be your date—" He paused, glancing at you with a small, almost mischievous smile. "I meant it."

You immediately shook your head, trying to dismiss the idea. "Oh, no, no, no," you quickly interjected, waving your hands dismissively. "Please, forget that, Mr. Choi. Besides, you have a girlfriend. I’m not about to get mixed up in that drama."

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, unfazed. He didn’t back down. “I’m serious, Ms. Ji. I want to take you out. No work, no obligations, just you and me. You’re not going to get rid of me that easily.”

You looked at him incredulously, half-laughing to yourself. "Are you... are you really serious right now?"

Seungcheol nodded, his voice low and sincere. “Dead serious. I know I messed up, but I’d like a chance to make it right. To be something more than just your boss. So, what do you say?”

You immediately felt a strange flutter of something in your chest. The idea of dating Seungcheol seemed ridiculous—too complicated, too messy. You had spent so much time thinking about leaving, about cutting ties with this company. You had worked your ass off for him, and now he was here, offering something completely different. Something unexpected.

You quickly shook your head again, trying to keep your composure. "I—I'm not sure what you're trying to do here, but I don't think dating you is the solution to this... whatever this is."

Seungcheol’s expression softened. “I’m not trying to fix anything, Ms. Ji. I’m just trying to make sure you don’t leave with regrets... especially when it comes to me.” His gaze held yours with an intensity that made your heart skip a beat. “So, just think about it, alright? No pressure.”

The words hung in the air, and despite your best efforts to shake the idea off, a small voice inside you couldn't help but wonder what it would be like...

Seungcheol let out a small, knowing smile as you kept shaking your head, clearly trying to dismiss the idea. "You know," he began, his tone suddenly light, "I don't actually have a girlfriend."

You froze, your hand halfway through waving him off. "What?"

"I don’t have a supermodel girlfriend," he repeated, leaning back slightly, his arms crossing casually over his chest. "I mean, I might’ve brought someone to a social event, but that doesn’t mean she’s my girlfriend. You assumed a lot, didn’t you?"

*

"What's going on between you and him?" Jeonghan asked, raising an eyebrow as he stepped out of Seungcheol's office this morning.

You glanced at him, raising your own brows. "What do you mean?"

Jeonghan rolled his eyes with a knowing smirk. "I saw you two stepping out of his car with a driver."

You shrugged nonchalantly. "We met on our way."

Jeonghan hummed, unconvinced. "He always drives himself to work, but today he brings a driver? Suspicious," he said, walking back to his desk with a grin.

You tried to shake off Jeonghan’s teasing and focused on your work. You walked over to Mingyu’s desk, where he was already sorting through some papers. "These two haven’t fixed yet, so you need to make a call and finalize the date and time with the other party," you instructed. Mingyu immediately nodded, giving you a thumbs up.

As you turned back to your desk, your phone rang, and you quickly rushed to pick it up. Your eyes flickered to Seungcheol’s office, where he was standing by the door. You answered the call just as he made eye contact with you.

"Ms. Ji?" Seungcheol’s voice was calm but warm.

"Yes, Mr. Choi?" you replied.

"Do you have any plans for lunch?" he asked, his tone casual but with a hint of curiosity.

You paused for a moment, taken aback by the unexpected question. "Uh, no, not yet," you answered, trying to keep your voice steady. "Why?"

"Great. Come to my office, then. I’d like to discuss something with you," he said, before hanging up.

You knocked softly on Seungcheol's office door before stepping inside. He was sitting at his desk, looking as composed as ever, but there was a warmth in his expression when he saw you.

"Ms. Ji," he greeted, his voice smooth. "Come in. Have a seat."

You hesitated for a moment, then took a seat across from him. The silence lingered briefly before he spoke again, his tone more casual than usual.

"I was thinking, since it’s almost lunch hour, why don’t we go out and grab something to eat?" he suggested, leaning back in his chair slightly. "I’ll let you pick the place. Anywhere you want."

You blinked, caught off guard by the offer. This was... unexpected. Was he being genuine? Or was this just another one of his attempts to be "nice" when it suited him? You tried not to overthink it, but you couldn’t help the feeling of unease creeping in.

"You... want me to pick the place?" you asked, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure about that?"

He chuckled, the sound surprisingly warm. "Of course. I’m sure you know better than I do what’s good around here."

You thought for a moment. Choosing a lunch spot was something you usually did for Seungcheol, not with Seungcheol. Usually, lunch was a quick, impersonal affair—grab something from the café downstairs or eat at your desk. But today, the offer felt different. You couldn’t deny that a part of you was curious about what he was really up to.

"Alright, I’ll choose," you said, feeling a little bold. "But don’t say I didn’t warn you if it turns out to be something too casual for your taste."

Seungcheol raised his hands in mock surrender. "I’ll trust your judgment," he said with a grin. "Lead the way."

You nodded and stood up, your mind already racing through the possibilities of where to go.

"Thanks for the meal, Mr. Choi!" Mingyu cheered as he eagerly began inhaling his food, Jeonghan following suit with a satisfied hum. Seungcheol, however, sat at the head of the table with a polite but strained smile, poking at his food with none of Mingyu's enthusiasm.

You leaned closer, lowering your voice. "Is it to your liking, Mr. Choi?"

He sighed, briefly meeting your gaze before nodding curtly. "It’s fine," he replied, though his tone suggested otherwise.

It dawned on you too late that you might have misunderstood him earlier. When he said he wanted to have lunch, you assumed it was a casual team lunch with all the secretaries—Mingyu and Jeonghan included. So, you’d taken the liberty of booking a four-seat table at a decent restaurant and informing everyone.

You hadn’t noticed until now that Seungcheol’s face had been slightly sour since stepping out of his office.

"Is this one of those farewell lunches for Ms. Ji?" Mingyu asked innocently in the middle of the meal, completely oblivious to the tension brewing.

Everyone froze. Jeonghan shot Mingyu a sharp look, and you cringed, knowing full well your resignation was still a sensitive topic for Seungcheol. It had only been three weeks since your notice, and the new secretary-in-training was nowhere near your level of efficiency. No boss wanted to lose a competent staff member, especially not one they relied on as much as Seungcheol relied on you.

Seungcheol’s fork paused mid-air before he cleared his throat and shook his head. "If this were a farewell lunch, it would need to be much grander than this, don’t you think, Mr. Yoon?"

Jeonghan immediately nodded, catching on to the unspoken signal. "Absolutely, Mr. Choi. I’ll start planning one later. Ms. Ji has been with you for seven years—it’s only fitting to make it a big celebration."

Your eyes widened in surprise as you shook your head. "No, no. Really, there’s no need for that. It’s not exactly something to celebrate," you insisted, feeling a mix of awkwardness and guilt.

Seungcheol set down his fork and leaned back slightly, his gaze firmly on you. His lips curved into a small, enigmatic smile that sent a shiver down your spine. "Oh, don’t be like that, Ms. Ji. I’d like to treat you to something you’ll never forget."

You froze, feeling your face heat up at the deliberate weight of his words. Before you could process what he’d just said, you choked on your food, your eyes watering as you coughed violently. Jeonghan jumped into action, handing you a glass of water while Mingyu leaned forward in concern.

"Are you okay?" Mingyu asked, looking genuinely worried.

You nodded hastily, gulping down the water while avoiding Seungcheol’s gaze. Meanwhile, the man in question calmly resumed eating his meal, a subtle smirk tugging at the corners of his lips, as if he hadn’t just dropped that bombshell in front of his other staff.

Jeonghan and Mingyu exchanged curious glances, clearly aware that something unusual was going on. You, however, were too busy trying to regain your composure to notice. This lunch was not turning out the way you’d imagined.

"Ms. Ji... I'll drive you home," Seungcheol announced as he stepped out of his office, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

You glanced up, startled, and then looked around the empty office. Jeonghan and Mingyu had already left, leaving you alone to crosscheck everything before calling it a day. "I don’t think that’s a good idea, Mr. Choi. I’ll just take the bus," you replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

Seungcheol frowned, clearly displeased. "Why? The bus is going to be packed at this hour." He checked his watch, then shifted his gaze back to you. His expression softened, but his stance remained firm as he leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"And besides," he continued, his lips curving into an easy smile, "I want that dinner date. Just the two of us."

Your breath hitched before you could stop it. "Mr. Choi... I..." You trailed off, your brain scrambling to process his words. A dinner date? With him? The thought sent your heart racing in ways you didn’t want to admit.

He shrugged, utterly unbothered by your flustered state. "I told you, Ms. Ji, I’d like to be your date. I want to get to know you better," he said, his tone so casual it was almost maddening.

Then, as if he had just decided on the matter, he clapped his hands together and straightened up. "Alright then, I’ll book a restaurant for dinner. We can watch the sunset beforehand." Without waiting for your response, he turned on his heel and disappeared into his office, leaving you standing there, utterly baffled.

Dinner? Sunset? With your soon-to-be ex-boss? Your mind raced. This was either going to be the most surreal experience of your life—or a disaster waiting to happen.

*

No, no, no. This couldn’t be happening.

All the material for this morning’s meeting had disappeared from your computer, and to make matters worse, it seemed like your system had been attacked by a virus. Your computer was practically frozen and would need time to be repaired. Glancing at your watch, you realized there was only an hour left before the meeting started. Panic clawed at your chest as you made a beeline for Seungcheol’s office.

“I’m so sorry for disturbing you,” you blurted out, cutting into Seungcheol and Jeonghan’s morning conversation as you barged into the room, not bothering with pleasantries.

“What’s wrong, Ms. Ji?” Seungcheol asked, his brows furrowed in concern.

“My computer’s been attacked by a virus, and I can’t access the materials for the morning meeting. Is it okay if I use your computer, Mr. Choi?”

Without hesitation, Seungcheol stood from his chair, gesturing for you to take his place. “Go ahead.”

You quickly logged into his system and started searching, your fingers flying over the keyboard. But as you combed through his files, a sinking feeling settled in your stomach. “You can’t find it either?” Seungcheol’s voice broke the tense silence, sounding as baffled as you felt. “I’m sure I finalized the file and saved it. It should be here.”

“It’s gone,” you said grimly, turning to look at him. “Even the recycle bin is empty.”

“What about Mingyu? Does he have a backup?” Jeonghan asked as you all hurried out of Seungcheol’s office, heading to the workstation to regroup.

You shook your head in frustration. “I haven’t handed the final version over yet. Mingyu only manages the schedules and documents that need signing."

Jeonghan patted your shoulder sympathetically. “It’s okay, don’t panic. We’ll figure it out. We can finish this in 30 minutes if we work together.”

Taking a deep breath, you nodded and sat at Jeonghan’s desk, taking over his computer. Opening the last version of the file, you began revising it at a frantic pace. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me lately,” you muttered, your fingers trembling slightly as you typed. “Maybe I’ve been too distracted.”

Jeonghan shook his head, offering a small smile. “You’ve been juggling so much; it’s bound to happen. Just focus—we’ve got this.”

The clock ticked closer to the meeting time, and the pressure mounted. Mingyu darted into the room, his face lined with worry. “The printer broke down,” he said apologetically. “She’s trying to fix it, but it’ll take at least five more minutes.”

Jeonghan let out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Great. Just what we needed.”

In the meeting room, heads of departments and their assistants were already seated, shuffling in their chairs as they sipped coffee and waited. Mingyu quickly returned, distributing refreshments in an effort to keep them placated.

“Is everything settled?” Seungcheol asked as Jeonghan re-entered his office, his voice calm but tinged with impatience.

“I’m afraid we’ll need to delay the meeting. It’s taking longer than expected to fix everything,” Jeonghan admitted.

Seungcheol nodded thoughtfully, glancing at his watch. “Announce to everyone that the meeting will start in fifteen minutes. I’ll handle the delay personally.”

Jeonghan gave a quick nod, rushing out to relay the message, while you continued frantically typing at Jeonghan’s desk. Though the tension was palpable, you reminded yourself to stay calm. There wasn’t any room for error now.

“Focus, Ms. Ji,” you whispered to yourself, steeling your nerves as you worked against the clock.

“The meeting is delayed for 15 minutes, and you printed out the wrong document?” Mr. Park, the head of the marketing department, raised his voice, his tone cutting through the tense air as you handed out the material.

You froze, glancing down at the section he was pointing at. Your heart dropped when you realized he was right. The document you printed wasn’t their presentation—it was entirely unrelated. You were sure it was the correct file when you sent it to print, but now, staring at it, there was no denying the mistake.

“I’m so sorry. I’ll fix it imme—”

Before you could finish, Mr. Park threw the paper onto the table with a loud thud. “This is unacceptable! How do we expect to run a successful meeting with this level of incompetence? I knew something like this would happen when they decided to overburden the director’s secretary team instead of hiring specialized staff for each department.”

You flinched at his words, bowing your head in shame. Whispers broke out among the other heads of departments. Some seemed to agree with Mr. Park, nodding subtly, while others exchanged concerned looks.

The door opened, and Seungcheol stepped in, his commanding presence making everyone rise to their feet. His sharp eyes scanned the room, immediately locking onto you, standing there with your head lowered, tension radiating off your frame. Papers were scattered across the table, a clear sign of discord.

Seungcheol’s gaze flicked to Mingyu, who leaned in to whisper a quick explanation. As Seungcheol listened, his jaw tightened briefly before he nodded. Straightening his posture, he addressed the room with a calm but authoritative tone.

“Thank you so much, Ms. Ji, for your hard work,” he began, his voice cutting through the silence like a knife. “Someone from the marketing department, please accompany Ms. Ji to ensure the correct material is printed this time.”

His eyes shifted to Mr. Park, who immediately lowered his gaze, uncomfortable under Seungcheol’s direct attention. “It takes patience to get things right,” Seungcheol added, his tone firm but controlled, “and patience is something we all need to practice.”

You felt a rush of gratitude and embarrassment as Seungcheol diffused the situation, taking the spotlight off you. Nodding quickly, you turned to one of the marketing assistants, signaling them to follow you out of the room.

As you left, Seungcheol’s calm but commanding words lingered in the room, leaving no space for further criticism. Instead, the atmosphere shifted as everyone quietly reorganized themselves for the meeting ahead.

*

"You're not taking lunch," Seungcheol observed as he stepped out of his office, heading to grab a meal. He glanced around, noticing that both Mingyu and Jeonghan were nowhere to be seen—they must have left already, leaving you alone.

You shook your head, adjusting your posture in your seat. "I’m fine, Mr. Choi," you replied, your face carefully composed with professional restraint.

Seungcheol frowned slightly but took a few steps closer, leaning his frame casually against the edge of your desk. "Is it because of what happened this morning?" he asked, his tone softer now.

You hesitated before shrugging, unable to completely mask the frustration bubbling under your calm exterior. "I mean... I can’t just shake it off like nothing happened. And honestly, I’m sorry for messing up like that."

He crossed his arms and tilted his head, studying your face. "This is the first time, isn’t it?"

You sighed, running a hand through your hair. "I can’t believe it myself. Seven years without a major mistake, and then this happens," you muttered, more to yourself than him.

Seungcheol let out a quiet chuckle, the sound both warm and reassuring. "That’s an improvement, then. No one goes seven years without a single mistake—it just means you’re human."

You glanced up at him, your lips curving into a faint, tired smile. "And that’s exactly the point, Mr. Choi. I’ve set a standard for myself, and now I’ve blown it. Maybe Mr. Park was right—I might really be incompetent."

His expression hardened at your words, and he straightened slightly. "That’s not how I see it, Ms. Ji," he said firmly. "Whatever Mr. Park said has no bearing on your competence. I supervise you, and I know the quality of your work better than anyone here."

His confidence in you was disarming, and you found yourself relaxing just a little under his steady gaze. "Thank you, Mr. Choi. That means more than you realize," you admitted softly, your voice almost breaking with relief.

Seungcheol glanced at his watch and then back at you. "We’ve got thirty minutes left before the break ends," he said thoughtfully. His eyes softened, and a small smile tugged at his lips. "What do you say we grab some sandwiches together? My treat."

The offer caught you off guard. You blinked up at him, unsure whether to accept or refuse. "Are you sure?" you asked cautiously, not wanting to impose.

"Positive," he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "You’ve been beating yourself up all morning. A good sandwich and some fresh air might do you good. Come on."

With a reluctant but grateful nod, you stood up. For the first time since the chaotic meeting earlier, you felt a flicker of comfort creeping back into your day.

"I thought we were going to sit down and eat," you said, taking a bite of your sandwich while walking back to the company building.

Seungcheol’s suit had been left behind in his office, leaving him in a dark grey dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His tie was loosened slightly, giving him an unexpectedly casual air as he took a bite of his own sandwich. He shook his head at your comment, chewing quickly. "We don’t have time for that," he said, his voice muffled.

You giggled at the sight of him, noticing a crumb stuck on his cheek. "You’ve got something on your face," you said, pointing.

He immediately tried to wipe it off but missed.

"Here, let me," you offered, stepping closer. Without a second thought, you used a napkin to gently clean his cheek. Your fingers brushed his skin briefly, and Seungcheol froze mid-chew, his eyes locking on yours.

"All clean," you said, stepping back with a smile before taking another bite of your sandwich, oblivious to the faint blush creeping up his neck.

"I told you not to call me Mr. Choi when we’re outside," he teased, trying to mask his flustered expression.

You laughed softly, shaking your head. "It’s weird to call you casually when I’ve been calling you Mr. Choi for the past seven years."

Seungcheol’s expression shifted slightly, a thoughtful look settling on his face. "Last night," he began, his voice softer now. "When you told me why you don’t drive anymore…"

Your steps faltered for a moment, but he stopped completely at the crosswalk as the pedestrian signal turned red.

"Did it happen here?" he asked gently, his eyes scanning the intersection.

You nodded, the food in your hand suddenly feeling much heavier. The memory, though buried, resurfaced vividly as if it had happened yesterday.

Seven years ago. You’d just started working with Seungcheol after his father had passed away, and the transition had been anything but smooth. Unlike his father, Seungcheol had seemed colder, more distant. His way of doing things clashed with what you were used to, and the tension in the secretary team had been palpable—especially for you.

That morning, your car had broken down, and you’d decided to walk to get Seungcheol’s favorite coffee. You were already flustered, trying to make a good impression despite your frustrations with him. Then, everything changed.

You had witnessed it—a car collision right before your eyes. The screeching tires, the bone-chilling sound of impact, the desperate cries of onlookers. And then, the blood. You still remembered how it splattered onto your blouse and face, how your legs had frozen in place, unable to move.

"Y/n? Where are you? We have a meeting in an hour, and Mr. Choi has been asking for his coffee," Jeonghan had called, his voice impatient through the phone.

You’d managed to drag yourself to the office after buying a new blouse, your hands trembling the entire time. Yet, instead of compassion, you’d been met with Seungcheol’s sharp reprimand for forgetting his coffee. The sting of that moment had stayed with you for years.

And now, you couldn’t believe you had shared it all with him last night, over casual conversation, when he’d asked why you no longer drove.

The pedestrian signal turned green, snapping you out of your thoughts. But before you could move, a hand gently gripped yours.

Seungcheol’s warm fingers curled around yours, grounding you in the present. He led you across the road, his pace steady, his grip firm yet comforting.

You glanced at him, surprised by the gesture. His gaze remained forward, focused on the path ahead. Yet, the warmth of his hand in yours spoke volumes, a quiet reassurance that lingered even after you’d crossed the street.

*

The complaints began to pour in like an unrelenting tide. Every time you opened your inbox, you found more emails from department heads, their tone varying from formal discontent to outright disdain. Words like incompetence, unprofessional, and unacceptable were repeated so often they seemed to blur together, creating a cloud of frustration and doubt in your mind.

What made it worse were the thinly veiled accusations of favoritism. Several emails implied that Seungcheol’s supposed bias toward you was undermining the secretary team’s performance and credibility. The insinuation was like a dagger, cutting into the team’s morale and creating an atmosphere heavy with unease.

It wasn’t long before you noticed the shift among your colleagues. Mingyu, usually cheerful and talkative, had grown quieter. His usual playful remarks were absent during lunch breaks, replaced by an awkward silence. Even Jeonghan, who always maintained an easygoing demeanor, seemed troubled, though he tried to hide it behind his usual smirks and teasing words.

“Ignore those emails,” Jeonghan said one afternoon, leaning against your desk. He spoke casually, but his eyes held a seriousness that betrayed his concern. “It’s the marketing department stirring up trouble again. They’ve been trying to undermine the secretary team for years.”

You glanced at him, startled. “Why would they do that? What do they have to gain?”

Jeonghan shrugged, his lips curling into a bitter smile. “Power dynamics, politics, control—you name it. Ever since Mr. Choi took over, the marketing department hasn’t been happy. They thrived under his father’s management because they were given more autonomy, but Mr. Choi’s stricter policies clipped their wings. They’ve been retaliating ever since.”

“And we’re caught in the middle,” you murmured, feeling the weight of the situation settle over you.

Jeonghan nodded. “Exactly. They’re using the secretary team as a scapegoat to make Mr. Choi look bad. And now that they’ve noticed how close you and him seem lately, they’re exploiting it to fuel their narrative.”

Your stomach churned at his words. The accusations weren’t just baseless; they were carefully orchestrated attacks designed to destabilize the entire team.

“But what can we do?” you asked, your voice tinged with helplessness. “If this continues, it’ll ruin our reputation—and Mr. Choi’s.”

Jeonghan leaned closer, lowering his voice. “We fight back, but carefully. First, we need to fix the immediate issues—no more mistakes, no more complaints. Then, we gather evidence. If we can prove the marketing department is behind this sabotage, we’ll turn the tables on them.”

Seungcheol walked you to your door after he drove you home, his steps calm but purposeful. "You don’t have to worry about all the complaints," he said, his voice smooth, but there was a knowing look in his eyes as he bid you goodbye.

"You saw them too?" you asked, your voice a little strained from the weight of it all. He nodded with a small grin. "Receiving complaints is part of my job, you know," he teased, throwing you a wink as if he were trying to make light of the situation.

"So you know they’re all from Mr. Park’s people?" you asked, unable to hide the slight bitterness in your voice.

He smiled, that reassuring smile of his. "I told you, you don’t have to worry about that," he said, his tone confident, almost as if he already had everything under control.

You lowered your head, feeling the weight of it all. You were involved now, and the rumors were only growing. Whispers of your relationship with him were circulating the office, and worse, someone had posted pictures of the two of you on the company community page. It felt impossible to escape.

Seungcheol seemed to sense your unease. "Hey," he said, his voice gentle, "it’s just a month left before you leave. A little plot twist will make it great, right?" His words were meant to lighten the mood, and you couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought.

He reached for your hand, giving it a comforting squeeze. "We’ll be fine. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry."

You hesitated for a moment, then asked, "You want to come inside?" You bit your lip, unsure of how he’d respond. Would he take the offer seriously, or was it too much, too soon?

After a brief pause, he sent a quick message to his driver. Moments later, he was already seated on your couch, his suit jacket and tie discarded, his sleeves rolled up casually.

"I expect this kind of vibe," Seungcheol remarked as his eyes wandered around your apartment, taking in the cozy space. His gaze lingered on everything, from the soft lighting to the quiet hum of your personal sanctuary.

"Two rooms?" he asked, a curious glint in his eyes. You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.

"Sometimes my brother visits. He lives in a dorm, but he stays here on his days off," you explained, your voice casual, but you felt a little self-conscious explaining it. You weren't sure why, but it felt like you were giving him a piece of your personal life you hadn’t shared with anyone before.

"He's still training for the national team?" Seungcheol asked, and you looked at him, surprised that he remembered.

"You remembered?" you asked, your voice soft with disbelief.

Seungcheol nodded, his smile warm. "Of course, it’s you."

It was a casual evening after work, everyone gathered in the break room. Jeonghan and Seungcheol had just returned from a trip, and he couldn’t wait to share some exciting news.

"My sister just got accepted into one of the top companies!" Jeonghan had announced, beaming with pride. "We’re celebrating this weekend!"

The team cheered, raising their glasses in a toast. It was a happy moment, and you couldn’t help but feel a little nostalgic for the simplicity of those times.

Seungcheol had joined in, his voice nonchalant but with a hint of pride. "My brother decided to go into the culinary field instead of business," he had mentioned. "Can you believe it? A chef, not a businessman."

You’d overheard it all, and for some reason, it had stayed with you—how casually everyone shared their family stories, how different yet similar your lives were.

Seungcheol’s voice broke through your thoughts. "Do you have siblings, Ms. Ji?" he asked, his tone playful, though there was a touch of curiosity beneath the words.

"She has a brother," Jeonghan had added once, with a wink. "Do you know Ji Chang Wook, the former football player? That’s her brother."

Seungcheol raised his eyebrows, clearly surprised. "Really?" he asked, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and admiration.

You nodded shyly. "He now works for the national team as their coach."

Seungcheol’s eyes softened, impressed. "That’s incredible," he said. "You’re surrounded by greatness."

You smiled at his words, feeling a swell of pride for your brother. As the conversation shifted back to the present, you placed a glass of iced tea on the coffee table for Seungcheol before settling back onto the couch next to him.

"How am i as a boyfriend?" Seungcheol suddenly asked, his question coming out of nowhere. You let out a soft chuckle at his unexpected inquiry. His gaze was playful, yet there was something deeper beneath it, as if he was genuinely waiting for your answer.

You paused, thinking about how to answer. "I don’t know that you’d be willing to go down with a mere secretary staff like me, Mr. Choi," you teased, trying to mask the flutter of uncertainty in your chest.

Seungcheol rolled his eyes at the "Mr. Choi." He had been correcting you ever since the beginning, insisting you call him Seungcheol.

"Can I ask you a question?" you asked, your voice tentative. He nodded, leaning in slightly, his expression serious.

"Why were you being an asshole at the beginning?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them. It wasn’t the most delicate way to phrase it, but you couldn’t help yourself.

Seungcheol closed his eyes, clearly not thrilled about being reminded of his past behavior. "I was a lowly bastard, wasn’t I?" he admitted, his voice quiet, almost regretful. "I’m sorry... I was just very insecure."

"Insecure?" you repeated, surprised by his honesty.

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his lips as he reached out to brush a stray hair from your face. "My father passed away, and my brother didn’t want to take over the business. I didn’t have enough experience to rule a company. I was just trying to figure things out."

You blinked, caught off guard. "I had no idea about that."

Seungcheol nodded again, his gaze softening. "I made sure no one knew about it. But I broke down at one point, and Jeonghan helped me a lot. You did, too. You always did your best at work. But I just..." He trailed off, his fingers grazing your skin as he continued, "I didn’t want to get distracted by you. Maybe that’s why I treated you so badly."

You furrowed your brow in confusion. "Distracted? By me? How come?" You chuckled, still processing the idea. Was it really possible?

Seungcheol’s smile deepened, and his gaze softened. "I used to like you a lot. My father always spoke highly of you, and I couldn’t help but admire you."

"No way," you whispered, your eyes widening in disbelief.

"I’m serious," he said, his voice steady and sincere. "You were always shining at that desk of yours."

You laughed, the sound a mix of disbelief and warmth. "Since when?" you asked, your curiosity piqued.

"Since you visited my house," he said, his tone turning nostalgic. "I saw how you treated my father—so professional, yet so graceful. I tried to find a secretary like you, but I guess there’s only one of you."

Your heart skipped a beat as you looked at him, the realization settling in. Despite all the tension and confusion, there was something undeniably genuine about his words, and for the first time in a while, it felt like things between you and Seungcheol might finally be falling into place.

Seungcheol leaned in closer, his eyes fixed on your lips, the moment growing more intimate with every passing second. Just as you felt your breath hitch, the sound of someone punching in the passcode to your door broke the tension, startling both of you.

“Y/n! I brought some—” The baritone voice trailed off abruptly as the door swung open, revealing a tall, broad-shouldered man carrying two plastic bags. His steps halted, and his eyes widened as he took in the scene before him. His sister, tangled up with a stranger on the couch, looking far too close for comfort.

You and Seungcheol scrambled apart, both of you stumbling to your feet as if caught red-handed.

“Did I interrupt something?” the man asked, his tone sharp and accusatory. His gaze darted between you and Seungcheol before settling on you. “Who’s this, Y/n?”

Your cheeks flushed with embarrassment as you tried to compose yourself. “Uh... this is Choi Seungcheol, my... my boss,” you stammered, your voice barely above a whisper.

Seungcheol extended a hand, his expression polite and composed despite the awkwardness of the situation. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m—”

“Your boss?” the man interrupted, completely ignoring the handshake. His eyes narrowed as he turned his attention back to you. “He’s the one who made you work overtime and miss my birthday?”

You froze. Shoot. You had vented about Seungcheol to your brother countless times, never expecting him to meet the man himself.

“Oppa, it’s not like that,” you tried to explain, but your brother wasn’t having it.

“You talked ill of him to me all the time,” Changwook said, his tone laced with disbelief and a hint of anger. His grip on your arm tightened slightly as he pulled you further away from Seungcheol. “Why is he here now? In your apartment?”

Your mind raced, searching for an explanation that wouldn’t make things worse. “We’re... umm...” You waved your hands in the air helplessly, your words failing you.

Seungcheol, however, didn’t hesitate. “I’m her boyfriend,” he said firmly, his voice steady and confident as he stepped forward.

Your eyes widened in shock at his bold declaration. “That’s—” you started, but the words died in your throat as your brother’s gaze hardened, his protective instincts kicking in.

“Boyfriend?” Changwook echoed, his voice filled with skepticism as he gave Seungcheol a once-over. “Since when? And why am I just now hearing about this?”

You cringed inwardly, feeling trapped between Seungcheol’s unexpected claim and your brother’s scrutiny. The fact that you’d spent months complaining about Seungcheol didn’t help. How did I end up here?

“Changwook, calm down,” you said, trying to diffuse the situation. “It’s... new.”

“New?” your brother repeated, his frown deepening as his eyes bored into you. “How new? And why would you date your boss of all people? Especially someone you’ve always badmouthed?”

You felt the blood drain from your face. You’re dead, your mind screamed at you, but before you could even attempt a defense, your brother turned to you with an authoritative wave of his hand.

“Go to your room,” Changwook said firmly, his tone brooking no argument. “This is a men’s conversation.”

*

You were trapped between two drunken men. Changwook, still pouring himself another shot of soju, mumbled incoherently about everything under the sun, while Seungcheol, clearly in no better condition, had his head dropped onto your shoulder. The weight of him was comforting yet overwhelming, especially with the alcohol fumes wafting off him.

"Our Y/n couldn’t drink dairy, so you have to make sure her latte is always with oat milk,” Changwook slurred, his words slightly jumbled as he tried to sit up straight. He pointed a wobbly finger at Seungcheol as though delivering a life-or-death instruction.

Seungcheol gasped dramatically, his head lifting momentarily before snuggling back into the crook of your neck. “Our Y/n can’t handle dairy? Oh my god, poor Y/n!” His words came out in a hushed, exaggerated whisper. “I’ll buy you tons of oat milk, Y/n. Gallons of it! So you’ll never, ever get a stomachache again!”

You tried to suppress your laugh, but a chuckle escaped as Seungcheol tightened his arms around your waist, nuzzling into your neck like a sleepy puppy. He smelled like soju mixed with the faint remnants of his cologne—a mix that somehow still made your heart skip.

“Alright, Mr. Gallant Knight,” you murmured, brushing his hair back gently. “Let’s get you home before you start a crusade against all dairy products.”

“Nooo,” Seungcheol whined softly, his voice muffled against your skin. “Let me stay here. I promise I won’t do anything! I’ll sleep on the floor if I have to, cross my heart.”

You shook your head, unable to contain your amusement. He was far too cute like this. “Alright, fine,” you relented with a small smile. “But we’re at least getting you into bed. Let’s get up on the count of three, okay?”

Seungcheol groaned in protest, but you felt him adjust slightly, his arms loosening around your waist.

“One,” you began, bracing yourself. “Two… three—"

You tried to pull him up, but Seungcheol, true to his drunken state, flopped back onto the couch like a boneless doll.

“Too heavy,” he mumbled, pouting. “You have to help me, Y/n. I’m weak, but you’re strong.”

“Strong?” you repeated with a laugh. “What are you even talking about? You’re twice my size!”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol replied, his tone overly serious. “That’s why you’re amazing. You’re tiny but mighty.”

From across the room, Changwook let out a grunt as he finally rose from his seat, wobbling slightly before glaring at Seungcheol. “Stop flirting with my sister, you lightweight,” he muttered, pointing a finger at him before stumbling toward his room. “And don’t you dare think about sharing a bed with her!”

“Noted, Coach Ji,” Seungcheol mumbled sleepily, waving his hand in the air.

You sighed, shaking your head as you tugged at Seungcheol’s arm again. “Come on, big guy. Let’s at least get you lying down before Changwook comes back with a lecture.”

Seungcheol finally complied, leaning heavily on you as you helped him to your room. “Thanks, Y/n,” he murmured, his voice soft. “You’re the best.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, rolling your eyes but smiling nonetheless. “Just don’t puke on my bed, okay?”

“I’d never,” he promised, his words slurring as he flopped onto your mattress, instantly dozing off.

You sighed again, pulling a blanket over him before retreating to the couch. As you settled in, you couldn’t help but smile at the chaos that was your life—and at the man now snoring softly in your bed.

“Where’s Mr. Choi? He’s not here yet?” Mingyu’s voice broke the usual morning buzz of the office. He glanced around, noting the conspicuous absence of the boss. It was already 8 a.m., and Mr. Choi was typically seated at his desk by 7:45, meticulously reviewing his schedule or flipping through a book.

Jeonghan checked his watch and frowned. “I know, right? He hasn’t called or texted me either. Do you think he’s sick or something?” he wondered aloud, a hint of concern creeping into his tone.

“He’s late,” you mumbled, barely glancing up from your phone as you replied.

“How do you know that?!” Mingyu and Jeonghan exclaimed in unison, their voices tinged with surprise.

“He texted me,” you replied nonchalantly, still focused on your phone.

Mingyu’s jaw dropped, and he pouted, looking genuinely hurt. “He texted you? But not me? He still doesn’t trust me with his schedule. What if he hates me?” he whined, the last part almost a whisper.

You chuckled softly, grabbing a stack of documents from your desk and placing them in front of him. “That’s why I’m tutoring you today. We’re going over how to prepare presentation materials and manage other tasks.”

Mingyu sighed dramatically but couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at his lips. “Alright…” He reluctantly took the documents, the pout still lingering on his face, but his determination to improve was clear.

Suddenly, Jeonghan’s voice interrupted the moment. “Oh…”

Both you and Mingyu turned toward him, brows furrowed. “What’s wrong?” you asked, stepping over to Jeonghan’s desk.

Jeonghan didn’t answer immediately, his eyes fixed on his computer screen. His lips pressed into a thin line as he stared at something. Curiosity got the better of you, and you leaned in to look.

On the screen was a post from the company’s internal community. The headline read, “Mr. Park Is Caught!” Beneath it was a photo of Seungcheol standing in the marketing department alongside the head of HR.

Your brows knitted together. “What’s that supposed to mean? Is Mr. Choi investigating him behind our backs?”

Jeonghan bit his lip, his gaze still glued to the screen. “Looks like it…” he murmured.

You quickly scanned the comments below the post. Employees from the marketing department were sharing snippets of gossip. Someone had claimed that Mr. Park had been caught falsifying records and embezzling departmental funds.

Mingyu, who had walked over to peek at the screen, let out a low whistle. “Wow. I didn’t think Mr. Park would actually get caught.”

You frowned, a mix of surprise and worry swirling in your chest. “He didn’t mention any of this to us,” you said softly, almost to yourself.

Jeonghan finally looked away from the screen, his expression thoughtful. “If he’s handling this personally, it must be serious.”

Mingyu crossed his arms, tilting his head. “Well, if Mr. Park’s really guilty, it’s good that Mr. Choi’s taking action. But why keep it so secretive? I mean, we’re his team.”

Jeonghan sighed and leaned back in his chair. “It’s probably because this involves embezzlement. You know how sensitive that kind of accusation is. He probably didn’t want anyone tipping Mr. Park off before he had solid evidence.”

You nodded slowly, processing everything. “Still, I hope Mr. Choi’s being careful. This kind of situation can get messy.”

Jeonghan gave you a knowing look but didn’t say anything. Mingyu, however, turned to you with a cheeky grin. “Wow, you’re so concerned about him. Are you sure you’re not his girlfriend”

You shot him a glare, heat rising to your cheeks. “Shut up and get back to your documents, Mingyu.”

He laughed, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. But seriously, I’m curious how this all plays out.”

Jeonghan nodded, his gaze returning to the screen. “Me too. If Mr. Park’s really guilty, this could shake things up in the company.”

You bit your lip, silently hoping Seungcheol would return soon—with answers.

Seungcheol’s arrival on the floor sent a wave of tension through the secretary team. His usual composed demeanor was even more rigid than usual, and without wasting a second, he summoned Jeonghan into his office. The atmosphere was thick with curiosity and unease, but you kept your head down, silently supervising Mingyu as he prepared materials for tomorrow’s meeting with all the department heads.

“So, what’s Mr. Park’s status now?” Mingyu asked, flipping through a document from the marketing department. His voice was casual, but his eyes betrayed his curiosity.

You shook your head. “I don’t know, Mingyu, and honestly, I don’t want to fill my head with too much right now. I’m leaving this company in a week, remember?”

Mingyu sighed, setting his pen down. “Yeah, I remember… But you know what? As much as I believe in myself, I can’t help but worry. What if I can’t replace you?”

You gave him a reassuring smile and patted his shoulder. “Don’t worry, Mingyu. It took me seven years to get to where I am. You’ll get there too.”

Mingyu bit his lip, nodding. “You’re right… You’re really good at comforting people, Ms. Ji,” he said playfully, his usual pout returning.

You laughed. “Of course, I am! Now, finish this and send it to me before lunch.”

Just then, Jeonghan stepped out of Seungcheol’s office, his expression unreadable. The entire team turned their attention to him as he cleared his throat.

“Mr. Park has officially been fired as of today. HR has concluded the investigation, and with all the evidence gathered, there was no room for negotiation. A replacement needs to be found as soon as possible. There’s already a potential candidate, but the final decision still needs to be made.”

A murmur spread across the room, but before you could react, Jeonghan turned to you. “Can we talk in private, Y/n?”

You blinked at him but nodded, following him to the pantry. The moment the door shut behind you, Jeonghan exhaled deeply, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Mr. Choi mentioned your name as the potential head of the marketing department.”

Your eyes widened. “What do you mean?”

Jeonghan sighed, looking at you seriously. “I know it’s sudden, but he has his reasons. And honestly? After hearing him out, I found myself agreeing with him.” He still seemed surprised at himself for admitting that.

“But… next week is my last day!” you protested, your voice rising slightly in disbelief.

Jeonghan placed a firm grip on your arms, steadying you. “Listen to me—HR and Mr. Choi are definitely going to call you soon. You need to prepare yourself.”

You let out a frustrated sigh. “That’s too much responsibility! You know I was planning to travel across Asia after this.”

Jeonghan chuckled, shaking his head. “And that’s what you’re most worried about, huh?” His tone was amused, but there was also a hint of admiration in his eyes. “Look, whatever decision you make, I’ll support you. But just think about it, alright?”

Your mind was already spinning with the weight of the unexpected offer. A promotion just as you were about to leave? It was almost ironic.

"Ms. Ji, can you come to my office for a sec?"

You nearly jumped from your seat at the sudden sound of Seungcheol’s voice filling the secretary team’s office. The room fell silent as all eyes darted toward him. He stood behind his office door, only half of his body visible as he peeked outside, waiting for you.

You stole a glance at Jeonghan, who was already looking at you, his expression unreadable but his eyes silently sending you a thousand words of encouragement. You sighed, smoothing down your blazer before standing up and making your way to Seungcheol’s office.

The moment you stepped inside, you noticed that the blinds had been down since this morning. You figured after the confrontation with Mr. Park, he must have needed some privacy.

"Mr. Choi," you called his name softly as you stopped in front of his desk.

Without a word, Seungcheol handed you a file. You hesitated for a moment before taking it, flipping it open to find pages upon pages of evidence—proof of Mr. Park’s embezzlement during his tenure as the head of the marketing department. Your brows furrowed. This file was supposed to be confidential, a matter strictly between him and HR. So why was he showing it to you? Especially when you were set to leave in just a week?

"You told me about this last night," he said, his voice calm but firm.

Your mind raced back to your conversation with him the night before. You had mentioned it—your suspicions about the marketing department’s financial discrepancies. You had noticed missing reports from the past two years that didn’t sit right with you. And despite your reluctance, you had handed him the findings you had gathered over time.

Wait.

Your eyes flickered up to Seungcheol, your expression shifting. "You weren’t drunk?"

He smirked, leaning against the edge of his desk. "I was just acting."

Your breath hitched as the realization hit you. The way he had suddenly become lighter when he was supposedly dead weight on your shoulder last night. The way he had pulled you aside, listening intently as you spoke about the missing reports.

You didn’t remember much about how the conversation had unfolded, but somehow, in that moment, you had found the courage to show him everything.

"And you were right," Seungcheol continued, pulling out another document from his desk—your resignation letter.

Your heartbeat quickened.

"I have an offer for you," he said, his eyes never leaving yours. "Be our new head of the marketing department."

Silence hung in the air.

You stood frozen, the weight of his words sinking in.

"You’re probably the only person who knows the ins and outs of the marketing department better than anyone else," he reasoned, his voice steady. And he wasn’t wrong. You had spent the past seven years collecting reports, reviewing files, and meticulously studying every department before handing them over to him. You knew how the department functioned, where its strengths and weaknesses lay.

But despite the logic in his argument, you couldn’t bring yourself to answer. Not now. It was too sudden, too unexpected. You knew Seungcheol always had a plan—he never made decisions lightly. But the real question was, were you ready for more?

"What do you think, Ms. Ji?" His voice was softer now, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

You swallowed, taking a deep breath before finally speaking. "I’ll think about it, sir."

Seungcheol studied you for a moment, his expression unreadable, before nodding. "Alright. You can go back."

That was your cue to leave. You turned on your heels, stepping out of his office, your mind a whirlwind of thoughts.

Why did everything suddenly lead to this?

*

"Want to talk about it?" Seungcheol’s voice was soft as he cuddled you close, his warmth seeping into your skin. His hand moved lazily through your hair, fingers tracing slow, comforting patterns.

He had invited you over tonight after you received a text from your brother, letting you know he was having friends over. You hadn’t wanted to be home with all the noise, and without asking too many questions, Seungcheol had offered his place. Now, nestled against him, your head resting on his shoulder and your arm draped around his torso, you felt the weight of the day pressing down on you.

"I'm all ears," he murmured, sensing your hesitation about his earlier offer.

Doubt flickered through you before you finally spoke. "Are you..." You hesitated. "Are you going to listen to me as my boss or as my boyfriend?"

Seungcheol hummed thoughtfully. "I'll decide after."

His answer caught you off guard. It sounded too neutral, almost detached, and something about it stung more than you expected. Without thinking, you shifted away from him, turning your back.

"Hey," Seungcheol's arm immediately wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against him. His grip was firm yet gentle, grounding.

"Tell me, baby," he coaxed, his breath warm against the back of your neck. "I'll listen to you as your partner. Go ahead."

Slowly, you turned back to face him, meeting his steady gaze. "I don’t want to accept the offer."

Seungcheol said nothing, only watching you carefully, his fingers tightening slightly on your waist, a silent sign that he was listening.

"It’s too much for me," you admitted. "A big responsibility. And I don’t think I’m cut out for that—I’m not that passionate about it."

Seungcheol frowned. "You're a very passionate person, Y/n."

You shook your head. "Not about this. Not anymore." A deep sigh left your lips. "I'm tired of working, Cheol. I just want to travel the world, maybe get a job with less responsibility. Something that doesn’t drain me like this."

Seungcheol remained quiet, his dark eyes locked onto yours, absorbing every word. His fingers traced absentminded circles on your waist, a silent reminder that he was there, that he heard you.

"I need a break," you whispered, voice barely audible. "Before I break."

Something flickered in Seungcheol’s expression—regret, concern, maybe even guilt. He pressed a gentle kiss to your temple. "I’m sorry," he murmured, his lips lingering for a moment. "I didn’t realize how much you’ve been carrying. And I—" He exhaled sharply. "I’ve been a jerk, haven’t I?"

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "I think I wore myself out, Cheol. I hit my limit."

Seungcheol nodded, his thumb brushing along your cheek. "Then you should rest. You need to rest. Or else you’re going to—"

"Explode," you finished for him, smiling faintly. "Like when I called you drunk months ago."

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, the tension in the air easing. "I should thank your drunk self. If not for that, I wouldn’t have known my secretary wanted me to be her date.

You rolled your eyes, fingers threading through his hair. "That’s what you took from that?"

He grinned. "Well, that, and the fact that you can’t handle your alcohol."

You swatted his arm playfully, and he caught your wrist, tugging you closer.

"I just want to stay home for a while," you murmured, your voice softer now. "Do things I actually enjoy. Maybe pick up a hobby. Get a pet." You sighed as if the mere thought of it was a relief. "And none of it involves going back to work anytime soon."

Seungcheol studied you, a small smile tugging at his lips. "You sound like a good wife."

You chuckled, raising a brow. "I would make a good wife."

His eyes twinkled with mischief. "Really?"

Before you could answer, he tackled you onto the bed, his hands finding your sides as he tickled you mercilessly. Laughter filled the room as you squirmed beneath him, the weight of your earlier worries momentarily forgotten.

Your heart raced as Seungcheol hovered above you, his eyes dark with warmth and something deeper—something that made your breath hitch. His weight against you was comforting rather than overwhelming, his presence grounding.

"You tried my cooking earlier," you teased, giggling when he trailed soft kisses across your face—your forehead, your cheek, the tip of your nose. Each touch was featherlight, sending a shiver down your spine.

Seungcheol hummed in agreement, his lips brushing against your skin as he whispered, "You’ll make a good wife."

Before you could react, he closed the distance, capturing your lips in a kiss—slow and deliberate, as if savoring every second. His hand cradled your cheek, thumb stroking gently, while his other arm held you firmly against him, as if he never wanted to let go.

And in that moment, nothing else mattered.

*

It was your favorite place—a simple barbecue restaurant where you and Jeonghan used to have dinner together during your early years at the company. The scent of grilled meat filled the air, blending with the warmth of laughter and chatter. Tonight, the atmosphere buzzed with a mix of celebration and bittersweet goodbyes as everyone gathered for your farewell party.

Seated around the long wooden tables were your colleagues—the secretary team members, department representatives, and even a few unexpected guests. Among them was Seungcheol, his presence instantly commanding attention. It was rare to see him at casual company gatherings like this, and his attendance left many curious. But since it was you—one of his most trusted employees—who was leaving, everyone assumed that was the reason he sat beside you, his presence a quiet yet significant statement.

After a while, you stood, clearing your throat as conversations died down. With a grateful smile, you delivered your speech—thanking everyone for their support, for the years of teamwork and shared challenges, and apologizing for any moments you might have fallen short.

When you finished, the room erupted into cheers and applause, glasses raised in a heartfelt toast. Laughter followed, but beneath it all was an unspoken truth: this chapter was ending, and things would never quite be the same again.

Seungcheol cleared his throat, the deep sound cutting through the lingering laughter and drawing everyone's attention like a switch had been flipped. Conversations faded, and all eyes turned to him.

He sat upright, his expression composed yet sincere. "First of all, I want to thank Ms. Ji for her hard work all these years," he began, his voice steady but carrying weight. "She’s been one of the most dedicated people in this company, and honestly, it’s hard to imagine this place without her. We’re losing not just a talented employee but also someone who made things run smoother for all of us."

A murmur of agreement swept through the group, and you felt a mix of pride and guilt settle in your chest.

Seungcheol glanced at you briefly before continuing. "And... I also want to take this chance to apologize," he said, his tone softening. "For any unnecessary pressure, for the late nights, for expecting too much sometimes. I know I wasn’t always the easiest boss to work with."

You shook your head slightly, about to reassure him, but before you could say anything, he inhaled deeply and, with absolute confidence, added,

"Also, since we’re all here, I think now’s a good time to make an announcement."

You frowned, confused, and Jeonghan—who was sipping his drink beside you—arched an eyebrow.

Seungcheol’s gaze met yours, then he turned back to the room. "Ms. Ji and I are dating."

A moment of silence. Then—

"What?!" Mingyu choked on his drink, coughing as Jeonghan patted his back. Gasps and murmurs spread through the group like wildfire. Even the usually composed members of the secretary team looked at each other in shock.

You stiffened, your body going rigid as the realization sank in. Your fingers clutched at the fabric of your dress under the table, your pulse hammering in your ears. Slowly, almost mechanically, you turned to Seungcheol, your voice barely above a whisper.

"What—why would you—"

"Wait, wait, wait." Jeonghan put a hand up, smirking. "That's expected. Since when?"

Seungcheol chuckled, resting his arm on the back of your chair. "For a while now."

Meanwhile, Jeonghan just sat there, utterly amused, swirling his drink in his glass before finally saying, "So this is why you’ve been sneaking around, huh?"

"Jeonghan!" You hissed, shooting him a glare, but he only shrugged, clearly enjoying your suffering.

Mingyu, still coughing slightly, gaped at Seungcheol like he had just grown a second head. "Wait, wait, wait—you two?! Since when?! And why didn’t I know?!"

Your face burned as everyone’s eyes darted between you and him, trying to process the sudden revelation. Someone from marketing whispered, That explains why he’s actually here tonight.

"You could’ve warned me first," you hissed under your breath, still reeling from the shock.

Seungcheol leaned in slightly, his voice teasing, "Where's the fun in that?"

The room exploded into a mix of cheers, teasing remarks, and incredulous laughter. Some congratulated you, others demanded details, and Mingyu, still processing, just groaned, "Why am I always the last to know?!"

You sighed, covering your face, but despite the initial embarrassment, you couldn’t help the small smile forming on your lips. Seungcheol had just made sure this farewell party was one no one would forget.

Your fingers twitched. If there weren’t so many witnesses, you might have actually smacked him.

"So you two have actually been together this whole time?" One of the HR reps asked, her mouth still slightly open in disbelief. "Like, during work hours? During meetings? While she was still his secretary?"

Oh no. That was a dangerous line of questioning.

You opened your mouth, scrambling to regain some sort of control over the situation, but Seungcheol, of course, was faster.

"It started after work," he clarified, his voice smooth and nonchalant. "And it’s not like she’s breaking any rules. She’s leaving the company, after all."

The way he said it—so effortlessly confident—made your stomach twist. You wanted to argue, to regain some control over this mess he had just thrown you into, but then you caught the way he was looking at you.

There was something possessive in his gaze, a quiet certainty that sent a shiver down your spine. He wasn’t ashamed. He wasn’t hiding.

And suddenly, the tension shifted.

"You’re unbelievable," you muttered, barely able to contain the heat rising to your cheeks.

He chuckled, finally turning back to his drink. "And yet, you’re still here."

The table erupted into laughter, cheers, and even a few claps. Someone from the legal department shouted, "Well, damn. We need to drink to this!"

"Oh—another thing to celebrate," Seungcheol announced, his voice effortlessly cutting through the laughter and clinking glasses.

You turned to him, sensing something in his tone, but before you could ask, he raised his glass.

"Congratulations to Mr. Yoon, our new Marketing Department Head."

A moment of silence hung in the air before the entire table erupted in cheers and applause.

"What?!" Mingyu nearly knocked over his drink in shock. "Jeonghan-hyung? When did this happen?"

Jeonghan, ever composed, simply smirked as he leaned back in his chair. "A while ago."

"You knew?!" Mingyu gawked at him before turning to Seungcheol. "And no one thought to tell me?!"

Seungcheol chuckled, completely unfazed. "HR finalized it this afternoon. He was my first choice from the start."

"But—but—" Mingyu stammered, looking between you and Jeonghan. "I thought she was the best candidate?!"

You smiled, lifting your drink. "I’m leaving, remember?"

Jeonghan shrugged, tapping his fingers against his glass. "And someone had to clean up after her, so here I am."

Laughter filled the table, and soon, everyone was raising their drinks toward Jeonghan, congratulating him on the promotion.

Seungcheol leaned in closer to you, his hand finding yours under the table. His voice was low, meant only for you.

"Now you really have no reason to stay at work."

You rolled your eyes playfully but squeezed his hand in return. "You planned all of this, didn’t you?"

He smirked, his thumb brushing against your fingers. "Maybe. But I also knew it was what’s best for everyone."

You sighed, glancing at Jeonghan, who was basking in the attention, and then at Seungcheol, who was watching you with that knowing look.

Despite everything, you couldn’t deny it—this felt right.

*

It had been ten months since you left the company, but something about Mingyu working as Seungcheol’s secretary still didn’t sit right with you. This morning only confirmed your suspicions. Seungcheol, who once carried himself with unwavering composure, now sat at the breakfast table with noticeable dark circles under his eyes. You couldn’t recall a single time in the past when he looked this tired.

“What’s your schedule like today?” you asked, setting a plate of breakfast in front of him along with a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

Seungcheol gave you a faint smile before replying, “Just a quick briefing with finance. I’ll probably be home late; I have a meeting with Joshua over dinner."

Your arms crossed as you stood beside the table, watching him. “You never memorize your own schedule,” you pointed out, your tone laced with concern.

He nodded in agreement, his attention on his food. “I used to have Jeonghan to remind me about everything. And you,” he added, glancing up at you with a soft smile. “You made sure everything ran smoothly.”

You watched him take another bite before leaning against the table. “How many staff members is Mingyu working with?” you asked, your tone more curious this time.

Seungcheol chuckled, wiping the corner of his mouth. “Why are you asking?”

“Because it’s obvious you’re overworking yourself, babe,” you said bluntly, crossing your arms again.

He paused, his gaze softening as he looked at you. “I’m fine, love. Don’t worry,” he reassured, though his voice didn’t quite convince you. “Mingyu’s my only secretary now, but the system’s changed. He’s managing just fine.”

You sighed and sat down in front of him, resting your chin on your hand. “Is Mingyu still an idiot?”

Seungcheol couldn’t help but laugh, his tired expression lifting just a little. “He is,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But he’s getting better, I promise. You’d be surprised.”

You weren’t entirely convinced, and your frustration showed as you frowned at him. “You used to come home looking less like a zombie,” you muttered.

Seungcheol reached across the table and took your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “I know you’re worried,” he said, his voice soft. “But really, I’ve got this. Mingyu may be a work in progress, but we’re managing.”

You squeezed his hand in return, but your concern lingered. “Just don’t forget to take care of yourself, alright?”

He smiled at you, a warmth in his eyes that made you feel just a little more at ease. “I won’t. I promise.”

As Seungcheol finished the last bite of his breakfast, he leaned back in his chair and tilted his head slightly, his gaze softening as it shifted to you. "How’s the baking class going?" he asked, his tone casual but genuinely curious.

You perked up slightly at his question, a smile tugging at your lips. "It’s going really well. I finally mastered the chiffon cake yesterday," you said, your excitement seeping into your voice.

Seungcheol raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed. "The one you said was impossible to get right?"

You nodded eagerly. "Yep. It took me three tries, but I did it. The instructor even said I nailed the texture and flavor."

He smiled, the fatigue on his face momentarily fading as he watched you talk. "Look at you, becoming a pro baker already," he teased, though there was an unmistakable pride in his tone.

You chuckled, waving off his comment. "I wouldn’t say ‘pro,’ but it’s been fun. I didn’t think I’d enjoy baking as much as I do now."

Seungcheol leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table as he looked at you. "So, when are you going to let me taste this famous chiffon cake?"

You rolled your eyes playfully, leaning back in your chair. "Soon. I just want to perfect it a little more before I let you try it. You’re too honest with your feedback," you said, narrowing your eyes at him with mock suspicion.

He laughed, the deep sound filling the room and making your chest warm. "You know I only critique because I care," he said, reaching out to poke your arm. "But fine. I’ll wait until you think it’s ready."

You smirked, crossing your arms. "You better. No sneaking bites when I’m not looking."

"I wouldn’t dare," he replied, his tone exaggeratedly serious.

The two of you fell into an easy silence for a moment, the tension from earlier easing as you both enjoyed the quiet morning together.

"Maybe," Seungcheol began, breaking the silence, "you could make a batch of something for Joshua’s dinner meeting. He has a sweet tooth, you know."

You raised an eyebrow at him, pretending to be skeptical. "Are you volunteering me to impress your business partner with baked goods now?"

"Maybe," he admitted with a cheeky grin. "But only because I know you’d knock it out of the park."

You shook your head with a laugh, but you couldn’t deny how his words filled you with a small sense of pride. "Fine," you said. "I’ll make some cookies or brownies. But you owe me."

Seungcheol smirked. "Deal. I’ll make it worth your while."

The restaurant was dimly lit, with soft jazz music playing in the background. Seungcheol sat across from Joshua at the private dining table, his posture relaxed but still exuding authority. Mingyu, seated beside him, diligently took notes and managed the documents for the formal part of the meeting.

The discussion went smoothly, with both parties agreeing on the next steps for their partnership. As the waiter cleared their plates and brought out coffee and dessert, the atmosphere gradually shifted to a more casual tone. Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, finally allowing himself to relax.

Joshua stirred his coffee, a friendly smile on his face as he looked at Mingyu. "I have to say, Mingyu, you’ve really grown into your role. The professionalism you’ve shown tonight is impressive. So different from how you were!"

Mingyu let out a nervous laugh, scratching the back of his neck. "Well, I had to step up, didn’t I? Working for Seungcheol hyung isn’t exactly a walk in the park."

Seungcheol chuckled, glancing at Mingyu with a raised eyebrow. "Are you complaining?"

"Not at all!" Mingyu quickly replied, holding up his hands in mock surrender. "I’m just saying, I had to adapt."

Joshua laughed, clearly amused by their dynamic. "It’s good to see, though. I remember the Mingyu who couldn’t sit still in meetings or keep track of his tasks. Now look at you—organized, professional, and confident."

Mingyu puffed out his chest jokingly, but there was a hint of genuine pride in his smile. "Well, I had a great mentor," he said, nodding toward Seungcheol.

Seungcheol scoffed, though a small smile played on his lips. "Don’t get too cocky, Mingyu. You still have a long way to go."

Joshua tilted his head, a curious expression crossing his face. "By the way, how did Mingyu end up working for you, Seungcheol?"

"Trust me," Seungcheol said, a playful glint in his eye, "I didn’t want to hire him at first. But he insisted, and I figured if he was going to work anywhere, it might as well be under someone who wouldn’t go easy on him."

"And he doesn’t go easy on me," Mingyu added, holding up his hands. "This man is tough."

Joshua laughed, clearly entertained. "Well, I have to say, it’s working. You’ve come a long way, Mingyu. But I bet it’s also a little intimidating, working for your family."

"It is," Mingyu admitted, "but it’s also motivating. I can’t slack off when my boss knows everything about me, including my bad habits."

Seungcheol shook his head, though his expression softened. "To be fair, he’s proven himself. He’s still Mingyu, though, so he keeps things interesting."

Seungcheol chuckled to himself as he sipped his coffee, the memory of that day playing vividly in his mind. It was his aunt's anniversary, and the gathering at his house was the perfect opportunity to introduce you to his family. At least, that was his plan.

You had looked stunning that day, wearing a soft pastel dress that complimented you beautifully. Yet, your nervousness was unmistakable—the way your fingers fidgeted with the strap of your bag, the quick glances you stole at Seungcheol for reassurance, and the tiny, hesitant smile that melted his heart every time he caught you looking at him.

He remembered how your confidence faltered the moment you stepped into the living room, where the cheerful buzz of conversation filled the space. His family greeted you warmly, but then your eyes landed on Mingyu standing casually by the snack table.

Your reaction was priceless. Your eyes widened as if you'd seen a ghost, and before you could stop yourself, you mouthed to Seungcheol, What is he doing here?

Mingyu’s face lit up instantly when he noticed you. "Noona!" he called out excitedly, leaving his spot to approach you.

Seungcheol stifled a laugh as you turned to him, utterly baffled, while Mingyu pulled you into a friendly hug. "What... what is happening?" you whispered urgently to Seungcheol as Mingyu grinned beside you.

Seungcheol smirked, enjoying your confusion. "Mingyu is my cousin," he explained casually. "He’s my aunt’s son."

You blinked in shock, staring at both men as if the pieces of a puzzle were suddenly falling into place. "That explains a lot," you muttered, earning a laugh from Seungcheol and a curious look from Mingyu.

From that day on, your dynamic with Mingyu took a playful turn. What started as harmless teasing quickly became your favorite way to keep him on his toes, especially after he became Seungcheol’s secretary.

"You should work harder, Mingyu," you had told him one day when he stopped by your place to drop off some files for Seungcheol. Leaning against the doorframe, you smirked knowingly at him. "You only got that job because the boss is your cousin. Nepo baby."

Mingyu groaned dramatically, running a hand through his hair. "Noona, you can’t keep calling me that! I’m actually working really hard, you know."

"You better," you shot back, grinning mischievously. "I worked hard supervising you."

Seungcheol, who had been silently observing the exchange from the couch, couldn’t hide his amusement. "Don’t go too hard on him, love," he teased, though his tone was far from serious.

Mingyu pouted, looking between the two of you. "Great. Now I have two bosses to impress."

"You should be honored," you quipped, sending him a wink before heading back to the kitchen.

As Seungcheol watched Mingyu’s exasperated expression, he couldn’t help but smile. Despite all the teasing, the camaraderie between you and Mingyu warmed his heart. It was proof of how naturally you had integrated into his life—his family—and how, even in moments of chaos, you brought lightness and joy to everything you touched.

End.

[thedensworld]

Now We're Swapping | j.ww

Pairing: Rich Kid Wonwoo x reader

Genre: College au!, Enemy to Lovers au!, Body Swapped au!

Type: fluff, hint angst, smut (mdni!)

Word Count: 18k

Summary: Wonwoo was waking up as his high school rival in one sudden morning. There were two things he could do, help you or turn your life into a miserable one.

Wonwoo experienced three bizarre things the moment he woke up:

1. He wasn’t in his soft, warm, and luxurious bed. In fact, he wasn’t even in his room. The second he opened his eyes, confusion struck him like a bolt of lightning. Instead of his familiar surroundings, he found himself lying on a rock-hard mattress in a room he had never seen before. His back ached from the uncomfortable bed, and the musty smell of old wood filled the air.

2. Before he could even process where he was, the door suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall with a loud bang. A woman, looking frantic and completely unbothered by the fact that he had just woken up, barged in and yelled at him. “Come on! Help me get the kids ready!” she snapped, her voice grating against his ears. Wonwoo flinched. The kids? Since when did he have kids to take care of? Even back at home, not a single staff member dared to wake him up so rudely, let alone order him around. But this woman? She had the audacity to yell at him as if she had been doing it for years.

3. It wasn’t until he was practically dragged out of bed, his body moving sluggishly with sleep still clinging to him, that the real shock hit him. Stumbling towards a mirror hanging on the wall, his bleary eyes landed on his own reflection—except it wasn’t his reflection. It was you. His heart plummeted into his stomach. He blinked. Once. Twice. He even rubbed his eyes, but nothing changed. It was your face staring back at him. No, wait! It wasn’t just your face—it was you. Or was it him? No! It was him, but in your body! No— Whatever! The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that he had somehow woken up as you!

Now, Wonwoo stood in the backyard of a place called Pristine Foster Home, feeling utterly lost. Wet blankets and bedsheets hung from the clothesline, swaying in the breeze, but he was too consumed by his own crisis to care. He tapped his foot anxiously against the ground, his fingers instinctively biting at his nails—a nervous habit he never realized you had. This can’t be happening. This is a nightmare.

Not only had he woken up as a girl, but to make things worse, he had woken up as you—his biggest rival for the upcoming university student presidential election next week. Before Wonwoo could fully process the madness of waking up as you, the woman—who everyone around here called Mrs. Kim—grabbed his wrist and dragged him away without a hint of hesitation.

“You! Front yard. Now. The donor is coming in two hours, and this place needs to be spotless!” she barked, barely giving him time to keep up with her fast-paced steps.

Wonwoo stumbled along, still disoriented, but before he could even protest, a broom was shoved into his hands, and Mrs. Kim disappeared just as quickly as she had appeared. He blinked down at the worn-out broom in his grasp.

What the hell was happening?

He huffed in frustration and, without a second thought, threw the broom aside the moment she was out of sight. His arms crossed over his chest, lips curling in irritation as his gaze swept across the yard. The place wasn’t even that messy. And more importantly—

“Why am I the only one working here?” he muttered under his breath, glaring at the empty yard. There were kids. Lots of them. Small, loud, and chaotic little kids running around, playing, laughing—doing everything except helping. Meanwhile, he—no, you—was here, being ordered around like some unpaid laborer.

A long sigh escaped his lips, carrying the weight of his rapidly declining mental state. He was exhausted, and he had barely even done anything yet. He pressed his fingers to his temple, trying to piece together the last thing he remembered.

He had gone home last night. That much was clear. After an intense strategic meeting at Mingyu’s place about how to crush you in the upcoming university election, he had ridden his bike home. He did have a beer—maybe two. But he wasn’t drunk. He swore he was completely sober when he got home.

And yet, here he was. Stuck in your body, in a place he had never been, surrounded by a bunch of kids and an overbearing woman yelling at him about cleaning. His head was starting to spin from the sheer absurdity of it all.

What kind of twisted nightmare was this?

Hours later, the children lined up neatly in the front yard, their chatter filling the air with restless energy. Wonwoo, on the other hand, was slumped on the front porch, exhausted and utterly out of place. He had barely caught his breath when, once again, Mrs. Kim grabbed him and dragged him forward, forcing him to join the group.

She clicked her tongue in disapproval, eyeing him—you—from head to toe. “You’re a mess,” she muttered. “You look filthy. You probably stink too, but there’s no time for a bath.”

Wonwoo barely had the energy to argue. His body—your body—was covered in sweat and dirt after hours of cleaning. His arms ached, his back was sore, and he was convinced he had never worked this hard in his life. And for what? To stand in a lineup like some kind of orphan?

“Now—Oh! They’re here! Let’s go.”

Mrs. Kim barely gave him a second to react before shoving him to the front of the group. Wonwoo stumbled forward, blinking in confusion as an expensive black car slowly rolled to a stop in front of them. His brows furrowed as he focused on the vehicle, a bad feeling creeping into his chest.

The driver stepped out first, closing the door behind him. Wonwoo’s blood ran cold.

“Oh no…” he muttered under his breath, his stomach twisting into knots. He knew this man. The driver stood tall, his expression neutral yet familiar, dressed in the usual black suit that Wonwoo had seen countless times before.

Don’t tell me the donor is…

Before he could finish his thought, the back doors of the car opened, and a well-dressed couple stepped out.

“Mr. Jeon! Mrs. Jeon! How are you? It’s very nice to meet you. It’s been a long time, right?” Mrs. Kim greeted them enthusiastically, her voice laced with respect.

Wonwoo’s entire body stiffened.

What in the actual universe was this?!

Standing before him were his parents.

Wonwoo froze as his mother approached him with a warm smile, her arms immediately wrapping around him in a tight embrace.

“Y/n… you’re beautiful,” she murmured, pulling back slightly to cup his—your—cheek. “How are you, honey? I heard you joined the election for university student president. I wish you the best of luck!”

His entire body went rigid.

It wasn’t just the hug that caught him off guard—it was the way she spoke. So soft, so affectionate, her voice practically dripping with warmth. His mother had never spoken to him like that before. And now, she was looking at him—at you—with so much fondness that it made his stomach churn with unease.

Before he could even process her words, his father stepped up beside them. Unlike his mother’s overwhelming affection, his father’s greeting was simple yet firm as he gave Wonwoo a friendly pat on the shoulder.

“Good job, Y/n. I heard you’re ranked second in your school.”

Wonwoo nearly scoffed. Of course, you’re second. Living in a foster home, faking a high-maintenance life while studying at an Ivy League university—you’d have to be at the top to keep up. But there was something about the way his father said it that irked him.

Second place. And who was first? Wasn’t it him? The top student? Before he could dwell on it any further, he felt Mrs. Kim’s sharp gaze on him. Her eyes flickered between him and his parents, silently sending him glances—no, warnings. Her expression screamed at him to stay in line, to play along.

Play along with what?!

Before he could figure it out, his mother suddenly took his arm, her fingers latching onto his wrist as she led him forward, her voice full of excitement. “Come, let’s take a look around!” The entire group started moving for a home tour, but Wonwoo was barely keeping up. His mind was still spinning, drowning in confusion, when a voice snapped him out of his daze.

Mr. Jung, the driver, leaned in and whispered something to his father.

His father’s expression darkened instantly.

“We need to go,” his father said abruptly, turning to his mother.

She blinked in surprise. “Why? What happened?”

“Our son is in the hospital. Bike accident.”

Wonwoo’s breath caught in his throat.

What?!

*

Now, thanks to the lie he had impulsively made earlier—saying he wanted to come with them to the hospital—everyone, or rather just his parents, would start thinking that you and he were close.

His mother’s fingers gently wrapped around his hand, her eyes filled with warmth as she asked, “You’re close with our Wonwoo?”

Wonwoo almost blurted out No way in hell! because, really, what kind of sick joke was this? He and you had been enemies since high school. Ever since you transferred in and started creeping up the academic ranks, toppling one student after another—except him. He had been the only one who managed to keep you from taking first place.

And now? Now, here he was. Sitting in front of a hospital room.

As his parents went inside to see their real son, Wonwoo sat stiffly in the hallway, his fingers absentmindedly tugging at the hem of the dress he was still wearing. Your dress. He hadn't even had the chance to change out of it—an old, faded yellow sleeping gown that was wrinkled from all the chaos he had been thrown into. His hair— your hair was probably a mess, sticking out in all directions, and worst of all… he reeked. The hours of chores he had done at the foster home had left him sweaty and grimy.

He sighed, rubbing his face with his hands.

What the hell is going on?

Before he could spiral any further, the door to the hospital room creaked open.

“Honey.”

He looked up to see his mother stepping out, his father following close behind.

“He wants to see you.” Wonwoo’s heart stilled.

Shit. Who the hell was he?

“Wonwoo… is that you?”

The voice sent a shiver down his spine. It was his voice—his own deep, familiar tone—but coming from the hospital bed in front of him.

Wonwoo hesitated before stepping closer, eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of his own body lying there. His forehead was bandaged, a clear sign of the accident, but everything else was exactly as he remembered.

His own face looked back at him with furrowed brows, filled with confusion. “Who are you?” Wonwoo asked, his voice laced with suspicion. He didn’t know what to expect—hell, nothing about this entire day made sense—but seeing himself awake and talking to him? This was beyond anything he could’ve ever imagined.

The person in his body blinked, hesitant before answering.

“I’m Y/n…” Your voice—his voice—sounded unsure, shaken. “Why am I here?”

Wonwoo let out a slow breath, crossing his arms over his chest. “Surprised you didn’t panic the moment you saw yourself talking to you,” he muttered, shaking his head. He honestly expected more screaming. Maybe some fainting. But here you were, surprisingly composed despite everything.

Your—his—eyes widened slightly, scanning the room before looking back at him. “What happened? Why… why am I you?”

Wonwoo scoffed, letting out a dry chuckle. “You think I know?” He met your gaze with an exasperated look. “I’m just as confused as you are, Ji Y/n. But whatever happened… we’ve switched.”

Silence filled the room as you stared at him, disbelief evident in your expression. And for the first time in his life, Wonwoo experienced the incredibly uncomfortable feeling of being stared at by himself.

It was unsettling. He shifted on his feet, looking away as he took a small step back.

You swallowed hard before finally speaking again, voice quieter this time. “How did this happen?”

Wonwoo sighed, running a hand through his—your—messy hair. “Same, Y/n… I’m asking too.”

A heavy silence settled between them. Wonwoo—stuck in your body—felt an itch in his brain, an urge to pace around the room in frustration, but he held himself still. Meanwhile, you, trapped in his body, were staring at your—his—hands, clenching and unclenching your fists as if trying to confirm this wasn’t just some fever dream.

“This has to be a nightmare,” you muttered, gripping the blanket draped over your lap. “A really weird, messed-up nightmare.”

Wonwoo sighed sharply, rubbing his temple. “I thought the same thing when I woke up in that damn foster home.”

At his words, you blinked, finally snapping your gaze up to meet his.

“The foster home… Pristine Foster Home?”

“Yeah.” Wonwoo let out a tired huff. “Woke up on some hard-ass mattress in a tiny room, got screamed at by a woman who made me do chores all morning, and then got dragged here because your—” He paused, correcting himself. “—my parents showed up as donors.”

Your expression darkened as you digested his words. “Mrs. Kim must’ve made you clean, didn’t she?”

“Front yard.”

You cringed. “Damn. That’s the worst one.”

Wonwoo scoffed. “Yeah, I figured.” He studied you carefully, watching as you pulled at the hospital blanket, your jaw tightening. “So? What happened to you? How the hell did you end up here?”

You let out a deep breath, shaking your head. “I don’t know. I remember going to bed last night like usual, and then… I woke up here. But obviously, it wasn’t me who got into that accident.”

Wonwoo frowned, trying to recall the events of last night. He had been at Mingyu’s house, strategizing ways to defeat you in the student election. He’d had a couple of beers, but he hadn’t been drunk. He clearly remembered riding home on his bike, arriving at his house, getting into bed…

And then waking up as you.

His fingers twitched as he crossed his arms again. “Nothing weird happened,” he muttered. “At least, nothing that explains this.”

You let out a tired groan, running a hand down your face. “This is insane.”

“No shit.”

Just then, the door to the hospital room creaked open, and both of you snapped your heads toward the entrance.

Wonwoo’s—your—parents stepped back in.

“Honey,” his mother—your mother now—spoke gently, a worried look on her face. “You must be tired. Why don’t you go home and rest?”

Wonwoo felt his pulse quicken. Home? As in your home? The foster home?

His father nodded in agreement. “Yes, dear. We can handle things here. You’ve done enough already.”

Done enough?! What had he done besides get thrown into this mess?

Before he could protest, his mother stepped forward, her hands reaching out to pat his cheek fondly. Wonwoo stiffened instantly. “You’ve always been such a hardworking girl,” she said softly. “It makes me so happy to see you and Wonwoo getting along.”

Wonwoo barely resisted the urge to grimace. He threw you a look, silently screaming, What the hell do I do?! You—trapped in his body—were no help. You simply stared at him, eyes wide, just as lost as he was. And just like that, Wonwoo realized something horrifying. Until they figured out how to switch back…

He was going to have to live as you.

*

Wonwoo stood frozen in front of the bathroom door, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. The old wooden door creaked slightly, the dim light from the hallway casting a shadow over the tiled floor inside. The thought of stepping in—of actually taking a bath—made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

Because that would mean undressing. Undressing your body. Absolutely not. There was no way in hell he was going to do that. He had morals. Standards. There were just some lines he refused to cross, and this was one of them.

But damn… his body—your body—felt disgusting. The grime from hours of chores clung to his skin. Sweat dried in uncomfortable places, making the oversized sleeping gown stick to him. His hair was an absolute mess, still tangled from the wind earlier, and he could smell the faint scent of dirt and soap from when he’d scrubbed the front yard clean.

Wonwoo groaned, running a hand through his—your—hair in frustration.

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” he muttered under his breath.

If he didn’t shower, he’d feel like this all night, and the thought of sleeping in this state made him want to scream. But if he did shower…

He shut his eyes tightly, cursing under his breath.This was hell. Just then, a loud knock on the door startled him.

“Hurry up in there! Other people need the bathroom too, you know!” Mrs. Kim’s sharp voice rang through the hallway, making Wonwoo jolt. He turned his head, glaring at the door.

“Alright, alright!” he snapped back, annoyed.

He exhaled slowly, trying to collect himself.

Fine. He wouldn’t do anything weird. He’d make this as quick and moral as possible. No unnecessary looking, no thinking too hard about it. Just in, out, and done.

Steeling himself, Wonwoo reached for the doorknob, swallowing hard before stepping inside. This was going to be the most uncomfortable bath of his life.

Wonwoo tried his best not to look. He focused on the feeling of the water against his skin, rubbing the soap over your—his—body as quickly as possible. The sooner this was over, the better. His movements were stiff, awkward, and mechanical. He kept his eyes trained on the tiles, avoiding even a glance downward. Just soap, rinse, and get out. That was the plan.

But then—

His hand ran over his back, and a sharp sting shot through him. Wonwoo froze.

What the hell?

His stomach churned at the thought.

Wonwoo quickly rinsed off and turned off the water. He grabbed a towel, drying off haphazardly before stepping out of the bathroom. The moment he found a small, cracked mirror in the hallway, he twisted his body, angling himself to get a look at his back.

Wonwoo’s breath hitched as he finally caught a glimpse of his—your—back in the cracked mirror. His brows furrowed, and his fingers twitched at his sides.

His chest tightened.

His mind raced as he tried to recall everything that had happened since he woke up in your body. Wonwoo gritted his teeth.

What the hell happened to you, Ji Y/n? And why did he have a bad feeling that this was just the beginning of something bigger?

*

Wonwoo stormed through the front doors of his house, shoulders tense as he stomped up the grand staircase. His whole body—your body—felt sore and exhausted from the insane day he'd just had. The security at the gate had nearly dragged him out, refusing to believe that the Ji Y/n in front of them was actually their young master, Jeon Wonwoo.

"You have no idea how much I had to beg the security to let me in," he grumbled as he yanked open the bedroom door, stepping inside with an annoyed scowl.

Inside, you—in his body—stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie. It was jarring, watching his own body move with hesitation, looking completely out of place in the very room he had lived in for years. The moment your eyes landed on him, your shoulders sagged in relief. "Finally—I thought you were never coming back."

Wonwoo scoffed, shutting the door behind him. "I thought I was never coming back. You think it’s easy walking into my mansion looking like you? The guards almost threw me out!"

"You live here," you shot back, exasperated. "You could’ve just walked in—why did you make this harder?"

Wonwoo gave you a deadpan look. "Oh, sure, let me just casually waltz in while looking like someone who doesn’t belong here. I looked like a lost delivery worker!" He threw his hands up, pacing the room. "Do you know how humiliating that was?"

Your frown deepened. "At least you weren’t forced to do laundry and yard work for an entire foster home full of children. Mrs. Kim practically used me as free labor."

Wonwoo turned to you, unimpressed. "Yeah? Well, I woke up in a hospital bed, covered in injuries, and had to sit through my own parents looking at me like I was their long-lost daughter."

Your mouth opened slightly, then shut. "…Touché."

Silence fell between you two, the weight of the situation settling in.

After a moment, Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "Alright. We need to figure out what the hell happened and how to fix it."

You nodded, though your expression was still tense. "Agreed. But where do we even start?"

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "Let’s think. What’s the last thing you remember before we… switched?"

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed as his brows furrowed in frustration. No matter how much you both racked your brains, there was no logical explanation for why you'd switched bodies. There was no accident, no weird mystical event—just a normal night before waking up in each other’s skin.

"This is ridiculous," Wonwoo muttered, shaking his head. "It’s like some cheap fantasy movie plot, except it’s actually happening to us."

You sighed, rubbing your temples. "I know. And I hate to admit it, but I don’t think we’re going to figure this out tonight."

Wonwoo scoffed. "Yeah? Well, in the meantime, I’m not going back to that foster home and working my ass off like some unpaid worker." He turned to you with a pointed look. "You call my parents. Tell them to let you stay here until we switch back."

Your eyebrows shot up. "What? Why me? That’s your job!"

"I can’t exactly call them in your voice and say, ‘Hey, I’m actually Wonwoo, let me stay at my mansion until further notice.’ They’ll think I’ve lost my mind."

You groaned, grabbing his phone from the nightstand. "Fine. But if they say no, you’re on your own."

Wonwoo smirked. "Trust me. My mom loves you. She won’t say no."

You stared at Wonwoo’s phone in your hands, your thumb hesitating over the contact labeled Mom. The plan was simple: call his parents, pretend to be him, and ask if you—which meant him in your body—could stay over until this mess was sorted out.

Easy, right?

Wrong.

You cleared your throat and pressed call. The phone barely rang twice before his mother answered, her voice warm yet slightly distracted. "Wonwoo? It’s late. What is it?"

You shot Wonwoo a look, and he gestured impatiently for you to just talk.

"Uh—yeah. Mom. I, uh, wanted to ask if Y/n could stay over for a few days?"

There was a beat of silence. Then she hummed, as if turning the idea over in her head. "Y/n?" she repeated, her voice carrying a hint of curiosity now. "Why?"

Your mouth opened, but no excuse came to mind. You hadn’t thought that far. You shot Wonwoo a desperate look, but he just folded his arms, watching in amusement.

The silence stretched, and then, to your horror, his mother let out a knowing sigh. "I see… So it’s like that."

Your brows furrowed. "Like what?"

"You finally brought a girl home."

Wonwoo choked.

You nearly dropped the phone. "Wait, what?"

"It’s fine, Wonwoo. You’re an adult. If you’re serious about this girl, I won’t say anything. Just make sure you’re being responsible."

Wonwoo was now aggressively shaking his head at you, mouthing fix it!, but you were too stunned to respond properly.

"Uh—yeah," you stammered, scrambling to end the conversation. "So… she can stay?"

His mother chuckled softly. "Of course. Have the staff set up a room for her. Your father and I will be out of town, but tell her she’s welcome."

And with that, the call ended.

You lowered the phone slowly, turning to Wonwoo with wide eyes.

"You finally brought a girl home?" you repeated in disbelief.

Wonwoo groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "This is a nightmare."

You stared at the phone in disbelief. "That’s it?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle. "What did you expect? A heartfelt conversation?" He snatched the phone from your hand and stuffed it in his pocket. "They’re barely home as it is. They probably don’t even care who stays over."

The bitterness in his voice didn’t go unnoticed.

You decided not to comment on it. Instead, you sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Well, at least that worked. Now get out of here before Mrs. Kim drags me—I mean, you—back inside for more chores."

Wonwoo groaned but grabbed his things and left.

As you settled into his massive, empty house, you couldn’t help but feel like it wasn’t much of a home at all.

*

The next morning, you both stood in front of Wonwoo’s sleek black car, staring at it like it was the final boss of this entire ridiculous situation. "You drive," you said, tossing him the keys. Wonwoo caught them but immediately scowled at you. "You drive. It’s my car."

You folded your arms. "I don’t even have a license, genius." His jaw clenched. He looked at the keys, then at the car, then at you—his own body. "You mean to tell me that after all the times you acted like you’re better than me, you can’t even drive?"

"Driving doesn’t determine intelligence, Jeon." You rolled your eyes. "Are we going to school or not?"

Grumbling, he unlocked the car and got into the driver’s seat. You slid into the passenger seat, watching with barely contained amusement as he adjusted everything—pushing the seat forward, adjusting the rearview mirror, lowering the steering wheel.

"This is so uncomfortable," he muttered, shifting in the seat. His knees were practically up to his chest. You smirked. "What? Is my body too small for your big manly car?"

Wonwoo shot you a glare before turning the ignition. The car rumbled to life, and he carefully pressed the gas pedal—only for the car to jerk forward suddenly, causing both of you to lurch.

"YAH!" you yelped, clutching the dashboard. "Are you trying to kill me—yourself—whatever?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, gripping the steering wheel tighter. "Your legs are too damn short! I can’t feel the pedal properly!"

You laughed, shaking your head. "Now you know my struggles."

After a few more rough starts, Wonwoo finally managed to get the car moving smoothly. The drive to school was tense at first, but as he adjusted, his usual confidence returned. You, on the other hand, were dreading what was to come.

As soon as you arrived, all eyes would be on him—or rather, you. And there was nothing either of you could do about it. The night before, you and Wonwoo had spent hours sitting in his room, going over the rules of survival until you switched back.

1. Don’t tell anyone about the situation.

"Not even Mingyu?" you had asked.

"Especially not Mingyu," Wonwoo had deadpanned. "He’ll make this a circus."

2. Act normal, even to each other.

"You mean I have to be cold and unbothered like you?" you had teased.

"And I have to act like you?" Wonwoo had shot back. "All smiles and fake pleasantries? Great."

3. Avoid attention.

This one was the most important. The last thing either of you needed was people noticing something was off.

Now, standing at the entrance of the university, those rules felt like an impossible mission. You watched as Wonwoo—you—stepped out of the car, adjusting the oversized hoodie he had thrown on. It was strange seeing yourself through someone else’s eyes, and even weirder seeing how awkward he looked in your body.

"Stop slouching," you hissed under your breath. "I don’t walk like that." Wonwoo shot you a glare but straightened his posture. "And stop staring at your feet. It’s weird." With that, the two of you walked through campus, forcing yourselves to act normal. It was fine. Until the first person called your name.

"Y/n!"

You froze before realizing it wasn’t actually you they were calling—it was Wonwoo, in your body. Wonwoo sighed, forcing a smile that was so stiff it looked painful. "Uh… morning?"

Your friend frowned. "Are you okay? You sound weird."

You nearly facepalmed. Rule number two, idiot!

Wonwoo quickly cleared his throat and attempted to sound more like you. "I mean—uh, I’m fine! Just, um, tired!" He gave a thumbs-up that looked completely unnatural.

Your friend tilted their head but didn’t press further. You exhaled in relief, but it was short-lived. Because at that moment, the worst possible person appeared.

Mingyu.

And he was heading straight for you.

Mingyu approached with a wide grin, his usual energy radiating off him like a beacon. "Wonwoo! Y/n! What’s up?"

You barely had time to react before Mingyu threw an arm around your shoulders—except it wasn’t you, it was Wonwoo trapped in your body. Wonwoo went stiff immediately.

You saw it, the way his entire body tensed, the way his hands twitched like he wanted to shove Mingyu off but was holding back. You couldn’t blame him. You wouldn’t like Mingyu suddenly draping himself over you either. But—

"Are you okay?" Mingyu suddenly leaned down, squinting at Wonwoo’s face. "You look kinda… different today."

You nearly choked. Crap.

You forced a tight-lipped smile. "Haha. No, I’m good. Totally fine." You flinched at how unnatural that sounded.

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. "You sure? You don’t usually stand this stiff. And your voice sounds weird. And you—"

"He said he's fine," Wonwoo cut in, voice strained.

You quickly jumped in before Mingyu could keep interrogating. "Just tired. We were studying late last night."

Mingyu looked between the two of you, lips pursed. Then suddenly, his eyes widened. "Wait a second."

You both froze.

He pointed at the two of you. "Did something happen between you two?"

Wonwoo stiffened. "What?"

Mingyu gasped dramatically. "Are you two dating now?"

"WHAT?!" you both yelled in unison.

Mingyu took a step back, hands up in defense. "Geez! Sorry, it’s just—lately, you guys seem different. Studying together? Walking into campus together? Y/n’s acting weird, Wonwoo’s looking more tired than usual—it’s suspicious!"

Wonwoo turned to you with a glare, mouthing, Fix this.

You gritted your teeth before turning to Mingyu with a forced laugh. "No, no! We’re not dating. We just—uh—had to work on something together, that’s all!" Mingyu squinted at you—well, at Wonwoo’s body. “Work on what?”

“None of your business,” you snapped, crossing your arms. Mingyu blinked at your sharp tone but shrugged. “Okay, whatever. Anyway, why are you heading that way? Our class is upstairs.”

You froze for a split second. Right. You were supposed to have class with Mingyu—as Wonwoo. But out of habit, you had started walking toward your usual class instead.

Wonwoo, standing beside you in your body, subtly elbowed you. “Uh—he’s just, uh, walking me to class first,” he quickly interjected.

Mingyu’s brows furrowed as he looked between the two of you. “Since when do you do that?” You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. “Since today. Got a problem?”

Mingyu narrowed his eyes. “Yeah, actually. That doesn’t sound like you at all.”

Wonwoo shot you a look, silently pleading with you to play it cool. Taking a deep breath, you forced a casual shrug. “I just felt like it. Can we go now?” Mingyu crossed his arms, clearly unconvinced. “Weird. Really weird.”

You resisted the urge to sigh. If Mingyu was already suspicious, keeping this switch a secret was going to be harder than you thought.

*

After surviving the day without slipping up—at least, not too badly—you and Wonwoo finally made it back home. The moment you stepped inside, you groaned, throwing yourself onto the couch while Wonwoo shut the door behind him.

"That was exhausting," you muttered, rubbing your temples. "Do you know how hard it is pretending to be you? You barely talk to anyone, but somehow people still pay attention to you."

Wonwoo scoffed, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "And do you know how annoying it is to be you? Everyone just randomly talks to me, and I have to pretend I actually care about their gossip. Even your professors are so chatty. One of them asked me if I was doing okay in business class. Do you struggle that much?"

You glared at him. "Excuse me, but business studies is not my major. You expect me to be a genius at it?" Wonwoo shook his head before his gaze sharpened. "Speaking of weird conversations, what's up with Mingyu?"

You blinked. "What about him?"

"He’s too friendly with you. I didn’t know you were close," he said, narrowing his eyes slightly. You shrugged. "He's just been kind to me since senior high school."

Wonwoo frowned at that. "Why? You two don’t seem like the type to be friends."

You hesitated for a moment before sighing. "It’s... a long story. Back then, Mingyu was the first person to find out that I wasn't actually the child of some entertainment industry mogul like the rumors said. He was the only one who knew I was orphaned and living in a foster home."

Wonwoo stiffened slightly. He had never heard that before. He had always thought you were just naturally secretive and didn’t like discussing your personal life. But this—this was different.

He didn’t know why, but the thought of Mingyu knowing something so personal about you before him left a strange feeling in his chest.

Wonwoo sat down across from you, his expression unreadable. "So… you grew up in a foster home. How did that happen?"

You sighed, leaning back against the couch. "I was placed there when I was a kid. I don’t remember much about my parents—just bits and pieces. They passed away when I was young, and after that, I ended up in Pristine Foster Home."

He nodded slowly, absorbing the information. "And school? Our school isn’t exactly easy to get into. How did you afford it?" A small, almost ironic smile tugged at your lips. "Your mother."

Wonwoo blinked. "What?"

"Your mother," you repeated. "Mrs. Jeon. She’s one of the biggest donors for Pristine Foster Home. Every year, she funds scholarships for students with high academic potential. I was one of the kids who got lucky."

For the first time, Wonwoo was at a loss for words. His mother? The same woman who barely had time for her own son had been funding your education all this time?

"You… never told anyone?" he asked after a moment. You shrugged. "Why would I? People already made enough assumptions about me. If they found out the truth, I’d just become a pity case. Besides, it’s not like your mom personally chose me. I was just another name on the scholarship list."

Wonwoo was still trying to process this new information. He had spent years seeing you as a rival, someone always on his heels, challenging his top position. But now, for the first time, he saw you in a different light.

"So all this time," he muttered, "you were working twice as hard just to stay in school."

You huffed a quiet laugh. "More than twice, actually."

He didn't know why, but something about that unsettled him.

*

The days went by with both of you struggling to adapt to each other’s lives while keeping up the act. The campaign phase for the student president selection had officially started, and since you were both candidates, you agreed to stay professional about it.

"Don't play dirty," you both promised.

That meant being responsible for each other's campaigns. If someone asked you about Wonwoo’s stance on school policies, he had to answer correctly. If someone questioned him about your plans for student well-being, you had to handle it.

There were three candidates in total. Wonwoo—the top student, known for his intelligence and efficiency. You—the representative of female students, admired for both brains and beauty. And Seungcheol—the rich, well-connected candidate who could probably win just by flashing his wealth.

“You’re acting weird,” Mingyu said, narrowing his eyes at you—or rather, at Wonwoo’s body, which meant he was technically squinting at him. You, stuck in his body, stiffened. “What do you mean?”

Mingyu tilted his head, studying him. “You’re being… polite. Too polite. Wonwoo, you usually glare at everyone, but today? You literally smiled at Soonyoung when he called you ‘princess.’” You, sitting in Wonwoo’s body, internally cringed. Right. You had forgotten about that.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling just as much to keep up with your usual attitude.

“Y/n, are you okay?” one of your classmates asked, frowning as they observed Wonwoo’s body. “You’ve been acting so… serious today.”

Wonwoo barely looked up from the book in front of him. “I’m fine.”

She stared at him, unconvinced. “Uh… you didn’t even whine about how boring today’s lesson is.”

He cursed internally. Right. You always complained about morning classes.

“I’m… trying to be a better student,” he muttered.

She gave a slow nod, still eyeing him suspiciously.

It wasn’t just your friends who were growing suspicious. Professors had started noticing the odd behavior, too. You had always been confident in subjects like marketing and communication, but the moment you sat in Wonwoo’s business economics class, you knew you were doomed.

“Mr. Jeon,” the professor called out, peering at you over his glasses. “Could you summarize the concept of supply and demand in market equilibrium?”

Your mind went blank. Market equilibrium?

You hesitated, scanning the board for hints, but nothing made sense. Silence stretched across the room. The professor raised an eyebrow.

“Uh… equilibrium… is when things are equal…?” you blurted out.

The entire class turned to stare at you in horror. Even Mingyu, sitting beside you, looked concerned. The professor let out a long sigh. “Mr. Jeon, I expected better from you.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was having an equally hard time in your marketing class.

“Miss Ji,” the professor called. “Could you give an example of a successful emotional branding strategy?”

Wonwoo froze. Emotional branding? He knew numbers. He knew statistics. But marketing?

“Uh…” He cleared his throat. “Emotional branding is… when a brand… makes people emotional?”

The professor’s expression remained unreadable. Wonwoo held his breath. “…Technically not wrong,” the professor finally said. “But please elaborate next time.”

Wonwoo exhaled in relief, but he could still feel the judgmental stares of your classmates. Keeping up appearances was exhausting.

You had to remember to act cold, distant, and borderline unapproachable. Every time someone approached you—well, Wonwoo’s body—you had to force yourself not to smile too much.

When you accidentally giggled at a joke Seungkwan made during lunch, he nearly choked on his drink.

“Whoa. Wonwoo, you laughed?”

You immediately straightened your face. “No, I didn’t.”

Seungkwan’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, you did. That was a full-on giggle.”

Meanwhile, Wonwoo was struggling with the opposite problem.

He had to force himself to be approachable. Smile more. Nod during small talk. When someone complimented you on your campaign, he barely responded before remembering that you were supposed to be charismatic.

“Ah… yeah. Thank you,” he muttered awkwardly.

The girl who had complimented you blinked. “Uh… you’re welcome?”

It was painfully obvious something was off.

But despite the challenges, Wonwoo started thinking.

There was an opportunity here.

If he was in your body… and people naturally liked you… then why not use that to his advantage?

You had a way with people. Students admired you. If he played this correctly, he could subtly steer people toward supporting his campaign—without outright sabotaging yours.

It wasn’t cheating.

It was just… strategic use of circumstances.

Sitting in the cafeteria, he overheard a group of students discussing the election. Some were loyal to Seungcheol because of his family’s wealth. Some admired your leadership. But a few were still undecided, considering Wonwoo’s intelligence but unsure about his approachability.

“If only Wonwoo was a little more… open,” one student mused.

“Yeah, he’s brilliant, but he’s kinda cold,” another agreed.

Wonwoo’s lips curled slightly. An opportunity.

The next time he (in your body) spoke to people, he made subtle shifts in conversation.

“Wonwoo’s been under so much pressure lately,” he said casually.

“You know, he doesn’t show it, but he really cares about the school.”

“He’s just not the type to express it openly, but he’s been working hard behind the scenes.”

He didn’t need to lie. He just needed to frame the truth in a way that made people sympathetic.

If students thought he (as himself) was struggling under pressure, they might rally behind him. They might see him as someone deserving of their votes.

And the best part?

No one would suspect manipulation.

Wonwoo adjusted the strap of your bag on his shoulder, casually strolling through the hallway while eavesdropping on conversations. He was getting better at this. Being in your body had its advantages—people naturally gravitated toward you. They trusted you. They listened to you.

So why not use that to his advantage?

As the election campaign heated up, students began discussing the candidates more openly. Seungcheol was securing votes through his endless connections, practically drowning the school in expensive flyers and promotional videos. Meanwhile, your campaign was gaining momentum thanks to your charisma, intelligence, and undeniable appeal.

But Wonwoo?

People respected him but hesitated to support him because of his reserved nature. He needed to change that perception—without breaking his promise to you about playing fair.

So, he started subtly influencing opinions.

During lunch, he sat with a group of students he knew were undecided. He (in your body) let out a sigh, tilting his head thoughtfully.

"You know, Wonwoo doesn’t really show it, but he’s been so dedicated to this campaign," he mused.

A girl across the table looked up. "Really?"

Wonwoo (as you) nodded. "Yeah. I think people misunderstand him. He’s just not the type to brag about his efforts. But I know for a fact that he’s been working late nights planning policies for the school. He doesn’t just want the title—he actually wants to make changes."

Another student leaned in, interested. "I always thought he was a bit distant. Like, he doesn’t really care about people."

Wonwoo let out a small, knowing smile. "That’s not true at all. He’s just not good at expressing it. But if you really talk to him, you’ll see how much he genuinely wants what’s best for the school."

Hook. Line. Sinker.

The students exchanged glances, suddenly reconsidering their stance.

Wonwoo wasn’t lying. He had been working hard, and he did care. But he knew that if he had tried to say all of this in his own body, people would just assume he was defending himself.

But coming from you? Someone they trusted and admired?

It felt genuine.

He kept this strategy up, slipping subtle remarks into conversations, framing his strengths in a way that didn’t sound forced.

At the library, when a group of students discussed who they should vote for, he (as you) casually said,

"Honestly, Wonwoo is the only one who’s actually proposing policies based on data instead of just saying what people want to hear."

At a student council meeting, when people debated about which candidate had the best leadership skills, he (as you) shrugged, "Wonwoo may not talk much, but he’s the most capable. He’s been top of his class for years. If anyone can handle responsibilities, it’s him."

And it worked.

Slowly but surely, more students began considering Wonwoo as a serious contender.

Of course, he had to be careful not to overdo it. If you suddenly became too much of a Wonwoo supporter, people might get suspicious.

So, every now and then, he would slip in a neutral or positive remark about you as well, just to balance things out.

"Y/n is amazing, though. She’s got that natural leadership aura."

"I think between Y/n and Wonwoo, we’d be in good hands either way."

Seungcheol was still dominating with his flashy campaign, but now?

Wonwoo had momentum.

*

Meanwhile, you were starting to notice something was off. At the end of the day, you crossed your arms, watching Wonwoo—well, your body—scribbling something in your campaign notes.

"Why do I feel like you’ve been too invested in my popularity?" you mused, raising an eyebrow.

Wonwoo barely looked up. "I have no idea what you’re talking about." You narrowed your eyes. "Wonwoo."

He sighed, closing the notebook. "Look, I’m just… taking advantage of an opportunity. It’s not cheating—I’m just rebranding myself a little."

"Rebranding?" you repeated, appalled. "You’re using my face to market yourself!"

He leaned back against the chair. "Technically, I’m not lying about anything. I am working hard. I do have solid policies. People just… needed a little push to see that."

You groaned, running a hand through your hair—well, his hair. "I knew I shouldn’t have trusted you."

Wonwoo smirked. "Oh, please. You promised we’d be fair to each other. I never said I wouldn’t be smart about it."

You scoffed, muttering under your breath. "I hate you."

"That’s unfortunate," he said, flipping open your campaign notes again, "because I think I really like being you."

A week.

It had been a week of waking up in Wonwoo’s body, wearing his oversized clothes, walking around with his permanently unimpressed face, and trying to keep up with his ridiculous level of intelligence in class.

You were exhausted.

If this continued any longer, you were going to need therapy.

Wonwoo, sitting on his bed (in your body), smirked. "Oh? Having a hard time living as me?"

You shot him a glare. "You live like this every day? No offense, but it sucks."

"None taken," he said easily. "I’m used to it."

You groaned again, burying your face in your arms. "At this point, I’m just praying we switch back before I completely lose my mind."

Wonwoo hummed, flipping through his phone. "Well, at least you don’t have to deal with your own expenses anymore."

You lifted your head. "Huh?"

He smirked. "I checked your bank balance, Y/n. You’re broke. You can’t even afford new panties."

Your face burned in embarrassment. "Excuse me?!"

Wonwoo laughed, shaking his head. "Relax, I didn’t actually look. But seriously, where does all your money go? I heard my mom has been funding you for years, so what are you spending it on?"

Your expression darkened, but you didn’t answer.

Wonwoo noticed the shift in your demeanor and frowned slightly. "Hey—"

The two of you froze the moment you heard sounds.

Wonwoo’s parents were home.

His mother was sitting in the living room, casually sipping tea, while his father was reading the newspaper. They looked up simultaneously, eyes landing on you first.

"Oh, Y/n," his mother greeted warmly, setting her cup down. "You’re two home already."

Wonwoo—inside your body—stiffened beside you.

You, standing in his body, forced a polite nod. "Uh… yeah. Classes ended a little early today."

His mother smiled. "That’s good. Come, sit down. I was just about to ask chef to prepare some snacks."

Your heart pounded. You had interacted with Wonwoo’s mother plenty of times before, but never while pretending to be her son. One wrong move, and she would know something was off.

You shot a quick glance at Wonwoo, silently screaming, What do I do?!

He only shrugged. Figure it out.

You resisted the urge to strangle him.

His father, who had been silent up until now, finally spoke. "Wonwoo, I heard you’ve been doing well in the election campaign."

You tensed. "Uh… yeah. I guess so."

He nodded approvingly. "Good. If you want to take over the family business one day, this is a good step toward leadership."

You nearly choked. Take over the family business?!

You hadn’t even considered that part of being in Wonwoo’s body.

Meanwhile, Wonwoo, still in your body, sat stiffly on the couch, looking incredibly awkward. You could tell he was doing his best not to react too much.

His mother turned to him. "Y/n, dear, how has Wonwoo been treating you?"

Wonwoo snapped out of his daze. "Huh?"

She smiled gently. "You know, since you’ve been staying here. Has he been a good host?"

Wonwoo blinked. Then, ever so slowly, he smirked.

"Oh, he’s been great," he said smoothly. "Super considerate. Always making sure I’m comfortable. Really making my stay… interesting."

Your eye twitched.

His mother beamed. "That’s wonderful! I always tell him to be more thoughtful toward others."

You clenched your fists. I am going to kill him.

His father, however, was more focused on you. "Wonwoo, I heard you had an important presentation in class today. How did it go?"

Your soul left your body.

Presentation?!

You turned slightly to Wonwoo, panic written all over your face.

He smirked again, clearly enjoying your suffering.

You were so screwed.

*

Dinner with the Jeons was awkward.

You had eaten with his family before, but this time, it felt different. Because this time, you were him. Wonwoo—trapped in your body—sat stiffly across from you, barely touching his food. He was oddly silent, his usual sharp remarks absent. It was almost as if he wasn’t the son of this house at all.

Meanwhile, you tried your best to act like a son. You engaged in small talk with his mother, attempting to mirror the way a child might converse with a parent.

His mother, elegant and poised as ever, seemed pleased by your effort. You knew her well—after all, she had been funding you since junior high school. Yet, you had never had the chance to sit this close, to talk to her as though you belonged at this table.

It felt foreign.

The clinking of silverware against porcelain filled the silence between occasional remarks. Then, just as you were starting to relax, a phone rang.

His mother glanced at the caller ID. "Oh… why is Mrs. Kim calling?"

You froze.

Wonwoo saw the way your shoulders tensed, how your grip on the chopsticks tightened.

Mrs. Kim.

Why was she calling?

Wonwoo felt his own chest tighten with something uncomfortable. It was strange—seeing his own body react so visibly to that name.

He swallowed.

No.

Not in a quadrillion years would he go back to that place. That stinky foster home. That cramped space filled with too many kids, too little food, and too much responsibility.

He refused.

He stared at his mother as she stood up and stepped away from the dining table to take the call, her voice soft yet unreadable.

The seconds dragged on.

Neither of you spoke, but the air in the room had shifted.

When his mother finally returned to her seat, something was different. Her expression wasn’t as lighthearted as before.

She placed her napkin down carefully, looking directly at Wonwoo—who was still in your body.

"Y/n," she said gently, her tone firm yet concerned. "Tell me the truth."

Your stomach twisted.

She folded her hands together. "Why have you been staying here for a week?" A pause. "Be honest."

Wonwoo turned to look at you, his throat tightening.

You looked back at him, equally frozen.

The two of you, sitting in each other’s bodies, mirrored each other’s nervousness so perfectly that if anyone had been watching closely, they might have noticed something was wrong.

You could feel your pulse in your ears. His mother’s eyes were sharp, expectant, waiting for an answer you weren’t sure how to give.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—swallowed hard. His mind raced for an explanation, something that would make sense. But every possible response felt weak under the weight of his mother’s gaze.

You, meanwhile, could feel your palms sweating.

His mother’s gaze didn’t waver.

“Mrs. Kim said you ran away from the foster home after stealing her money.”

"No, she didn't steal anything."

His mother’s gaze snapped toward Wonwoo—toward you. “Do you know something, Wonwoo?”

You hesitated, words catching in the throat. You wanted to say something, but how much could you actually say? His mother didn’t know the truth about the switch, and if you weren't careful, things could get worse.

"I mean..." You started, choosing your words carefully. "Mrs. Kim never really liked her. She's probably just trying to make her look bad so she can take her back."

His mother frowned. "Is that true, Y/n? Mrs. Kim is lying?"

Wonwoo—you—tensed.

You swallowed hard, fingers curling into the fabric of your sleeves. You couldn’t say it outright. You couldn’t risk making things worse. But at the same time, you didn’t want to go back.

"Mrs. Kim..." You shifted in your seat. "She’s never been very fond of her. She always saw her as a burden. And, well..." You forced a weak chuckle. "Let’s just say she has her own way of handling things."

His mother’s expression darkened slightly. "What do you mean?"

You glanced at Wonwoo, at your own face, searching for some kind of lifeline. Wonwoo was watching you closely, his lips pressed in a tight line.

"I—" You exhaled. "There was something more complex and Y/n couldn't just explain it to you."

Silence hung in the air for a beat too long. His mother’s gaze was unreadable, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—concern? Realization?

Wonwoo—inside your body—shifted uncomfortably, gripping the hem of his sweater. He had never thought about what your life was like before. But now, watching you struggle to speak about it, he felt something churn in his gut.

"Mrs. Kim said she wants you to come back," his mother said, her tone quieter now. "If what you're saying is true, then tell me—do you want to go back?"

You inhaled sharply.

And for the first time since the switch, Wonwoo saw something in your eyes that he wasn’t sure he had ever seen before.

Fear.

*

Wonwoo, still trapped in your body, stepped into his own bedroom. It felt strange, standing there as someone else—seeing his familiar space from a different perspective. Normally, this was where he slept, but since his parents were home, he had to take the guest room. The one you usually stayed in.

Leaning against the doorframe, he folded his arms and watched you—watched himself—working on a marketing project. He hated marketing. He hated everything about it. But he knew you were doing it for him, for the presentation he had to give in front of your class tomorrow.

"About earlier…" he started, his voice quieter than before.

You didn't look up, fingers continuing to type away on the laptop.

"Is it true Mrs. Kim doesn’t like you?"

The sound of your typing stuttered for a second. Wonwoo caught the slight pause before you resumed.

"You can be honest with me, you know," he pressed, stepping further into the room. "I mean… I deserve to know. Since I’m you at the moment."

Still, you didn't answer. Your expression remained focused, determinedly avoiding his gaze.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice dropped slightly.

"Is she the one who gave you that wound on your back?"

This time, you finally looked at him.

Your eyes were unreadable.

Wonwoo felt something uneasy settle in his chest. He had never thought about where the scar had come from. He had seen it, felt the sting of it when he moved, but he hadn’t questioned it. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to.

"Is it true?" he asked again, voice firmer now. "She hit you?"

You lowered your gaze.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then, you nodded.

"I’m sorry that you had to bear that."

Wonwoo swallowed. His hands curled into fists at his sides, but he forced himself to stay composed.

He shrugged, as if trying to make light of the weight in his chest, and walked toward the bed. "The staff helped me with ointment. She asked if you had been hit by someone. Like… physically abused."

You didn’t respond right away, but your silence spoke louder than words.

Wonwoo sat on the edge of the bed, staring at his own reflection in the mirror across the room.

He thought about Mrs. Kim. About what kind of person she really was.

And for the first time since this whole body-swapping nightmare began…

He realized that maybe, just maybe, there were worse things than waking up in someone else’s life.

Like living in a life you never chose… and having no way out.

"Let me see… How bad is it?"

You stood from your seat and turned to him. Wonwoo, still in your body, looked up from the bed, brows raised in alarm.

"What?"

You blinked. "Let me see."

A heat crept up his face. "No!" His hands shot up defensively, arms crossed over his chest as if shielding himself.

You rolled your eyes—his eyes. "That’s my body, technically."

"And you’ll be looking at it with my eyes," Wonwoo argued, scooting a little further away from where you stood, hands still up in defense.

"As if you’ve never touched my boobs during a shower," you shot back, unimpressed.

Wonwoo gasped, scandalized. "I’ve been very careful and respectful, for your information," he retorted, voice full of righteous indignation. He narrowed his eyes at you. "And I’d appreciate it if you did the same for mine."

You snorted. "No, seriously, let me see. I don’t remember getting one on my back."

Before Wonwoo could protest again, you turned him around—your own body—and lifted the hem of his shirt.

He let out a sharp squeal, but you ignored it, your attention now focused on the sight before you.

The bruises were in various stages of healing—some faded, others still dark and angry-looking. A deep blue one spread across the lower part of your back, as if someone had struck you with full force. You hadn’t even realized how bad it was. Seeing it now, so clearly, made something inside you twist.

"That’s… brutal," you muttered. It was the first time you had seen the extent of the damage, the history of pain that had accumulated over the years in that foster home.

Wonwoo quickly yanked the shirt back down and turned to face you, his expression serious. "Is Mrs. Kim the one behind all of them?" His voice had lost its teasing edge, replaced by something far heavier—concern, maybe even anger.

You hesitated.

"It’s… a punishment. Everyone got that. I just got a lot more than the others." You took a deep breath.

"Why?"

You shrugged. "I lived there the longest. No one adopted me, so I stayed there for years."

Wonwoo blinked, trying to process that. You had endured this for years? His mind reeled.

"But my mom…"

You shook your head, gaze dropping to the floor. "She just funded me."

It was true—Wonwoo’s mother had funded your education, sending you to an elite private high school and later helping you get into an Ivy League university. But no one ever knew where you came from. Your background had been carefully concealed, your identity kept a secret.

And yet, despite all those privileges, Mrs. Kim had never let you leave the foster home. It was only later that you realized why. The money meant for you had never truly been yours—it had gone straight into her personal bank account. She had given you just enough to cover small personal expenses, but nothing close to what a college student actually needed.

In return, she had assigned you to endless chores, justifying it by saying she had raised you. The truth, however, was much simpler. No one had adopted you, not because they didn’t want to, but because she had made sure of it. You had been nothing more than a source of steady income to her.

Wonwoo exhaled, rubbing his temples. "I don’t want to go back," he muttered. His voice was quieter now, but the weight of his words was undeniable. "It was only a day. But it felt like a day in hell."

You looked at him for a long moment before stepping closer, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"I’ll talk to your parents," you promised. "I’ll make sure you can stay here until we swap back. Don’t worry."

Wonwoo stared at you, still in his body, before nodding. For once, he didn’t argue.

*

You knocked on Wonwoo’s bedroom door Monday morning, already irritated. Both of you had class in an hour, and since he had to drive, he needed to wake up. Now.

"Wonwoo, get up!" you called, knocking harder. Silence.

With a sigh, you pushed the door open—only to find him curled up in a tight fetal position, clutching his stomach like he’d just been mortally wounded.

You blinked. "What are you doing?"

He barely lifted his head. "Dying."

It took you exactly three seconds to realize what was happening.

Your period was coming.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh. "Ohhh. So, how’s it feel?"

"How’s it feel?!" Wonwoo wheezed, shifting slightly—only to immediately wince and curl up tighter. "I feel like someone’s wringing out my insides like a soaked rag while kicking my spine. This is inhumane. You live like this?!"

You shrugged. "Every month."

"Every month?! This happens every month?! For how long?!"

"About five days."

"Five—" He buried his face into the pillow and groaned loudly. "I can’t do this. I can’t live like this. How do women even function? How do you go to school, work, BREATHE?"

"You get used to it." You rolled your eyes before getting a small heating pad packet you’d picked up from the convenience store few days ago, tossing it onto the bed. "Here. Stick this on your stomach."

He eyed it suspiciously. "What is this?"

"A heat patch. It’ll help with the cramps."

He struggled to sit up, tearing open the packet with shaking hands before slapping the patch onto his lower stomach. A few seconds later, he exhaled in relief, sinking back onto the bed. "Oh. Oh, that’s—" He let out a soft, almost embarrassing noise. "Nice."

You raised an eyebrow. "Did you just moan?"

"Shut up."

You snickered before heading for the door. "I’ll get you some painkillers. You have ten minutes before I drag you out of bed."

"I’m not gonna make it," he groaned, dramatically throwing an arm over his face. "Just leave me here to die."

You smirked. "Get up, or I’ll make your body buy pads in broad daylight."

His eyes snapped open in pure terror.

You had never seen him sit up so fast.

As the day went on, the pain dulled to a manageable ache, but Wonwoo was still visibly uncomfortable. He kept shifting in his seat, frowning every few minutes, and muttering curses under his breath. At one point, he glared at you as if this was somehow your fault.

By the evening, his parents were preparing to leave the city again. The two of you stood at the entrance, watching as his father loaded their luggage into the car. His mother straightened Wonwoo’s—your—collar before stepping back with a warm smile.

"Take care of yourself, Y/n. And you too, Wonwoo. Don’t forget to review those documents I sent over for your internship."

His father adjusted his watch and turned to you—well, to Wonwoo. "We’ll talk more when I’m back, but I trust you’ll take this internship seriously. It’s time for you to step up."

You blinked. What internship?

Your head snapped toward Wonwoo—who was standing beside you in your body—only to see him freeze like a deer caught in headlights. His wide eyes screamed I forgot to tell you about this.

"Uh..." You cleared your throat, trying to keep your expression neutral. "Right. Of course."

Wonwoo's father nodded approvingly. "Good. This is an important step. You’ll be working directly with the executive team to prepare for your role in the company."

Your role? What role?

You stole another glance at Wonwoo, your face silently asking What the hell is he talking about?

Wonwoo, in your body, gave you a strained smile and the tiniest shake of his head, as if saying, Later. Just nod and agree.

So you did. Hesitantly. "Yeah. Got it."

His father clapped a hand on your shoulder, almost knocking the air out of you. "That’s what I like to hear. Make me proud."

You forced a smile, though internally, you were screaming.

After a few more goodbyes, his parents got into the car and drove away. The moment they were out of sight, you turned to Wonwoo, arms crossed.

"What. Internship."

Wonwoo groaned, rubbing his temples. "God, I was hoping you wouldn’t hear that."

"Well, I did. And now you’re gonna explain."

"It’s just some stupid business internship," he muttered, looking anywhere but at you.

"Business internship? You mean, for your family business?"

He shot you an unimpressed look. "No, for the bakery down the street. Yes, for my family business."

Your jaw nearly dropped. "You’re supposed to be the heir?"

He rolled his eyes. "Apparently."

"Since when?"

"Since I was born," he said bitterly. "They never pushed too hard before, but now that I’m getting older, they think it’s time I 'step up' and 'fulfill my role.'" He made exaggerated air quotes. "It’s stupid."

You frowned, watching him closely. He wasn’t just annoyed—he looked exhausted.

"You don’t want to do it," you said quietly.

"No, I don’t. But they don’t care what I want." He scoffed. "It doesn’t matter that I hate it. That I want to do something else. All that matters is that I have their last name and was born first."

For the first time since the swap, you saw something vulnerable beneath his usual sarcasm. It made your chest tighten a little.

You hesitated before saying, "Then why don’t you just... refuse?"

He let out a dry laugh. "You think it’s that easy?"

"I think you should at least try to talk to them."

He sighed, shaking his head. "It’s not that simple, Y/n."

Maybe it wasn’t. But the way his shoulders slumped made you think that, for a long time, he had felt trapped. And no matter how much he acted like it didn’t bother him, deep down, it did.

"What do you want to do then?" you asked, settling onto his bed.

The two of you had just finished gathering your things—his things, technically—since his parents were gone and it was time to return to your designated rooms.

Wonwoo leaned back against the headboard, arms crossed. "Journalism."

Your brow lifted in surprise. "I remember you were in the journalism club back in high school."

"Yeah."

A memory resurfaced, making you smirk. "You wrote an entire article about me beating you in chemistry and taking first place. Called me a 'lucky fluke.'"

Wonwoo let out a small chuckle. "I was very bitter about that."

"You were such a sore loser."

He scoffed. "I had a reputation to uphold!"

You laughed. "Right, right. And now, look at you. So mature."

He sighed dramatically. "Yeah... I’ve grown a lot."

You gave him a skeptical look.

"I mean," he continued, "I’m literally experiencing a period right now. That has to count for something."

Your lips twitched. "Oh, of course. Nothing says personal growth like surviving cramps."

He nodded solemnly. "I have transcended. I'm practically enlightened."

You rolled your eyes but couldn't stop yourself from laughing. "Idiot."

You leaned back on your elbows, tilting your head as you looked at him. "By the way, why did you even run for student president?"

Wonwoo exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "I needed influence."

You blinked. "What?"

He shrugged. "Connections. A reputation. If I ever wanted to pursue journalism seriously, I needed to build a name for myself early on."

You stared at him for a second before bursting into laughter. "Oh my God, you sound like a villain setting up a master plan."

Wonwoo rolled his eyes. "It’s called thinking ahead. You wouldn’t understand."

"Oh, I wouldn’t understand?" You scoffed, sitting up straighter. "Alright, then why do you think I ran for student president?"

He tilted his head, thinking for a moment before shrugging. "For the experience?"

You shook your head.

"To put on your resume?"

Another shake.

He frowned. "To prove you’re better than me?"

You smirked but shook your head again. "Nope. I needed a place to stay."

Wonwoo’s frown deepened. "What do you mean?"

You inhaled before answering. "The student president gets a free dorm on campus. I needed a way out of the foster home, and that was my best shot."

Wonwoo went quiet, his gaze searching yours as if piecing together things he hadn't realized before. "You… ran because you needed housing?"

You nodded. "Yeah. Mrs. Kim never planned on letting me move out. The only way I could leave was if I had a legitimate reason that even she couldn't argue against. A free dorm with full coverage? She couldn’t say no to that."

He was silent for a long moment before muttering, "Damn."

You chuckled, but there was no humor in it. "Not all of us can afford to run for power moves, Mr. Influence."

Wonwoo sighed, rubbing his face. "I really had no idea…"

"It’s fine," you said, waving it off. "I made it out, didn’t I?"

He looked at you, expression unreadable. Then, with a small huff, he muttered, "I still think my reason was cooler."

You threw a pillow at him.

*

The presidential election had finally concluded, and to your surprise, your votes ranked in the top two alongside Seungcheol. The final results hadn’t been announced yet, but sitting in the driver’s seat, Wonwoo was already sulking like a kid who dropped his ice cream.

"Seungcheol has a lot of influence, you know," you said, trying to lift his mood as you buckled your seatbelt.

Wonwoo huffed, arms crossed. "Yeah, yeah. He’s charismatic, well-connected, and has professors wrapped around his finger. We get it."

You smirked. "Sounds like you’re a big fan."

He shot you a glare. "I'm not. I just don't like losing."

"You made it to the top two. That’s not losing."

"It’s not winning either," he grumbled, resting his chin on the steering wheel. "I had a plan. I worked hard. I even made small talk with people, and you know how much I hate that."

You chuckled. "Oh no, not small talk. The ultimate sacrifice."

Wonwoo groaned, tilting his head back against the headrest. "You don’t get it. I needed this. Influence is important."

You grinned. "Yeah, tell me. I was just trying to get a dorm."

Wonwoo let out a long sigh, starting the car. "Well, at least if you win, I'll be stuck in power with someone who won’t make my life hell."

You laughed. "Aww, is that your way of saying you trust me?"

He clicked his tongue, pretending to focus on the road. "No. It’s my way of saying I don’t trust Seungcheol."

"Right, right," you teased. "Whatever helps you sleep at night, Mr. Almost-President."

Wonwoo’s phone—well, technically, your phone—buzzed on the dashboard. He glanced at the screen, then at you, hesitating.

"It's my mom."

Wonwoo's grip on the phone lingered even after the call ended, his mind racing. His mother had sounded calm, but he knew her well enough to recognize when she was holding something back.

"She knows," he said suddenly, breaking the silence.

You blinked, lifting your gaze to meet his. "What?"

"My mom—she knows what Mrs. Kim has been doing to you."

Your breath hitched. "How?"

Wonwoo hesitated. He hadn’t told you yet, but when he had been in your body, experiencing firsthand the bruises, the way your muscles flinched at sudden movements, the way Mrs. Kim had spoken to him—he hadn’t been able to keep it to himself. He had confided in his mother, unable to hold back his anger.

"I told her," he admitted, watching your reaction carefully. "When I was in your body, I couldn’t just ignore it. She knew something was wrong, and I… I told her everything."

You stared at him, emotions flickering across your face—shock, confusion, and something else, something raw.

"She’s getting the police involved," Wonwoo continued. "She already contacted them, and they’re starting an investigation."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words pressing down on you. "An investigation?"

He nodded. "We’re not letting her get away with this."

For the first time, real hope flickered in your eyes, but there was also hesitation. "But… she’s always covered her tracks. She’ll deny everything."

"She can try," Wonwoo said firmly. "But I already went for a visum et repertum."

Your eyes widened. "You what?"

"A forensic medical exam," he explained. "To document the bruises, the scars—everything she did to you." His jaw clenched. "I needed proof. And now we have it."

You sat there in stunned silence, struggling to process it all.

"Wonwoo, you—"

"She’s not laying another hand on you," he said, his voice low but unwavering. "Not now, not ever."

Your fingers curled into your lap, emotions overwhelming you. You had spent so many years believing no one would ever step in, that no one would ever truly see what was happening behind closed doors.

But Wonwoo had. And he wasn’t backing down.

Tears pricked at your eyes, but you blinked them away, forcing out a small, shaky laugh. "You really went and did all that?"

He gave a half-smile, shrugging. "Yeah, well… I might have a soft spot for you."

That startled a genuine laugh out of you, light and breathless.

For the first time in a long time, you felt something unfamiliar creeping into your chest—something warm. Something safe.

Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare was finally coming to an end.

*

Wonwoo stood beside his mother, his heart pounding in his chest as the police officer laid out the results of the investigation. He glanced at you—his own body—sitting stiffly beside him, hands clenched into fists. He could see the tension in your posture, the way your shoulders barely moved with your breathing. He understood why. Every word the officer spoke only made the weight in his stomach sink deeper.

"Tonight, we will take Mrs. Kim into custody," the officer stated firmly. "We've gathered substantial evidence, including records showing she registered life insurance policies for over ten children under her care. One of them was a boy who died from hypothermia."

Wonwoo felt a sharp chill crawl up his spine. "Hypothermia?" he repeated, his voice coming out in your tone.

The officer nodded grimly. "She drowned him," he clarified, sliding a file onto the coffee table. "The forensic reports prove it. The original findings were covered up, but we managed to recover them."

A nauseating feeling twisted in his gut. He had suspected Mrs. Kim was cruel, but this… this was beyond anything he had imagined. He turned his gaze toward you—you were staring at the photos in the file, your expression blank, but he knew you well enough to see the terror hiding beneath it.

His mother, who had been listening quietly until now, suddenly stiffened. Her sharp eyes locked onto one of the documents in the officer’s hand. She reached for it, flipping through the pages before pausing.

Then she froze.

"There's your name," she murmured, glancing at him.

Wonwoo leaned forward, eyes scanning the document. It was an insurance registration. The name on it was yours.

"She took out a policy on you six months ago," the officer confirmed.

His breath caught in his throat. He turned to look at you again, and for the first time since this nightmare began, he saw pure fear in your eyes.

His jaw clenched as his mother exhaled sharply, gripping the paper tightly. "She was planning to..," he said, his voice dark with anger.

His mother closed her eyes briefly before fixing the officer with a hardened gaze. "She won’t get away with this, will she?"

The officer shook his head. "No. We have enough evidence now to ensure she faces the full weight of the law."

Silence settled over the room like a suffocating fog. Wonwoo’s mother slowly reached for your hand—his hand—and squeezed it gently.

"You're safe now," she whispered.

*

The news came late at night. Mrs. Kim had been arrested. The police had raided the foster home, taking her into custody without incident. The children had been removed from the house, placed under temporary care while they underwent medical check-ups and psychological evaluations.

You sat in Wonwoo’s room—his real room, not the shared space in the foster home—legs tucked under you as you stared blankly at the floor. It still didn’t feel real. After years of suffering, years of thinking no one would ever come to help, it was over. Mrs. Kim was gone.

Wonwoo—still in your body—watched you carefully from across the room. He could see the exhaustion in your posture, the way your fingers trembled slightly as you held onto the blanket draped over your lap. You had barely spoken since the police update.

"You should sleep," he said softly.

You exhaled a small laugh, shaking your head. "I don’t think I can."

Silence settled between you. Then, after a moment, you looked up at him, your expression unreadable.

"Thank you," you said, voice quiet but steady.

Wonwoo blinked. "For what?"

You let out a breath, searching for the right words. "If it weren’t for you… none of this would’ve happened. Mrs. Kim would still be out there. The kids would still be suffering. I—" You paused, looking down at your hands. "I might not even be alive."

The weight of your words hit him hard. He didn’t know what to say. Instead, he just stared at you, watching as the tension in your shoulders slowly unraveled.

"You didn’t have to help me," you continued. "But you did. You fought for me when I couldn’t fight for myself."

Wonwoo swallowed, something heavy settling in his chest. "You deserved it," he said simply.

You met his eyes, and for the first time since this nightmare began, you felt something close to relief.

"Yeah," you murmured. "I think… I’m finally starting to believe that."

Wonwoo, still in your body, moved to your side, his expression unreadable. Before you could say anything, he pulled you into his arms. The embrace was firm, grounding, and for a moment, you forgot about the weight of everything that had happened.

You stiffened slightly at first—it was strange, feeling your own body hold you—but the warmth of his touch, the steady rhythm of his breathing, made it easier to let go. Slowly, you relaxed against him.

"You’re safe now," he murmured. "It’s over."

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his—your—shirt. "It doesn’t feel real."

"I know," Wonwoo said, his grip tightening just a little. "But it is."

Silence settled between you, thick with everything unspoken. The weight of the past few days, of the fear, the uncertainty, the fight—it all hung in the air. But underneath it, there was relief.

Wonwoo pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. Even though he was in your body, the concern in his gaze was entirely his. "If I hadn’t gotten there in time—" He shook his head, exhaling sharply. "I don’t even want to think about it."

"But you did," you reminded him, offering a small, tired smile. "You saved me. And not just me—all the kids in that house. If it weren’t for you, they’d still be suffering."

Wonwoo’s grip on you tightened for a moment before he finally nodded. "Yeah. I guess we saved them together."

He watched your eyes and hesitated, his grip on you loosening just slightly, but he didn’t pull away completely. His eyes flickered to your lips for just a second before he caught himself, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts.

You noticed.

Before you could overthink it, you leaned in, pressing a soft, fleeting kiss against his lips—a mere brush, a hesitation wrapped in warmth. It was barely anything, just a peck, but the way Wonwoo froze made your heart race.

When you pulled back, his eyes widened, lips parted as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words. You stepped back slightly, giving him space, but the air between you had changed.

"What was that?" he finally asked, voice quiet.

You swallowed, suddenly unsure. "I… don’t know."

A beat of silence.

"We were enemies, right?" Wonwoo said, his brows furrowing in thought. "Back in high school, we couldn’t stand each other."

You let out a small, breathless laugh. "Yeah, I guess we were."

"But then… somehow, we became friends," he continued, his voice softer now. "I don’t even know when that happened."

You met his gaze, something unspoken lingering between you. "And now?"

Wonwoo didn’t answer right away. He lifted a hand as if he wanted to reach for you but hesitated at the last second. Instead, he exhaled, shaking his head with a small, almost amused smile.

"I have no idea," he admitted. "What are we now?"

You didn’t have an answer either. But as you looked at him—at the way he was watching you, searching for something—maybe that was okay. Maybe you’d figure it out together.

*

The morning light filtered through the curtains, casting a soft glow across the room. You shifted slightly, feeling warmth against you—an arm draped loosely around your waist, a steady heartbeat beneath your cheek.

For a moment, you didn’t think much of it. It felt natural, comfortable. The exhaustion from the past few days had melted into this quiet moment of peace.

Then it hit you.

You shot up, your eyes widening as you took in the sight in front of you. Wonwoo was still half-asleep, his hair a mess, eyes barely open as he blinked up at you in confusion. But that wasn’t what made your breath catch.

It was him. His face. His body.

And then you looked down at yourself.

Your hands—your hands—small, familiar. You touched your face, feeling the features you had grown up with.

Panic and realization hit at the same time.

"Wonwoo," you gasped.

At the sound of his name, he frowned, groggy, his voice rough from sleep. "What?"

You grabbed his shoulders, shaking him slightly. "We—"

Then his eyes widened, fully waking up as he sat up abruptly. His hands darted to his own face, his own chest. He looked at you, then at himself, then back at you again.

"We’re back," he breathed.

You both stared at each other, the weight of everything crashing down. The confusion, the fear, the chaos of switching lives—it was over.

A mix of emotions swirled inside you. Relief. Disbelief. Maybe even… a little sadness?

Somehow, in all of this, you and Wonwoo had gone from being enemies, to reluctant allies, to something more. And now, back in your own bodies, you weren’t sure what came next.

"You were cuddling me," Wonwoo suddenly pointed out, a smirk creeping onto his lips.

Your face heated instantly. "You were cuddling me!"

He hummed, stretching lazily. "I don’t remember pushing you away."

"Ugh, you’re insufferable."

But there was no real bite behind your words. You were too relieved, too overwhelmed, and maybe even… a little happy.

Because somehow, through all of this, you had found him.

*

You moved out as soon as Seungcheol, the newly elected student president, handed you a key after pulling some strings to secure you a free room in the student dorm. It was a relief—a chance to finally breathe on your own, away from the chaos of the past few months.

"Don't forget, you owe me," he said, a smirk playing on his lips as he twirled the keyring around his finger like some grand prize. He was clearly enjoying this.

You rolled your eyes but snatched the key from his hand anyway. "Aye aye, captain," you muttered, stuffing it into your pocket.

Seungcheol chuckled, leaning lazily against the doorframe. "Oh, and your boyfriend—think he’d be interested in filling the media and advocacy position?"

You froze mid-step, your fingers tightening around the key. "He's not my boyfriend," you shot back, a little sharper than intended. Heat crept up your neck, and you hated how easily he could fluster you with just a few words.

Seungcheol’s brow arched, clearly unimpressed by your denial. "Don't lie to me. You think I didn’t notice how often you talked him up during the campaign?"

You scoffed, turning the key in the lock just for something to do. "I wasn’t talking him up."

"Really?" His smirk widened. "So saying he's ‘sharp, capable, and annoyingly good at everything’ was criticism?"

You opened your mouth to argue, but the words caught in your throat as realization dawned on you. It wasn’t you who had said those things about Wonwoo. It was him, using your body.

That little—

Your jaw tightened, a wave of embarrassment washing over you. The thought of Wonwoo casually praising himself while pretending to be you made you want to throw something. Of course, he had made you sound like his biggest fan.

You exhaled sharply, deciding this was a battle for another day. "I’ll ask him," you muttered, pushing open the door to your new dorm.

"Good," Seungcheol said, straightening up. "And let me know when you two finally admit you’re together."

"Seungcheol—"

"See you at the next meeting, Madam Secretary," he called over his shoulder, throwing you a knowing wink before strolling off down the hallway.

You groaned, running a hand down your face as you glared at the empty space where he had just stood. Annoying.

With a sigh, you stepped inside your new dorm room, shutting the door behind you. The silence was almost deafening compared to the whirlwind of everything that had happened recently. You glanced down at the key in your palm, feeling the weight of it.

A new beginning. A fresh start.

But somehow, you had the feeling that no matter what, Wonwoo was going to be right in the middle of it all.

Just like now, the tall boy was sitting on the floor, unboxing your books and carefully placing them on the shelves. The only sound in the room was the occasional hum from your lips—a rare moment of quiet between the two of you. It struck you as odd.

Wonwoo was never this silent around you.

You turned, only to catch him flipping through one of your books. But from the worn-out cover and the way his brows slightly raised in interest, you knew exactly what it was.

Your high school diary.

Your stomach dropped.

In a flash, you slid across the floor to his side, reaching for the book, but he was faster. With a teasing smirk, he turned his body away, holding it just out of your reach as he continued reading like he wasn’t blatantly invading your privacy.

"That's my diary, Wonwoo," you hissed, stretching to snatch it from his grasp.

"As if I hadn’t literally lived in that body of yours," he quipped, his smirk widening.

You huffed, crossing your arms in frustration. You honestly didn’t even remember what you had written in that diary—probably a bunch of pointless high school drama and petty complaints about your elite private school.

That is, until he read one line aloud.

"Mingyu is annoyingly kind and smart for the rich kids."

You groaned, immediately burying your face in your hands. "Please stop."

Wonwoo chuckled, clearly enjoying himself as he leaned back against the bed. "And he's handsome too, I guess. You like Mingyu?!"

"Past tense," you muttered, peeking at him between your fingers. "And honestly, who didn’t back in high school?"

His amusement lingered as he continued flipping through the pages, but then, without warning, his smile faded.

He stilled.

His brows furrowed.

When he finally looked at you, there was something unreadable in his expression. "It was intentional?"

Your breath hitched at the shift in his tone. "What?"

Before you could grab the diary, he turned it around so you could see the passage.

And then, it hit you.

The memory resurfaced instantly—the day you had scribbled those frustrated words after an exam. The day you had deliberately answered one question wrong just to land in second place.

Wonwoo’s voice was quieter this time. "My father asked you to do that?"

His eyes scanned your face, searching for confirmation, as he tried to process what he had just read.

Your fingers curled tightly around the diary as you exhaled, leaning back against the bed. There was no point in hiding it now—not when he had already read the truth for himself.

"It was to secure my scholarship," you admitted, your voice quieter than before.

Wonwoo's brows remained furrowed, his hands tightening slightly around the book. "What?"

You swallowed, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "Your father... he told Mrs. Kim that I was never to step into your level—meaning the highest I was allowed to place was second."

The words hung heavy in the air, thick with unspoken resentment and long-buried frustration.

Wonwoo’s jaw tensed. "He told you that?"

"Not directly. Mrs. Kim did," you clarified, gripping the diary a little tighter. "She said it was a condition. That as long as I stayed beneath you, I could keep my scholarship. My tuition would stay covered, my future secured—as long as I didn’t outshine you."

Wonwoo stared at you, and for the first time since you met him, there was no teasing, no sarcasm, no sharp-witted remarks. Just silence.

He wasn’t even looking at the diary anymore. His gaze was locked onto you, his expression unreadable.

"You were forced to stay second place," he finally said, his voice almost detached, like he was still trying to wrap his head around it.

You shrugged, forcing a small, bitter smile. "It wasn't that hard. You were better than me, anyway."

"That's not the point," he snapped, the sudden edge in his voice making you blink. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before shaking his head. "That’s why you never challenged me, isn’t it? Why you never tried to win?"

You hesitated before nodding. "Would it have mattered?"

Wonwoo let out a humorless chuckle, but there was no amusement in his eyes. "And here I thought you just enjoyed losing to me."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes. "Yeah, because that sounds like something I’d do."

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he stared at you like he was seeing you in an entirely different light.

Like he was starting to understand something he never had before.

Wonwoo let out a deep breath, his gaze dropping to the diary still clutched in your hands. His fingers twitched, like he wanted to reach for it again—but instead, he just sat there, staring at nothing in particular.

Then, to your surprise, he laughed. A quiet, almost disbelieving sound.

"Wow," he murmured, shaking his head. "So all this time... you were holding back for me."

You frowned. "Not for you—"

"Still," he cut in, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. "You let me win. Over and over. You fed my ego for years."

You didn’t know what to say to that. Was he mad? Annoyed?

But then he exhaled, running a hand through his hair, and you saw something unexpected in his expression.

"Thank you."

You blinked. "What?"

"Thank you," he repeated, his voice softer this time. "For letting me think I was the best. For... making me feel like I was good at something."

There was no sarcasm. No teasing. Just a raw honesty that made your chest tighten.

"I didn’t do it for you," you muttered, looking away.

"I know." He tilted his head slightly, watching you. "But you still did."

You let out a breath, shaking your head. "Why are you even thanking me? It’s not like I had a choice."

Wonwoo leaned back against the bed, his expression unreadable. "Because if you hadn't, I probably would've lost my mind."

You frowned.

"My dad—he always expected me to be the best. Not just in school, but in everything." He let out a small, humorless laugh. "And I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. But the scores? The rankings? That was the only thing that made me feel like I was good enough. Like I actually deserved something."

You stared at him, the weight of his words settling in.

"You have no idea how badly I needed that validation," he admitted. "How badly I needed to believe I was the best at something. Even if it was fake."

You swallowed. You had never thought of it that way before. You had always seen Wonwoo as someone untouchable—smart, capable, and always one step ahead of you. But now, sitting here, hearing him admit that he needed to win...

He wasn’t as untouchable as you thought.

"You weren’t bad, you know," you said after a moment. "Even without me holding back, you probably still would’ve beaten me."

He let out a breathy chuckle, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "Maybe. But at least now I know the truth."

Silence settled between you, heavy and unspoken.

You sighed, shifting so you were fully facing him. Wonwoo had always carried himself like he had everything under control, like he never wavered. But now, sitting here, you could see the cracks in that image—the weight of expectations, the pressure he had put on himself for years.

"You don’t have to be the best at everything, you know," you said quietly.

Wonwoo looked at you, surprised by your words.

"You’re already smart," you continued. "Responsible. Honest to a fault." You hesitated before adding, "You even helped me with Mrs. Kim when you didn’t have to."

His brows furrowed slightly. "That doesn’t mean—"

"You could’ve caused trouble while you were in my body," you cut him off. "You could’ve made my life a mess, done things just to spite me. But you didn’t. You helped me. You took care of things. That says more about you than any stupid ranking ever could."

Wonwoo didn’t respond right away, his expression unreadable. You weren’t sure if he was actually listening or if he was just waiting for you to stop talking. But then, after a long pause, he let out a quiet chuckle.

"So you’re saying I’m a good person?"

You rolled your eyes. "I’m saying you don’t have to prove that you are. You already are. And that’s enough."

Wonwoo blinked, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your words. Then, slowly, a small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips.

"That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me."

You scoffed, nudging his arm. "Don’t get used to it."

But the warmth in his gaze lingered, and for the first time, you saw him believe it.

Wonwoo let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "You know, if this were some kind of cliché moment in a movie, you’d kiss me right now. Like last time."

You snorted, crossing your arms. "Oh, please."

But his words triggered a memory—the last time your lips met.

"Besides," you added, tilting your head at him, "I technically didn’t kiss you last time. It was more like a peck. And even then, it wasn’t me kissing you—it was me in your body, so it was your lips touching mine."

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in slightly. "Sounds like a lot of excuses."

Before you could roll your eyes again, he reached for your wrist, pulling you just close enough that your breath hitched. His gaze flickered to your lips for just a second before he murmured,

"Let’s fix that, then."

And before you could even think of a response, he closed the distance, pressing his lips against yours.

This time, it wasn’t just a peck.

*

Wonwoo sat stiffly across from his father, unsure why he had been called to this unexpected meeting. His father, always composed and stern, sipped his tea before finally setting the cup down with a decisive clink.

"I’ve been thinking," his father began, his deep voice carrying an unusual softness, "about your future."

Wonwoo’s shoulders tensed. He was ready for another lecture, another reminder of his predetermined path. But then—

"I’ve decided," his father continued, "that if you truly want to pursue journalism, you have my support."

Wonwoo blinked. He must have misheard. His father? Supporting his dream?

His father adjusted his glasses, tapping a finger against the table. "I read your work—the articles, the essays, the investigative pieces you’ve written over the years. There’s potential, Wonwoo. Real potential. I wasn’t convinced before, but now…" He exhaled, looking directly at his son. "I see it."

Wonwoo’s mind raced. How did his father—?

Then his eyes flicked to his laptop sitting on the desk nearby. A strange feeling gnawed at him. Slowly, he reached for it, opening his email.

His inbox showed a long thread between him and his father—except… he didn’t remember sending these.

Clicking through, his breath caught. Attached were all the articles, drafts, and opinion pieces he had ever written, even the ones he had abandoned, perfectly formatted and sent with a professional, persuasive message:

"Father, I know journalism wasn’t the future you envisioned for me, but writing has always been my passion. I hope you can see the effort I’ve put into it. All I ask is for you to read and reconsider. If there’s any part of you that believes in me, please support this dream."

The email was formal, respectful—something Wonwoo would never have dared to send himself.

Because he didn’t send it.

Realization struck.

You.

While you were in his body, you had gathered every piece of writing he had ever done and sent it to his father, pushing for the approval he had been too afraid to ask for himself.

A lump formed in his throat.

"You…" Wonwoo murmured under his breath, still staring at the screen. His heart pounded, caught between disbelief and something else—something warm, something deep.

His father took another sip of tea. "I’m ready to support you, son. If this is what you want, you don’t have to fight for it alone."

Wonwoo swallowed, his grip tightening around the laptop. His lips parted, but no words came out.

Because for the first time in his life, he realized—

Someone had fought for him first.

*

Years later, Wonwoo came home to find you curled up on the couch, absentmindedly flipping through TV channels. The familiar sight of you—your hair messy, your legs tucked under a blanket—made something in his chest unclench. Without a word, he let his tired body collapse onto you, his arms wrapping around your waist as he buried his face in your stomach.

You huffed at the sudden weight but didn’t push him away. Instead, your fingers instinctively found their way into his hair, gently brushing through the strands.

"I'm so tired," he mumbled, his voice muffled against your shirt.

You chuckled, feeling the vibration of his words against you. "Journalism finally hit you?"

Wonwoo groaned dramatically before shifting, propping himself up just enough to look at you. "My senior is evil. How could he make us stay in the police station for two days?"

Your brows raised. "Got any news?"

He sighed, shaking his head before letting his head fall onto your lap, his face turned toward you. His dark eyes studied your features, the corners of his lips tugging into something softer, something unspoken.

"And I missed you," he murmured.

You rolled your eyes, though your fingers never stopped their soothing motions through his hair. "You're so dramatic."

"Am I?" He smirked lazily. "You should've seen how miserable I was without you."

You scoffed, pretending to ignore the way your heart fluttered at his words. It had taken months—months of stolen kisses, secret touches, and endless bickering—before the two of you had finally admitted what everyone else had seen from the start.

Mingyu, fed up with your ridiculous denial, had finally intervened. And by "intervened," it meant shoving you and Wonwoo into a closet during a party and refusing to let you out until you confessed your feelings. It was a long, messy story—one that involved a lot of yelling, some threats, and a victorious Mingyu grinning like a proud matchmaker.

And yet, it had worked.

Now, here you were, years later, with Wonwoo sprawled across you like he belonged there. Because, in a way, he did.

"You’re such a baby," you teased, lightly flicking his forehead.

He caught your hand before you could pull away, intertwining his fingers with yours. "Only for you."

You felt it before you saw it—the subtle shift in the way Wonwoo’s fingers curled around yours, the slow, deliberate drag of his thumb against your palm. His other hand, which had been resting idly on your waist, started to move, fingertips tracing light, teasing patterns over the fabric of your shirt.

Your breath hitched when he pressed a little firmer, his touch no longer innocent, no longer just an affectionate gesture.

"Wonwoo," you murmured, though it came out softer than intended, barely a warning.

His lips twitched, eyes flicking up to yours, dark and knowing. "What?" he asked, voice low, lazy, but there was something else there too—something heavier, something that made your stomach flip.

"You’re tired," you pointed out, though even to your own ears, it sounded like a weak excuse.

Wonwoo hummed, shifting slightly until he was lying on his side, one arm draped around your waist, the other still tangled with your fingers. "Yeah," he agreed, nuzzling into your stomach. "But I still missed you."

You swallowed when his nose brushed against the hem of your shirt, the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin. His fingers slipped under the fabric, skimming your hip before sliding up, slow and unhurried.

Your skin prickled under his touch, and he must've felt your reaction because his smirk deepened.

"Wonwoo," you tried again, but this time, your voice betrayed you, dipping into something breathier, something more wanting.

"Hmm?" He looked up at you, feigning innocence, but the way his fingers flexed against your waist, the way his lips barely brushed against your stomach before pulling back—it was anything but innocent.

Your fingers twitched in his hair, torn between pulling him away and pulling him closer.

And from the way his smirk widened, you had a feeling he already knew which one you were leaning toward.

You sucked in a breath when Wonwoo’s fingers trailed lower, his touch lazy, teasing, like he had all the time in the world. His palm skimmed over your thigh, fingertips pressing just enough to make you shiver. His head remained on your lap, but his eyes were locked on yours, watching every little reaction.

"You're really not going to stop me, huh?" he murmured, amusement lacing his tone.

Your fingers curled in his hair, torn between pulling him away and keeping him right where he was. "Wonwoo," you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was meant to stop him or encourage him.

He chuckled, the deep sound vibrating through you, before his fingers slipped just a little further, skimming over the waistband of your shorts. Your breath stuttered, body tensing in anticipation.

"You’re so easy to tease," he mused, his lips curving as he pressed a kiss to your stomach.

You swatted at his shoulder, though there was no real strength behind it. "You’re impossible."

"And yet, you still let me touch you."

His fingers flexed again, just a whisper of movement against your skin, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. The heat in his gaze was unmistakable, and the air between you felt thick, charged.

Your lips parted to say something—maybe to challenge him, maybe to tell him to keep going—but before you could, his fingers dipped lower, making you gasp.

Wonwoo smirked, leaning in closer. "Yeah," he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction. "I thought so."

Wonwoo's fingers danced across your heated flesh, tracing the sensitive inner thighs, his touch both teasing and tantalizing. You parted your legs slightly, inviting him deeper into the haven of your intimacy. His calloused palm grazed the damp lace of your panties, the delicate material offering little barrier against the scorching heat of your core.

With a knowing smirk, Wonwoo hooked his fingers into the waistband of your underwear, slowly peeling them down your hips to reveal your glistening, needy center. He dipped a finger into the slick folds, gathering your essence and rubbing it along your throbbing clit in a deliberate rhythm.

"You're so wet for me already," he purred, his voice low and husky with desire. "Tell me, do you miss me as much as I miss you?"

The overwhelming ache within you demanded release, begging for Wonwoo's touch to quench the thirst that had built throughout the day apart. You nodded frantically, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you surrendered to the intensity of your longing.

"Yes, I miss you so much," You whimpered, arching into his skilled caresses. "Please, Wonwoo... I need you inside me."

At your plea, Wonwoo stood abruptly, scooping you effortlessly into his arms.

He carried you swiftly towards the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind you with a resolute click. Once there, he set you down on the edge of the bed, his dark eyes smoldering with unrestrained hunger as he shed the remainder of his clothes with swift, practiced movements.

"Nowhere else I'd rather be than right here, buried deep within your sweet heat," he declared, his rigid length jutting out prominently, aching to claim its rightful place inside you once again.

"I'm dying to taste you, sweetheart, but I can barely control myself." Wonwoo spat onto your dripping slit, the warm droplets mingling with your arousal. "Gotta get inside you, now."

He positioned himself at your entrance, the swollen head of his member nudging against your slick heat.

With a steady, controlled thrust, Wonwoo sheathed himself fully within you, his thickness stretching and filling you to the brim. He paused for a moment, allowing you to adjust to his size, before withdrawing until just the tip remained inside.

"Are you ready, baby?" he asked, his voice rough with restrained passion.

You nodded, your hips lifting eagerly to meet his next push forward.

Wonwoo's grip tightened on your hips as he began to move, his thrusts slow and deliberate, each stroke dragging out the pleasure until it bordered on agony. He leaned down, capturing your thing between his teeth, nibbling and suckling in time with his measured pace.

With agonizing slowness, Wonwoo continued to drive into you, each inch a tantalizing exploration of your innermost depths. His teeth grazed your thing, sending electric shocks straight to your core as his fingers found your sensitive clit, circling the tender bud with maddening gentleness.

"Wonwoo...Yes..." You whimpered, lost in the haze of pleasure, your nails digging into his back as you clung to him desperately.

Wonwoo's rhythmic strokes intensified, his hips undulating sensually against yours. Each deep, languid thrust seemed designed to unravel you from the inside out, his teasing touches driving you closer to the brink. Youwrithed beneath him, craving more of that exquisite friction, your cries escalating into urgent whimpers.

"Fuck, you feel incredible," he groaned, his voice strained with effort as he fought to maintain the torturously slow pace.

With a subtle shift in his tempo, Wonwoo picked up speed, the previously languid thrusts now becoming harder and faster. Your back arched off the bed as he pistoned into you with renewed vigor, the room echoing with the lewd sound of flesh meeting flesh.

"That's it, take it deeper," he encouraged, his hand tightening on your hip, urging you to meet his increasing fervor. "Let go, my love. I've got you."

With a sudden yank, Wonwoo hoisted you up, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he maintained eye contact. The new angle allowed him to sink even deeper inside, and you cried out at the delicious stretch.

"I want to look at you while I fill you up," he growled, his thumbs rubbing circles over yout hyper-sensitive clit as he pumped into you.

With each relentless thrust, Wonwoo could feel the telltale flutter of you impending orgasm building within me. Your walls clenched tighter around his throbbing length, drawing him impossibly deeper, and he knew you was teetering on the precipice.

"Don't hold back," he commanded gruffly, his own climax fast approaching. "Let go for me, my beautiful girl. I want to feel you shake apart.."

With increased urgency, Wonwoo slammed into you, the force of his thrusts nearly knocking the wind from you ungs. You inner muscles spasmed wildly as you reached the crest, wave after wave of intense pleasure crashing over me.

"Yes, yes, yes!" You screamed, your nails raking down his back as the most potent orgasm of yout life ripped through you.

...and then Wonwoo buried himself to the hilt, his cock pulsating violently as he reached his peak. With a guttural roar, he poured himself into you, flooding your spasming channel with his hot seed.

"P-pretty... fuck," he stuttered, his face contorting in blissful agony as he emptied himself inside you. His rhythmic spurts triggered aftershocks, each twitch of his still-hard member coaxing out lingering echoes of yout earlier climax.

With a contented sigh, Wonwoo collapsed onto you, your bodies still intimately entwined. Though he'd just delivered a mind-blowing orgasm, his exhaustion was palpable, making it clear he had no intention of withdrawing anytime soon.

"Mmm, too tired," he mumbled, his face nuzzling into the crook of my neck as he struggled to catch his breath.

*

A soft groan escaped your lips as you stirred from sleep, the lingering sensations of last night’s intimacy still fresh in your mind. Your body felt relaxed in the most satisfying way, every inch of you still attuned to Wonwoo’s touch. A small, pleased smile curved your lips as you felt the comforting warmth of him pressed against you, his solid form still nestled close, as if he had no intention of letting go.

"Morning, sunshine," you murmured sleepily, your voice laced with warmth and amusement. "Seems like you didn’t intend to let me go after all, did you?"

But the moment the words left your mouth, something felt off. The timbre of your voice—deeper, rougher—sent a jolt of confusion through you.

Your eyes snapped open.

Your breath hitched as you took in the unfamiliar sight of broad shoulders, long limbs, and the distinct weight of a body that wasn’t yours.

Panic set in.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you looked down to the other side—only to find yourself staring at… yourself.

Wonwoo—trapped in your body—blinked at you sleepily, his own eyes widening in delayed realization.

Not again.

"Don't move…" Wonwoo groaned, his voice—your voice—strained as he let out a soft moan from the way your body tensed inside him.

His grip on your arm tightened as he exhaled sharply, frustration evident in the way his brows furrowed. "Shit… Does your body always ache this much after sex? Don’t move!" he snapped, his complaint sounding oddly amusing in your own voice.

You bit back a laugh, despite the absurdity of the situation. "I’m not doing anything," you said defensively, then motioned toward your member—his member—where the evidence of his current predicament was painfully obvious. "It’s working itself."

Wonwoo sighed in exasperation, dragging a hand down his—your—face. "Welcome to manhood," you added with a smirk.

His glare could’ve burned holes through you, but at that moment, all you could do was marvel at the sheer irony of it all.

The end:)