Big Momma

Once you were in your twenties, you made peace with the fact that it wouldn’t happen for you. The relationship thing wasn’t in your cards, you just weren’t built for it. It created a sad acceptance within you, but one that was needed to not go into a mental spiral.

“-ey, were you listening?” The words drifted to the forefront of your mind, dragging you away from your trail of thoughts.

You paused in folding the shirts on display before you, turning to your coworker that was looking at you expectantly.

“Uh yeah, the closing right?” You struggled to remember what Jess had walked over to you for, but you were sure it was because she needed something. Nobody really spoke to you when they didn’t need something.

“Yeah, you can do it right? I can’t do it and Marcus needs someone to cover.” Her green eyes stared at you pleadingly.

It was a request, but it didn’t feel like one. Especially since you were the only ones still working in the clothing store this late.

“Ah, I don’t-" You thought about what was waiting for you back at your apartment. A relaxing shower, the usual quick dinner, and a puzzle of choice. Not the most exhilarating routine, but you enjoyed it. You really didn’t want to close alone.

Just do it, say no. It’s not fair for you to do everything yourself and it’s not like she’ll appreciate it.

You almost did. The refusal was on the tip of your tongue when you had a flash in your head, the disappointment on her face, the awkwardness of the next shift. How she would talk about you to your other coworkers.

“Okay, I can cover.” You blurted, adverting your eyes to continue folding.

She gave you a quick grin, already turning towards the break rooms before replying, “Great! You’re a lifesaver. I’ll definitely pay you back.”

She wouldn’t, just like she didn’t for the four other times you covered her shift. 

“You’re welcome.” It’s muttered with a sigh into empty air, Jess was long gone. You thought about all the unfinished work you had to do alone, already regretting your decision.

You went into autopilot for the next few hours, slipping into the mindless task of organizing displays and adjusting price tags. The small upside was that the clothes in your store kind of sucked, so you didn’t have any customers to tend to.

“You set?”

The words made you jump. You looked up in surprise to find Marcus, who had meandered out of his office without your notice. Being a middle aged man on the heftier side, you didn’t know how he could move so quietly.

“I’m sorry, what?”

“The drawer, are you ready for me to take it? I’m gonna close a little early, don’t think it’ll be picking up anytime soon.” He motioned a thick hand towards the empty room to accentuate his point.

You nodded jerkily, shuffling out the way as he unlocked the cash drawer. Another beat and a ring of keys were being tossed your way.

“We’ll, I’m gonna count this out then I’m off, you know what to do.”

Marcus was already shuffling down the hallway before you could form a response.

He wasn’t wrong, you did know what to do. Once he was gone you got back into the automatic motions of clean, lock, organize, until the shop is fully shut down.

There was no stress, no talking or loud music, it was almost fun in a way. Fun if you forgot how you were forced into working at least.

You clicked the last light off with a sigh, shrugging your purse up your shoulder where it threatened to fall off. Going out the back door sent a wave of trepidation within you, but unfortunately it was required. The alarm was already set on the front doors and you didn’t have the keys to those.

You took a deep breath, steeling yourself. New York had only gotten more dangerous in recent years, with the corruption in politics and anti-vigilante outrage.

Once you were outside, you had to be careful to avoid any trouble. No one could be trusted, not even the police who were put there to protect citizens like yourself. You imagine if you got mugged on your way to the train, the officers on the corner wouldn’t even flinch.

Definitely not an anxiety inducing thought. Not at all.

You swung open the door, locking it quickly behind you. Ignoring the trembling of your hands, you started to make way to the front of the building.

The alley stunk of pee and other things you really didn’t want to identify. The only light around was motion sensor activated and perched on the doorway. Said light was already fading the further you stepped away, the alley delving into darkness.

You quickened your steps.

There was a slight relief in making it back onto the main street. At least there you had streetlights and the buzz of the city around you.

The sidewalk was mainly empty, and you could count on one hand the amount of cars that passed by. Most people out at this time were like you, getting off work, or getting to an early shift with a bleary look in their eyes.

You kept your head tucked down, avoiding eye contact with anyone around you. All you had to do was make it to the train, from there it was a straight shot to your apartment. Easy, simple. You could do this.

You reached the subway entrance, practically flying down the steps. The trains were relatively reliable in this part of town, so you shouldn’t have to wait too lon-

Your thought process was interrupted by a series of grunts, followed by a shout. Ducking behind a pillar, your eyes grew into saucers as you scanned for the cause of the noise.

It wasn’t a hard search, in the middle of the station was a group of men standing over something-no, someone. There was a man there, curled into himself on the cracked tile of the subway. You could barely make out his face past the blood streaming from his nose.

“Please! I don’t have it, I- just give me one more week I’m begging!” His words could barely be understood past a thick Brooklyn accent and the gurgle of blood in his throat.

One of the men snapped his fingers, and another kicked the whimpering man in the stomach, the impact making a sickening crunching noise.

You covered your mouth in an attempt to not scream, mind racing with options. Calling 911 was firmly out of the question, but running back up the stairs seemed promising. You just didn’t know if you’d be quick or quiet enough that they didn’t notice you.

Then there was the train. A quick glance at the schedule showed a less than three minute wait. If you timed it right…

“Please, I’ll do anything please-“

He was cut off by the man before who gave the attack order. “You should’ve thought about that before trying to steal from Moretti, fuckin’ rat. You should be grateful it’s just you and not your fucking family too, that’s how nice boss is.”

It was clear the man speaking was in charge, at least of the small group there. He was faced away from you, but a wayward glance from any of the men could put you in danger.

You stifled a gasp, sucking a sharp intake of air. In focusing on the group, you had forgotten to breathe.

Your heartbeat was a staccato in your ears, the blood flow dimming the sound around you.

They were going to kill that man, and there was nothing to do but watch. They were going to kill him, then they were going to kill you. Oh god, they were going to kill you if they found you.

You felt the telltale beginning of a panic attack start up, your heart rate escalating even further. This was not the time to freeze up. You pinched the skin of your hand between two fingers, the pain sobering you.

This was not the time to freeze.

The man was saying something else, the tone threatening. He was speaking in a much lower tone than before, and you couldn’t make out the words.

In a blink, he dove forward, hand jutting towards the man below him in quick successions.

It wasn’t until the growing pool of red that you realized he had stabbed him. There was a sick gurgling noise that reverberated around the subway that took the strength out of your legs.

Your purse slipped off your shoulder, clinking to the ground.

The sound alerted one of the guys closest to you. A frown quickly overtook his face as he looked you up and down.

“Hey! What’re you doing over there?”

This is how you’ll die, in a dirty subway all alone. Your family probably won’t even find out what happened.

Light flowed onto the platform from the incoming train. The screech of wheels flipped a switch in your brain.

No, you scrambled to your feet, not like this. You were not going to let it end like this.

You could hear a series from shouts and pounding footsteps behind you as you ran down the platform. Nearly tripping over a bench, you righted yourself as the train finally screeched to a stop.

The doors opened, but you kept running, an internal timer ticking in your head.

A little bit more… five, four, three-

You shoved your self to the side, slipping into a train car right as the doors closed. The others tried to follow, but they were too far behind.

You stared, wide eyed as they pounded on the window in anger. You could hear muffled threats behind the metal, but your eyes focused on the man from before.

He wasn’t yelling, or beating on the door. He only stared at your chest with a scowl. More specifically, the logo on your work shirt and your printed name tag beneath it.

Shit.

Dex was unbelievably, inconceivably, bored.

This meeting was already taking longer than he usually tolerated, and if he didn’t have good work with them before he would’ve left.

But no, this gang boss in particular was quite an egotistical bastard, and liked to pay a very nice penny on all his hits. It probably made him feel important to wave an excessive amount of money around and have people disappear.

Quite frankly, Dex couldn’t give a shit about what he felt. Money or not, his patience was running thin. Another five minutes waiting in this damp warehouse and he might just leave, or start throwing things.

He hadn’t decided which.

“Taking his sweet time huh?” He wasn’t really speaking to anyone in particular, just musing aloud, but one of the nearby goons replied anyway.

“Sorry, he had something else to wrap up. He should be here any second.”

Dex only clicked his teeth in response, busying his hands with a dagger absentmindedly. The other man’s eyes widened slightly at the display, tracking the dagger is it was thrown in the air.

Behind his mask, Dex’s lips flicked into a smirk. He wondered what the man would do if he started using the wall behind his head as a dart board, that would be interesting.

The seconds ticked by, and he was about to start some impromptu target practice when the man of the hour walked in.

“Bullseye, my friend! So kind of you to join us.”

Moretti was a small man, much smaller than one would expect the boss of a crime empire to be. There was nothing overtly menacing about him other than the beady gleam of his eyes. Of course, no one vocalized their surprise at that, because they’d end up at the bottom of the Hudson.

He reminded Dex of a small pet with a snappy temper. Like a rabid chihuahua nipping at people’s heels.

“I would think with all that money you’d own a clock.” The man’s words had ignited a flare of irritation within him. He was always annoyed by fake niceties, especially after he had waited thirty-five minutes.

Moretti’s thick eyebrows scrunched in faux concern, “My apologies, I had something else to finish up, I would never mean to keep you waiting-“

Dex cut in before he could finish the bullshit speech, “Who, and where?”

He was here for a job, not to have a tea party. All he needed was the marks information and the payment, then he’d be on his way.

Despite being cut off, the smaller man didn’t show any sign of anger. He knew better than to start unnecessary fights. “A small problem, you shouldn’t have much issue. It is time sensitive however, if she talks it would cause a great deal of issues for me.”

A woman then. Unlikely she’ll put up a fight. Disappointing.

“She saw some things she shouldn’t have. Here,” he stepped forward, a folded paper in his outstretched hand. “they got the job and her name, you should be able to take it from there yes?”

He snatched the paper, scanning over the information quickly before turning on his heel. “Fifteen thousand, same as before.” His voice carried behind him as he walked to the exit of the warehouse, hands in constant movement.

Moretti clapped his hands as if he were signing off on the deal. “Agreed, you’ll receive the wire tomorrow.”

“She’ll be dead by the end of the day.” Faster than anyone could track, he flicked the paper behind him, the point of a paper airplane imbedding into the forehead of the wide-eyed grunt from before.

The man let out a startled shout as blood trickled over his nose.

Dex ignored the commotion, grinning as he walked into the crisp night air.

Time to find a little tattle-tale.

Maybe you did have powers.

It wasn’t super strength, or advanced intelligence. It wasn’t even the power to turn invisible.

No, it had to be the ability to get in the worst situations imaginable. Super bad luck. No one’s life could be this laughably bleak, it had to be a higher power.

After that night at the subway, you couldn’t even sleep, much less leave your house. The day after the incident was your off day, so it didn’t affect much. You did however have to call off two days after that, feigning sickness.

You don’t know if your boss bought it, but considering you have never really taken a sick day before, you felt it was due.

But you couldn’t stay inside forever, you had to go back to work eventually. Getting fired would definitely do you no favors.

There was something else.

In the last few days you’d had a feeling, like spiders crawling over your skin. It was the sinking feeling of being preyed upon. Watched.

You knew they were there. You didn’t know how you knew, but you did.

There was no evidence, no threatening letters or anything out of place. Anyone listening to you would think you were insane, but you knew it wasn’t just your hysteria. You could feel it.

The only thing you were confused about was their inaction. Why hadn’t they killed you already? Not that you were complaining of course, but it just didn’t make sense.

Were they waiting for you to try to call the police? Were they not fully sure it was you at the station?

It was the cycle you went through. For days just driving yourself mad with questions and counting down the time. You hadn’t come up with a plan yet, but time was running out.

You had to go out into the world eventually.

The time went quicker than you expected. You had called off your fourth day when Marcus firmly hinted that your job might be in danger if you didn’t come in for your next shift.

You agreed, one last day of hiding and then you would come in.

Your hands trembled as you clicked the combination to your locker in the break room. Taking a deep breath, you took one last furtive glance at your belongings before turning to clock in.

“Didn’t know you hated customers that bad Oranges.” A mocking voice chimed behind you.

You tried to ignore him altogether, but he picked up his pace to walk by your side. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch.” Matthew shot a conspiratorial glance your way, winking.

It took all your resolve to not roll your eyes. As if today wasn’t already horrible, you had to work with your least favorite person.

Matthew always found a way to antagonize you somehow. It wouldn’t have been that bad, if it weren’t non-stop. He always singled you out about something, with a fake friendly tone as if you were both in on the joke.

It started with the first week you started working. You were eating your lunch quietly, and as you started to unpeel the included orange a stream of juice shot at your face.

You could only sit there in mortification as Matthew cackled in your face. He insisted on calling you Oranges after that.

“What are we so worried about?” He continued, like you weren’t ignoring him. “If you need to relax I think they have a stress ball in the back rooms. I know you have issues with that stuff.” He could barely get out the words without laughing.

More silence from you.

“Alright then. Don’t blame me if you freak out, see ya Oranges.”

You let out a relieved sigh at his retreating frame, grabbing the clothing rack near you and resigning yourself to eight hours of torture.

Your neck let out a series of pops as you stretched it in your doorway. The house keys in your hand were tossed in the dish by the door and your jacket was shrugged off your shoulders into a pile on the ground.

“You should take better care of your things.”

The words stopped you in your tracks. You’d been so focused on the aches in your body and getting to the shower, you failed to notice the large figure in your living room until they spoke.

There was a man shrouded in shadow sitting on your lounge chair. In his hands was one of your puzzle boxes, and he seemed to be reading over it like it was the most important thing in the room.

“Please don’t.” You could barely recognize the way your voice squeaked out, strained with fear.

He looked up for the first time, eyes glinting behind a blue ski mask. “Don’t what?” His voice was deep but scratchy as it travelled across the room, as if he’d worn it out by yelling.

You could also hear a hint of amusement in his tone. He was enjoying toying with you.

“Don’t mess up my puzzles, or my apartment please. If you can, make it quick.” Your reply was more stable than before, having overcome the initial shock of his appearance.

In truth, you’d come to the conclusion you’d probably die no matter what days ago. At first, you were scared out of your mind, but like every other bad hand in your life, you accepted it. You just didn’t want whoever found you to have to deal with a mess.

His head tilted as if considering your answer, one finger twirling the box like one would do a basketball. “Not gonna beg for your life? Plead for another chance?” There was still the mocking tone, but now it carried confusion as well. He genuinely couldn’t understand why you were so calm.

Taking careful steps over to the couch, you could make out more details of him in the light of your living room lamp. He looked like a textbook assassin, wearing all black, save for the blue mask covering his face. The dark fabric of his ensemble held more compartments you could count, and the rest was stretched over a sturdy frame.

He was leaning back in your recliner chair leisurely, legs spread to take up even more space.

You let out a deep sigh as you flounced down on the couch across from him. “No, not really. I’m sure you’ve noticed, but it’s not much to plead for.”

He stopped spinning the box and looked around, as if taking in the apartment for the first time. Your lack of personal photos, the books and puzzles lining the walls. Every item spoke of a very monotonous lifestyle. “This is pretty depressing, yes.”

Of course, what were you expecting? Hopefully he doesn’t make it too difficult for anyone to clean your blood out the place.

You nodded in acceptance and closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable. After about a minute of waiting, you opened them to find him staring at you.

The piercing gaze kept you still until he spoke again, “What’re you doing?”

‘Waiting for you to kill me’ just sounded silly, so you said nothing, adverting your gaze.

After a few more moments of quiet, you cleared your throat, “If you don’t mind, how long have you been in here?”

It was a morbid curiosity that drove the question. The idea of him waiting in your living room just to kill you, twiddling his thumbs was enough to make a sardonic chuckle rise in your throat.

You pushed down the urge. The man seemed fairly calm so far, but laughing at him definitely would do nothing in your favor.

He reached up a gloved hand, scratching at his jaw. “About a half hour.”

You blinked, “Oh, okay.”

Quite frankly, you were running out of things to say. How does one even strike up a conversation with their killer? You shouldn’t have even felt the need to make the man comfortable, but you did for some reason.

In a flash he was leaning over you, one hand on the back of the couch to speak directly in your face. “What’s your problem? Hm? You didn’t even do anything wrong and you won’t fight for your life? How is that fair?”

His other hand gripped your chin firmly, you could feel the warmth of the of his hand seeping through the fabric. With his face so close, you could see every detail of his brown eyes scrunched in anger.

You could also see more of the little items strapped around his waist and in the compartments of his pants. Knives. More knives than anyone (murderer or not) should need, in your opinion.

“I’m sorry?” Now you were a bit peeved. Who was he to lecture you about valuing your life when he came in here to kill you?

Unless… he wasn’t here to kill you, but do something much worse. A new flash of fear goes through you. You were prepared for a quick death, you were not prepared for torture, or the other ways a man could hurt a woman.

He must’ve seen the change in your face, because the hand on your chin swiftly dropped to his side.

He moved slightly out of your space, mumbling to himself. You could barely catch the words ‘balance’ and ‘worth it’ in the rambling.

“Okay,” he dipped away, back to the chair. “okay.”

You blinked at him again, “Okay?”

“Yes.” His tone, despite being amused again, invited no further questioning. He had reached a decision within himself, you just had no idea what that decision was.

With that, he settled back into your chair with all the ease in the world.

“You should go to sleep now. Been a long day.” Like before, his tone was closed off. What might’ve been misinterpreted as a request was definitely a demand.

You slowly rose to your feet, half convinced it was a trick and he’d shoot you at any moment, but nothing stopped you from gathering your bag and going into the bedroom.

Even as you shut and locked the door, there was no action, just a glinting gaze following you in the darkness.

You didn’t remember falling asleep. The last thing you recall was the unnerving conversation with the intruder before jerking awake the next morning.

A quick check showed that none of your clothes had been moved and there were no injuries on you. Despite your hair looking like a birds nest, you looked exactly did after work the day prior.

You were alive. Another day knowing someone was out to get you, and another day of being able to do nothing about it.

You groaned, trying to settle your hair with one hand as you rolled out the bed. Washing up in the bathroom was quick business. After feeling clean again in new clothes you moved to unlock the bedroom door.

Wait. He wouldn’t still be here, would he?

You highly doubt the intruder would stay for coffee in he morning, but the whole thing had been so strange you couldn’t rule anything out.

Slowly, you pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.

Nothing.

You un-clicked the lock, still moving at a snails pace. Once there was a half inch sliver open, you took a peek into the living room. Empty, no homicidal men with a hundred knives in sight.

You let out a breath of relief, walking into the room. One last search throughout your place proved that there was truly no one there.

Even so, there was an unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake. You ignored it, moving to start up your coffee maker.

It wasn’t until you were halfway through your breakfast that you realized the issue. Your place was spotless, much cleaner than you’d usually keep it.

You didn't consider yourself a slob, but there was always little things here and there left behind. A few dishes in the sink, a bit of dust. The room was now so clean it looked clinical.

Every can or box of pasta in your cabinet was neatly organized and turned to the front. Swinging open the door to your fridge, you found that all your old food you’d been ignoring was thrown away. Each shelf was sparkling clean and just as orderly as the cabinets.

All your puzzle boxes were in straight, dust free columns next to books sorted by size.

What the hell is happening?

It’s just because you’ve been bored. Nothing else.

Dex had been rationalizing his actions since that first day. He had yet to come up with a solid reason for letting you live, and it sent a distressing feeling up his spine.

He did not do things for no reason.

That was a quick way to spiral, to sink into nothing. No, everything in his life had a reason and purpose. So what were you?

It started the day after the meeting with Moretti, he was poised just across from your window. There was a bolt-action rifle in his hands, and he was perfectly poised to take the shot as promised.

As he watched, you walked around your bedroom in circles. He could see your mouth moving at certain points, but no sign of you talking on the phone. It was clear you were in distress, but made no attempts to get help.

He already had access to your phone line. Throughout the night into the next day, you didn’t try calling the police, not even once.

It seems New York is catching on, those scrubs in uniforms can’t help you. If you want justice, you have to take it yourself.

He continued to watch you with a detached expression, not taking the time to consider why he hadn’t finished the job yet.

He watched as you left to take a shower, coming back a bit later in loose pajamas. He watched as you put a show on your tv, your distracted expression half aware.

You eventually found the television insufficient at calming you, and started digging through the haphazard boxes of puzzles on your shelves.

His fingers practically itched at seeing it, old habits compelling him to march in there and line everything up neatly.

He shook it off, eyes trailing to where you sat on the floor beginning the edges of a very large landscape puzzle.

You were losing yourself in it, the frown in your eyebrows lessening the more progress you made through the picture. Eventually, you had calmed enough that there was almost a smile tilting your mouth.

His eyes stayed there for a moment, wondering what a full smile from you would look like. He definitely hadn’t seen one today, and no search online showed any pictures of you exhibiting anything other than mild discomfort or apathy.

He could almost imagine it, the plush of your lips tilting up, then slowly growing. How your eyes would crinkle, glinting up at him.

At him?

At him?

The fuck was he doing?

He had a job to do, a job he was paid quite handsomely over, and he was sitting here on his ass playing make believe.

He whipped the rifle in position, capturing your face in the scope. He didn’t really need it, your shot was clear enough, especially with his abilities.

Even though it was simple, the clearest shot in the world, his fingers never pressed the trigger. He sat there, as the sky darkened into reds and melted into a dark navy, never taking a single shot.

He couldn’t even pretend that the sick worm inside of him wasn’t hungry for more. He didn’t try to act like he wasn’t coming back the next day.

He thought that would be enough. One more day of observation would be enough to satiate him. Just one more.

Dex felt like the sad sons of bitches at the liquor store on the corner. Just one more bit, I can quit any time I want to.

But he did need just one more bit, and he could quit any time he needed to. This was nothing like Jul-

He broke that train of thought with a snarl. Tonight. Tonight he would end this game and get it over with. She got off work at ten, and when she did he’d be waiting there. After that, it be simple, one shot to the head and she wouldn’t be his problem anymore.

Moretti didn’t exactly ask for proof of delivery, nobody was stupid enough to question Dex after he worked a job. If he said he did it, then he did it.

Except he didn’t do it. Moretti hadn’t asked, and he didn’t tell. But the man wasn’t an idiot, he’d find out eventually.

Even more reason to get rid of you as soon as possible.

He had the plan solidly in his mind. Wait until you walked in with your guard down, lodge a knife in your throat before you could blink.

This night, you took a bit longer than usual. Dex was dully aware that this didn’t bother him. He wasn’t upset by waiting, there was a tingling anticipation within him.

Eventually, you walked through the door, shutting it behind you with a click. You didn’t notice him at first, stretching out your neck and the muscles in your back.

You dropped your coat to the ground, stepping over it without a second glance. You were still shifting your head from side to side, trying to alleviate some tension.

He would be able to do it almost immediately. With his hands on your neck he could target the exact points of your muscle pain. His index finger flinched at the thought.

His eyes flickered to the flash of skin on the side of your neck, words coming out of his mouth before he could recall the plan he came in with.

He was barely even aware of what he said, just your response. He watched with rapt attention as your eyes widened, taking him in.

As your eyes scanned his frame, he could feel his hips shift forward slightly.

A myriad of expressions flickered through your face, fear, surprise, anger. He took them all in with delight. The buzz of anticipation from before rose to a crescendo, he couldn’t wait to see what you’d do.

Would you beg? Offer to pay him for your life?

Despite coming in your apartment with a clear directive, he wasn’t sure exactly what he’d do if you asked him to spare your life.

Not important, focus.

You didn’t do anything he expected. Instead of a blubbering mess, you were composed, if not a little annoyed.

If he didn’t already know it before, it was clear you valued your small possessions. You seemed to care about the puzzles more than your own life.

It made him angry.

Who were you to throw him off? Why were you doing this to him? This is not how this was supposed to go.

He got within a hairsbreadth of your face, trying to intimidate you. Break the facade. It didn’t work, you only seemed more annoyed by the attempt.

Until you weren’t. Something about his stance towering over you seemed to ignite a thought process. He wasn’t a mind reader, but he could tell the cause of your discomfort pretty easily.

He let you go quickly, as if he were burned. He would not hurt you, not like that.

Dex weighed his options. Killing you would make things a lot simpler, both with Moretti and the urges in his mind. This is what he knew best, the only real thing he’s good for. You would be no problem to take care of.

Only issue? The more he thought about putting a bullet in your head, the more he was sure that was the last thing he wanted to do.

This wasn’t even his typical area. The snitches he usually tracked down had blood on their hands, a dark past they were scrambling to escape.

You weren’t necessarily a good person, you didn’t volunteer at food drives or regularly give to charity, but nothing warranted your death. There was no scale for him to equal.

You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

He’d reached his decision. Fuck Moretti, he’d deal with that weasel bitch later. For now, he’d have to get you shuffled off to bed.

There was something he was itching to do since he got there.

He didn’t show up that day.

Your off day was spent with anxious anticipation, like he would randomly jump out of your cabinets and scare you shitless.

Despite your worry (hope), Knives never showed. You took a page out of Matthew’s book and gave him a nickname, if only to avoid calling him ‘the man’ in your head.

The more you thought about it, the more perplexed you were.

A masked killer came into your home, had a fairly civil conversation with you, then did your chores?

No matter how much you thought about it, none of that made sense. You should have been dead days ago. If they decided not to kill you, they should at least know by now you weren’t going to snitch.

You didn’t even consider calling the police.

You groaned, head tilting back against your apartment elevator. Your day at work had been relatively uneventful.

Nobody really spoke to you much, sans Matthew who always had something to say. This time about your dark circles and whether or not you had a mental breakdown. And he wondered why his girlfriend left him.

You cracked open bleary eyes to look at yourself in the metal walls and winced. Maybe they had a point, you wouldn’t talk to yourself either looking like this.

There was prominent darkness under your eyes, framing the haunted look within them. Your face was pinched in a permanent frown, and you lifted up a hand to relax the expression.

The elevator doors opened with a ding, and you started the trek over to your door. You raised a hand to unlock it, pausing half way.

Putting your keys back in your pocket, you tried the handle of your door. It opened easily.

Your heartbeat quickened but you didn’t halt your movement, continuing inside the apartment. Everything was just like you left it earlier, dim lights and the tv on as background noise.

You took slow steps to the center of the room, spinning in a circle. He wasn’t there.

The living room and kitchen were both empty, and you didn’t know whether to be happy about that or not.

Why would he just leave your door unlocked when he wasn’t even here? There were robbers in the area, what if someone happened to try your door?

You ran a hand through your hair, barking a laugh. You had forgotten for a moment who he was. He was not a friend or visitor that would care whether or not you were robbed.

But why would he clean your house then?

You weren’t sure if you’d ever find the answer to that last question.

Still on edge, you tip-toed towards your couch, where you unceremoniously dumped your bag and coat. Stretching out your shoulders, you walked towards the bedroom.

You were expecting a boiling shower with warm pajamas to slip into before crashing. You were not expecting a six-foot something man to be leaning over your bedside drawer, rifling through its contents.

“Hey!” You said, equally in surprise and indignation. “That’s private. Put that down.”

Brown eyes flicked up to you from where he’d been reading your notebook. It wasn’t a diary per se, but it held some personal thoughts you’d rather stayed private.

Knives leisurely sat the book on your bed, putting up his hands in faux surrender. “Were you looking for me?”

His voice was just as gravelly as the first night, snaking over your ears. It was much lighter however, he sounded almost… happy?

You cleared your throat, fighting back a shiver. “What?” Did he see you searching your apartment like a goof? Probably.

You could see his lips curl into a smirk beneath the mask, capturing your attention for a moment.

You wondered what he would look like without it.

You could see more of him in the daylight, like the light eyelashes framing his eyes and the similar tone of his eyebrows. The mask was filled out with a sharp frame, and you could see the cut of prominent cheekbones under the fabric.

“Nothing. What’s that about?” He nodded towards your notebook he had been reading.

He was still holding his hands up, for what you had no idea. Maybe he thought it was funny to act like you were the one in power here.

“It’s a notebook, you write in them.” You didn’t care to go over your innermost thoughts with a stranger, briskly avoiding the subject.

His eyes flashed in an emotion you couldn’t place, hands finally coming down to rest at his sides. “How was work?” He asked placidly.

What?

The hell?

Your eyes burned with tears that had yet to fall, sucking in a sharp breath to compose yourself. “Haven’t you had enough? I have been waiting for the day you finally-“ you waved your hands around animatedly. “And then you just-“

He only stared on with the same solid expression.

You took another breath, “Are you going to kill me or not?”

“No.”

You swore you could feel your heartbeat hiccup, “No?”

Before you could pull it back, the words were out of your mouth. “Why not?”

You regretted the question immediately, watching as his eyes darkened.

There was a stretch of silence, and you were wondering how to do damage control when he spoke again, “Because I don’t want to. You…”

His gaze rakes up and down your frame. “You aren’t my North Star, no, something else. I want to find out what you are.”

Your words were little more than a whisper. “What I am?”

He sauntered towards you, slow as if walking towards a spooked animal. Or like he was hunting one. He only stopped once he was directly in front of you, toe to toe.

“Yes, I’m going to watch you and learn you. Why I feel this urge to-“ he cuts off abruptly, eyes widened in surprise.

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

It seems like he wasn’t even prepared for what the answer was.

You stared at him, heartbeat still thundering in your ears. It was silly to believe a masked intruder from his words, but you did.

Nothing about that seemed like a lie. Despite what he’d initially found you for, he didn’t look like he wanted you dead. So, you believed him.

Your only worry was what he would do with you.

“O-Okay.” Was all you said before grabbing your clothes out the dresser and locking yourself in the bathroom.

You could only hope you turned fast enough that he didn’t see the redness in your face.

He was gone from the bedroom when you got out the shower. Everything was put back in its place, there was no sign of him. It made you wonder how many times he looked through your things without you knowing.

It should’ve made you unnerved… it didn’t.

He said he wanted to learn you. That you weren’t a north star. What did that mean? Why were you kind of excited about finding out?

You sniffed the air, there was a smell drifting from your kitchen filled with spices and butter. Like it were activated, your stomach suddenly released a large growl.

It seemed no matter how shocked you could get, there were still more surprises, Knives was at the stove, stirring something in a pot. You could see your oven was on as well, the light showing loaves of garlic bread on a sheet inside.

“You should go start a puzzle, it’ll be another five minutes.” He spoke without turning around, still continuing to stir the pot on the stove.

There’s a breaking point in a persons life where they stop asking questions. You were at that point.

So you pushed aside the wonder of why he was cooking, or where he even got the ingredients from, and sat down in your lounge chair.

You froze. It smelled like him. Gunpowder and metal, with a tinge of spearmint, the chairs leather still held a hint of him. You wondered how many times you could breathe it in without him noticing.

He was still focused on the food…

No. Stop. Get yourself together. You can’t just turn into a weirdo at the first attractive man you meet. Who’s to say he’s even attractive? He could be hideous under that mask.

You glanced over at him, eyeing the broadness of his shoulders and the muscle shifting under cloth.

You didn’t notice before, but he had taken off his gloves. His hands were big but deft, he probably would’ve made a good piano player in another life.

The evidence of this life was there as well. White scars marred his hands and trailed up his forearm to disappear under his shirt sleeve. You had no doubt they continued to the rest of his body too.

You tried to remind yourself of what those hands could do, why they were dangerous. Unfortunately your brain didn’t think it was that important at the moment, because the only thing you could remember is how they felt on your face.

You shook off the thoughts, blindly grabbing the closest puzzle box to you, it was a city landscape.

The pieces tumbled onto your living room table, sound echoing throughout the apartment. The only other sound past your moving pieces was the crackle of fire in the kitchen.

You needed some background noise.

You clicked on the tv, the low droning of the weather report filling the empty space. The screen had half your attention, but that was enough for your ears to perk when you heard the next segment of the news.

“And here we have the aftermath of another brawl from the vigilante known as Daredevil, he was in this very warehouse last night when the reports of gunfire started-“

The newscaster was one you’d seen before, usually for the more serious cases around the city. Her mouth was set in a hard line as she continued her warning.

“-advising all citizens to report any vigilante activity to the NYPD or AVTF whenever you become aware. If you do encounter Daredevil, do not engage-“

The tv went out in a wink, making you flinch. Like a bullet, a flying quarter had hit the power button dead center on your remote. Didn’t need many guesses to know where it came from.

The man in question was sauntering over with a steaming plate, glaring at the tv like it had personally offended him.

“You could’ve just asked me to turn it off.” You mutter, loud enough for him to hear you.

He didn’t answer, setting the plate in front of you with a clink. “Eat.”

You looked from him to the plate of food, then back again. It looked wonderful, a creamy heap of pasta with sautéed vegetables and garlic bread. It was all neatly arranged on your only kitchenware you hadn’t chipped.

You only wondered why the hell he had cooked it.

He seemed to misread your trepidation, leaning down to tug up a corner of his mask and shovel in a bit of the pasta. “Not poisoned. Not my style.” He said after a thick swallow.

The flash of lips, regardless how quick, distracted you. You stared on as a pink tongue flicked out to swipe at his mouth before he tugged the mask back down. It took you another few seconds to get it together.

“I know. You prefer to give people a million paper cuts.”

To your surprise, knives barked out a laugh, “That’s one way of putting it, sure.”

You turned to the food and started eating in an attempt to bypass the awkwardness. It was hard to suppress a groan when the first bit hit your mouth, the food was as good as it looked. If not better.

Do all hitmen take culinary classes or was it just his hobby?

You thought he would find something else to do, maybe vanish into thin air like he’d never been there at all, but the man chose to sit right across from you on the couch.

Dark eyes fixated on you as you ate in complete focus. He didn’t seem to want more conversation, just be a spectator. His only movement was circling a small knife around in his hand, but the movement didn’t seem threatening, more absentminded than anything else.

You didn’t realize how hungry you were until you were finishing the meal in record time, only clearing your throat to speak once you’d cleared the last bite, “It was great, thank you.”

He was grabbing the plate from you before you could even offer to clean up, making his way back to the kitchen and placing it inside your dishwasher with the other used pots and pans.

“Really, you don’t have to-“ you started, but he was already finished and walking back over to you.

“I know. I don’t have to do anything at all, advantages of self employment.” It was clear by his tone and the crinkle of his eyes that he was smirking. He took his time walking back to the couch, this time spreading his arms across the back in the appearance of complete comfortability.

What he said made you curious, “You don’t work for the man at the train?”

He tilted his head as if considering the answer. “I don’t work for anyone,” a new tinge of bitterness coated his tone, “but if you’re referring to the bozo who took a hit out on you, yes. I was the one given the assignment.”

“Ah, I figured.” The response came out more nonchalant than intended, but he truly didn’t tell you anything you hadn’t already suspected.

“You’re not bothered by that?”

You shrugged, “Nah, I trust you.” You meant for it to be fully sarcastic, and almost succeeded, but there was a bit of honesty that shone through. Against all better judgement and sound mind, you did trust him.

He stared at you, only providing a small scoff and muttering under his breath as response.

With the newfound silence, you decided to follow his earlier request and complete the puzzle that was started. You almost invited him to do it with you, but your mouth closed with a snap after looking over at him.

He seemed to be lost in thought about something, dark blonde eyebrows furrowed as he stared somewhere out your window.

Your eyes went back to the puzzle, the only sounds being the soft scrape of the pieces and faint breathing. You grimaced while reaching for some of the further pieces, the movement had aggravated the neck pain you usually had after a long shift.

Rolling your neck in a circle only slightly helped, there was still a crick in the muscle that most likely wouldn’t go away until after a lengthy soak in epsom salt.

Your distracted mind was only half aware of the other figure rising from the couch and making his way over to you.

“Sit back.”

You looked behind you in surprise, wondering how he’d gotten right behind your chair without you knowing. “Why?” You weren’t really concerned about the request, just curious what he intended.

“I can’t keep watching you do that without doing something. Sit back.” He tapped the headrest for emphasis.

Okay, bossy.

You rolled your eyes but did as he asked, sliding back to fully rest in the chair. It was a moment of nothing until you felt warmth against your shoulder blades.

You let out a full body flinch at the contact, but his hands didn’t falter, continuing a path from your shoulders into the sides of your neck. Strong thumbs dug into the muscles and nerves causing you pain, and you couldn’t keep a satisfied sigh from seeping out.

You practically melted into his hands as they traveled over every aching part of your back. Every time he dispelled a knot it knocked a quiet sound out of you.

It was firm but precise, every drag of his warm calloused hands left a tingling sensation in their wake. You couldn’t help but think about what else his hands could do…

The idea created a burning within you. The smell and feel of him so close was dangerous, and you were already wanting more of it. Needing more of it. You were absently aware of his breathing kicking up, almost delving into a pant in your ears.

He eventually slowed down, rubbing his fingers in circular motions on the top of your spine before retreating completely. He didn’t retreat too far, barely taking a step back as he stood behind your chair.

You didn’t look at him, focusing on calming your breathing and not appearing like the mess you were on the inside. You didn’t need a mirror to know your the flushed expression you wore.

You opened your mouth, then closed it, not trusting yourself to beg for his hands to touch you again.

He spoke before you could work up the nerve of a response, “I have to go.”

“Wait-” But it was too late, he was already closing the front door when you turned around.

Knives arrived more frequently after that night.

He didn’t stay as long, or touch you again, (much to your disappointment) but he would usually pop in without rhyme or reason with gifts and a bit of conversation.

You never asked him for anything, but he somehow always knew what you needed.

A new detergent when the old one just ran out, some more butter in the fridge, your favorite ice cream when you were craving it.

As far as you remembered, you never told him what your favorite flavor was, nor did you ever have one in the freezer since meeting him. He still knew.

Someone knowing so much about you should’ve probably unnerved you, but it only gave you a sense of serenity. You didn’t have to worry about explaining yourself to him, there was no pressure on your end. He just watched, and learned.

Except in one area. He seemed to be oblivious to your attraction to him, not flirting with you even once. There were his snarky remarks and knowing smirks sure, but that seemed to be less hitting on you and just more of who he was.

Unless, he does know you’re into him and just doesn’t feel the same so he’s ignoring it.

You brushed the thought off, sighing as you unlocked the door to your apartment. It was really no use wondering about it, even with all the time spent with Knives, you barely had a clue what was going on in his head.

Besides, after the day you’d had it was hard to think about anything else.

To say it was a bad shift would be an understatement. You’d overslept that morning, rushing through your morning routine but still arriving twenty-five minutes late to clock in.

It was a rare busy day in the store, and you could barely push past people to get to your register.

“About time.” Matthew shot you a dirty look between filing away the bills in his hand.

Your job was severely understaffed, and today was no different, which meant that in your absence Matthew had to handle the hordes of people on his own.

You gave him an apologetic nod, waving the next person in line over to you. Soon enough, the lines dwindled into nothing as the rush passed.

You wiped your sweaty hands on your pants leg, signing out of the POS to go work on other things. A stack of boxes caught your eye, and you moved closer to start unpacking the items inside.

“Go do the inventory. He wants it in the front on the orange display.” Snapped Matthew behind you. He was pointing at the very boxes you were already walking towards.

You didn’t bother correcting him in saying you were already going to do that, instead giving a curt nod.

“What, you can’t speak today? Didn’t take your meds?” He raised a brow, grinning at you.

Breathe, don’t let him get to you.

“I’m just going to do my job.”

His grin only widened at your answer. “Heh, okay. You do that.”

You ignored him, quickly pulling a dolly from the back transport the boxes to the front of the store.

You wiped a hand over your brow, starting to sweat with the effort. It would be a lot easier with two people, but like hell you were going to ask that asshole.

Matthew wasn’t really nice to anyone, except maybe the new hires he wanted to flirt with, but you still never understood why he seemed to hate you so much.

Because you’re always the odd man out, the one no one really likes, the one-

“Shut up.” You spat out the words, making sure you were quiet enough for no one else to hear. Matthew didn’t need more ammunition to call you crazy.

You directed your attention to the store display and away from your bleak thoughts. You couldn’t help what others thought of you, the only thing you could do at the moment was finish the stupid display and move onto your other work.

You vacantly slapped the folded clothes onto the shelves, mind drifting elsewhere.

I bet knives never had to work in retail.

You’d be very surprised if he ever had a real job before. Trying to imagine his scowling face behind a cash register made a chuckle bubble within you.

He’d probably stab someone on his first day.

Shit, he can stab Matthew for all I care.

You half scolded yourself at the thought, realizing how fucked up it sounded to wish that someone stab your coworker. You weren’t as upset by the thought as you could’ve been.

There was a sharp creaking noise, and before you could react, the metal shelf you had been stacking on crashed down on your arm.

“Shit-” You jumped back to avoid falling with it, but the damage had been done. The edge of the shelf dug a cut down your forearm that was already spurting blood over you and the merchandise.

“Oh no, shit, shit, shit-” You couldn’t think straight, only standing there in a panic as you gripped your bloody arm.

“What the fuck did you do now?” If you thought Matthew was mad at you before, he was pissed now. “I asked you to do one simple thing and you can’t even do that? Who’s gonna clean this shit up?”

He’d left a customer at the desk to see what the sound was, but he didn’t seem to care about their existence as he yelled at you.

“Fuckin disability hire, can’t even stock a shelf. I don’t know why you’re standing there, you should be-”

You didn’t wait for him to finish, bumping into him as you rushed towards the back room with tears in your eyes.

Don’t cry. Don’t you dare cry in front of him, he’s not worth it.

You ignored his calls for you to come back, slamming your work locker open and grabbing your things. You didn’t even bother clocking out, only stopping by the lunch corner to grab paper towels and wipe down your arm.

The harsh wind from outside only aggravated your eyes more, but you steeled yourself against the cold.

You got plenty weird looks on the train ride home, but nobody said anything to you. It was probably the mix of blood staining your hands and scowl that discouraged conversation.

A ten minute ride followed by a brisk walk brought you back to where you were, standing at your apartment door with an aching cut.

You shouldered the door open with your uninjured side, immediately dropping your things to the ground once you were inside.

The cut hurt like a bitch and was still freely bleeding, but you shouldn’t need stitches or anything dramatic. The med kit from under your sink in the bathroom should more than suffice.

You turned the corner towards the bathroom, but stopped short at the figure standing there.

The visitor was more expected than not these days, but you didn’t think he’d be here this early since he usually met you after your shift.

“What did I say about taking care of your things?” He half turned from the window where you assumed he’d watched you come in.

You’d usually muster up something equally as playful in response, but this time, you were not in the mood.

He seemed to sense the shift, whipping his head over to you. It didn’t take long for his eyes to rake over you, gaze landing on your right arm.

“Who did that?” His demeanor changed completely after seeing the injury, voice turning steely.

It only took a few strides for him to reach you, hand snapping out to grasp your forearm. His eyes were blazing with anger behind his mask and he looked two seconds away from disemboweling someone.

Even though you knew his anger wasn’t with you; it still took a moment to stutter out a response, “No one, I-i did it myself. Well, not did it, it wasn’t on purpose. An accident at work.”

Your clarification didn’t seem to calm him much.

He stepped to your side, scooping an arm under your legs to pull you to his chest, his other arm supporting your back. He walked towards your bathroom with purpose.

You let out a squawk of surprise at being airborne, “Hey, I can still walk. It’s just a cut, you don’t have to carry me.”

“Blood loss causes dizziness, and it looks like you’ve already lost too much.” Someone would’ve thought you were bleeding out by how aggravated he sounded.

You didn’t want to mention that the main reason you were dizzy was his close proximity, not the injury. You were closer to him than you ever were before, and you couldn’t stop yourself from taking in a deep whiff. Blood, metal, mint.

He knocked your bathroom door open with enough strength to make it rattle, marching over to your closed toilet where he set you down gently but firmly.

As always, he knew where you put everything, so you didn’t have to direct him as he pulled out your small med kit.

It was just the buzz of the fluorescent lights for noise as he rummaged through the kit, occasionally pulling out select items he’d need.

You watched as hazel eyes narrowed in concentration, stomach doing a flip at how focused he was on helping you. How caring.

There was a mix of disinfectant and many bandages on the counter (more than you’d probably need), and he looked over them quickly before washing his hands and snapping on latex gloves.

“It’s going to hurt, you can hold onto me if you need to.” Was the only warning you got before he was gripping your arm with one hand and wiping down the cut with the other.

The antibacterial liquid was cold and stinging, you let out a sharp hiss at the stab of pain. As the blood was cleaned away, you could see that the cut was a bit deeper than you thought.

“I-ah, you don’t think I’ll need stitches, right?” You were a bit scared to ask, his frown had only deepened once he started working on you.

“No. It’s not to that point, but you’ll need to keep it wrapped tightly for a while so the skin can join back together.”

And he was right, after cleaning the wound thoroughly, he stuck some hefty bandages over the opening and wrapped it all in a tight cover of gauze.

He tucked the end of the fabric inside to secure it, and tugged off his gloves to clear away the mess of dirty wipes and wrappers on the counter.

You didn’t bother thanking him, knowing by now that he wouldn’t accept it.

You looked down at his work, neat as usual. You startled as a pill bottle was being shaken in front of you, eyes focusing to read the label.

“It doesn’t really hurt that much.”

He shook it again, insisting, “It will later, take one.”

You knew there was no chance of changing his mind, and it didn’t seem like the worst idea, so you grabbed the container and swallowed down one of the pills.

Satisfied, Knives leaned back against the wall opposite you, muscular arms folded over his chest.

Despite his quietness, you could still sense the underlying anger rolling off him. Knowing the answer, you asked anyway, “Are you upset?”

“Explain what happened.”

You hesitated for a moment, then started the retelling of what happened that day. You kept your composure for the most part, voice only hitching when you repeated what your coworker had said about you.

Knives stood stock still through it all, watching with that calm dangerous air that he had.

By the time you were done, you felt the telltale signs of tears, but you pushed it down again. You didn’t want it to bother you, but it did. After a life of dealing with rejection, it still stung.

A warm hand lifted up your chin, thumb swiping away tears you weren’t aware had fallen. “You don’t deserve that, none of it. It won’t happen again.” There wasn’t an ounce of question in his tone, he was sure of it.

You let out a weak laugh, sniffling. “I could only hope, he’ll probably be worse after today though. Especially since I left early.”

He hummed, “I’ve always disliked the name Mathew, all of them are annoying.” He sounded like he usually did again, slightly amused as if he were in on a joke that you weren’t.

You laughed again, stronger this time. “I can’t say I’ve had experience with that many Matthew’s to agree with you.”

He ran his thumb over your cheek one more time before backing away. “Trust me, they are. You should take tomorrow off.”

There he goes again, giving demands veiled as suggestions.

“I would love to, but unfortunately some of us common folk need jobs, and if I call out again I’ll probably be u employed. I’m sure you’ve never worked one, so it’s hard to understand.” Your tone was playfully mocking, but it was the truth. There was no way your manager was going to be okay with that, plus, you needed to make up for the money lost by leaving early.

“I have.” He adverted his eyes to your left, “worked a job that is.”

You perked up, it was rare that the man offered information past what model his knives were, and you didn’t want to lose the opportunity to learn more about him.

“Oh really? As what?” You kept your tone light, to not seem like you were prying.

“An officer.”

“Like, a police officer?”

“No. Not exactly.”

You blinked in confusion.

He shifted in his stance, like the conversation was suddenly making him uncomfortable. “Agent, would be the better term. I-” He paused, finding the right words. “I locked away the monsters of the world, and protected the people I needed to.”

You cocked a brow, “So, you were a spy?”

He huffed, giving you a look. “No. How the hell did you get spy out of that?”

“You are amazingly vague at every answer, I figured it would fit.” You shrugged, wincing when the movement aggravated the skin of your arm.

He zoned in on the expression, eyes narrowing again. “You should go to bed, especially if you’re insisting on going to work tomorrow.”

It was clear that was all the answers you’d get out of him, this night at least. You let out a huff of breath, using the counter to pull yourself into a standing position.

There was a wave of wooziness, and you fought to keep balance. Clearly the pill was doing its job.

An arm snaked around to your back, steadying you as you walked to your bedroom. As if there were an invisible barrier, he stopped at the threshold. In the dim lighting, you could only see the dark outline of him and the glint of metal strapped to his person.

To anyone else it would be menacing, terrifying even, to have the attention of the killer focused on them. You only craved more of it.

“There’s soup in your fridge if you want it. Change the wrapping in the morning, it shouldn’t cause any issues before then.”

You could only blame the strength of the pain pill for your lack of restraint, “Do you have to leave right now?”

A pause. “I do. I have something else to take care of.”

You tried not to take it as a dismissal, but it hurt nonetheless.

Something else. Not you.

“Right, okay.” The disappointment was obvious in your voice.

Steady steps made their way over to your bedside, “I don’t want to, but are some things I need to do. I’ll see you soon.”

You could barely make out the shape of him standing over you, drowsiness and the pain medicine muddling things together. “Aye, aye captian.”

A deep chuckle, and then a quiet response, “Dex.”

Dex. It suits him. You couldn’t tell if you’d said the name aloud or in your head, already giving way to unconsciousness.

The last thing you felt was a hand lightly trailing down your face before blackness.

Other than feeling like a sledgehammer hit you, your next day at work was uncharacteristically peaceful.

Even though Matthew was scheduled alongside you for the week, he never showed up for work that day.

Or the next day. Or the next one after that.

He didn’t call out, and based on the grumble from your manager, hadn’t quit either.

You never said anything, never even thought the words in your head, but you knew what happened.

If you were really honest with yourself, you knew what was going to happen when you heard the assurance in his voice that you wouldn’t have any more problems.

Kni-No-Dex, was a killer, regardless of how he treated you. You knew how he solved problems.

You were a little nervous at how little it bothered you. You had the same tingling feeling you got when he replaced one of the lightbulbs in your apartment without asking.

Cared for.

But there was another problem, Dex was nowhere to be seen either. He’d never shown up again after that night, and you were starting to get concerned.

Even though he didn’t show up every single day, missing several days in a row was out of character for him. You could only hope that he wasn’t dead or arrested somewhere.

It seemed silly to worry about him, especially with how competent he seemed. You didn’t steadily watch the news, but everyone in the city had heard of a man in a blue mask who could lodge a knife in your head faster than you could blink.

Bullseye.

He’d never told you it was him, but you weren’t an idiot, all the traits aligned. Not to mention his name, Dex, most likely short for Benjamin Pointdexter. The man who was sent to prison a while back for murder.

You didn’t care about any of that. Your only concern was that he was M.I.A. and it was out of character.

Maybe he just got bored, found someone else.

You ignored the slithering thought, knowing it’s not true.

Despite not knowing all of his life, you knew him, he was obsessive to a fault. His cleanliness, the order of his knives, and seeing you all fell into a cycling routine that he didn’t stray from.

He wouldn’t just dissapear.

Your leg shook nervously as you focused on the television. The news was covering a recent stock drop or something related. You were half listening for anything that could be related to him.

You were sure that an extremely wanted convict being detained would make front page news, so if anything happened, they’d talk about it here.

So far, it was nothing of substance, just the economy and a new court case with the slime-ball mayor.

You were shaking your leg so vigorously that you almost didn’t hear it at first. Your hand shot out, muting the tv before straining your ears.

There it was, a soft shuffling sound coming from your bedroom. You jumped up, heart fluttering in your chest as you rushed over there.

You only stopped short of your bedroom door to grab a nearby book, just in case it wasn’t Dex in your room and you needed a weapon.

Turns out, it was unnecessary, you saw him immediately upon entering, slumped against your open window.

“Dex-” His name was expelled in a relieved breath, but you only grew concerned again the more you looked at him.

Dark patches covered his mask and the fabric of his suit. His gloves were on, but you could see the clear glisten of blood coating them.

“Hey. Thought you’d be asleep. I can go soon, just gotta take a breather.”

You scoffed indignantly, quickly going over to him, “A breather? Jesus, what happened?”

“Not Jesus, just me.”

You glared at him. It was not the time for jokes, definitely not as he was dripping blood on your floor.

“You can explain later, here.” You supported him under his shoulder as you guided him to your bed.

“Gonna get it dirty.” He pushed back slightly as you tried to sit him down, but fell back anyway when you applied more force.

“It’s okay, I have other sheets. I’m worried about you right now.”

You could tell he was smirking based off the look in his eyes, further proven by the next statement. “Worried about me?”

You didn’t even bother hiding the emotion in your response, “Yes, I do. A lot.”

That made him quiet, glinting eyes searching your face for any hint of a joke or lie. He seemed to find none, but had no response for you. It was hard to tell his full expression behind the mask, and you found yourself sick of it.

Besides, it’s not like you didn’t know who he was.

Your fingers curled under the edge, lifting it gently, but a firm grip on your wrist stopped you.

“Ben, it’s okay.”

His eyes widened in slight surprise at your use of his first name, but it did the trick. The hand holding you fell away and you pulled the fabric fully off his face.

You sucked in a breath at the injuries before you. A trickle of blood coated his blond grey-flecked hair where it stuck to his forehead, and there was a bruise blooming on his cheekbone.

The lips you had admired not that long ago were sporting a cut, but even with all that, Dex didn’t appear to be in a lot of pain. His face showed an openness and tiredness that you’d never seen on him before.

Without thinking, you raised a hand to brush lightly over his mouth, relishing in the slight flutter of his eyelids as you did so.

You couldn’t stop, addicted to the reaction. Your hand trailed from his lips to the side of his face, and over his sharp jawbone. You mapped out everything that was hidden to you before, ignoring the smear of blood on your hand.

His piercing gaze stayed fixed on you as he pressed his head into your palm. His only other movement was twitching hands where they rested over his thighs. He stayed still, not trying to stop you or rush you, just accepting.

It wasn’t until your fingertips brushed over his throat that he shivered beneath you. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but he had definitely tilted his head back slightly to give you more access.

It made something swirl in your abdomen. How much he trusted you, how willing he was beneath your hands. How good he looked, injuries and all.

You told him as such, and his eyebrows knit together like he had been hit.

“Don’t say that, you don’t know what you’re starting.” His voice was weak, barely a whisper in the quiet of the room.

“I do.”

“No you don’t. You said you care about me, I’m not easy to care for.” The words weren’t said in self deprecation or a stab at sympathy, just factual. He truly believed that care and tenderness wasn’t made for him.

It sent a pang through your heart, for so many years you held a similar sentiment about yourself. You were difficult to understand-to accept, but he did, and you could do the same for him.

“I know.” You held his face in both palms, a hairsbreadth away from him, “Neither am I.”

Your lips meeting his seemed to ignite action within him, hands that were previously dormant snapping up to grab at your hips firmly.

You were pulled down to straddle his lap, already feeling a poking hardness in the fabric. It was your turn to shiver, giving an experimental grind forward as you continued to kiss him breathlessly.

That caused a deep groan to flood from his throat into your mouth. He quickly found purchase over your ass to guide you into repeating the movement.

While you grinded over the hard length in his pants, his tongue explored the expanse of your mouth, flicking over the ridges and smoothness inside. You could taste the uniqueness of him, but also the metallic tang of blood from his lip.

You only pulled away to breathe once the burning in your chest couldn’t be ignored. Chest heaving, you pulled back and watched as he did the same.

He couldn’t seem to see enough of you, eyes raking from your chest down your frame and back again. His lips were swollen and spit slicked, and you were sure you had a similar look of dishevelment.

His hands trailed up your spine and back down to where you sat on top of him. You could hear the swallow he took before speaking, “If I’m going to have you, it’s going to be all of you. If you go through with this, you’re not leaving me, you get that?” His voice was steady despite being out of breath, tone deadly serious.

You could read between the lines for the warning. There was no going back for Dex if you continued, no breakups, no do-overs.

Lucky for him you didn’t want any.

In lieu of response, you surged forward, attacking his mouth with your own as you drug yourself firmly over his crotch.

You gasped out a moan as the movement caught between your legs, right where you needed it most. But it wasn’t enough. You needed to be closer.

You shrugged off your top, throwing it to an unseen side of the room. Another shiver racked your body as lips made use of the newly exposed skin, nipping and sucking over your chest and sternum.

His fingers grabbed onto the latch of your bra, but you stopped him short. “No, get out of that suit first.”

He backed away from you with a half lidded gaze, trademark smirk flicking on his lips. “Yes ma’am.”

He seemed to enjoy watching you squirm as he unlatched all the zippers and buttons of his suit, moving much slower than necessary. The utility belt came off first, knives clinking as he threw them on your nightstand. The top part of his suit was soon to follow, dark fabric peeling away to reveal fair skin.

He wasn’t as injured as you’d assumed, just a dark blooming bruise on his ribs and left shoulder. Every other mark was old and weathered, the raised scars scattered across his torso spoke of years of pain.

You took him in unabashedly, eyes raking over pronounced pectorals and the defined abs that covered his stomach. Light hair dusted his chest and led in a trail past the waistband of his pants.

His smirk only widened as he watched you watching him. Patiently waiting, he sat there for your next move.

It was only fair that you lost the next bit of clothing, so you rose off him to shimmy out of your pants, leaving the underwear on.

His brow rose as he caught onto the little game you were playing. His pants came off quickly after, joining yours in a dark heap.

The only thing shielding the prominent bulge in his lap was dark grey briefs. They didn’t leave much to the imagination, clinging to the long rod of him and wrapping around solid thighs. You could see a dark patch in the fabric where he’d already started leaking, your core throbbing in response.

You settled on his lap again, smiling at the soft hiss he let out from the pressure. Your hand wrapped around his wrist, guiding him to your bra clasp as you trailed fingertips past the waistband of his briefs.

His fingers deftly unlatched the clasp, and the cover fell away right as you pulled his length free.

It slapped loudly against his lower stomach, smearing white across his skin and your hand.

His eyes weren’t focused on that though, only staring at your chest with intimidating focus. “God, the things I want’ta do to you.”

It was spoken under his breath so quietly, you were unsure if the words were meant for you to hear.

“So do them.”

He only laughed, leaning back on his elbows to watch you.

He knew what you wanted, he just wasn’t going to give it to you that easily. Your frustration only made him impossibly harder.

Despite his blasé act, you could see you were having an effect on him. Every rock of your hips made his cock twitch, a bead of white dribbling out the top. His neck and chest were covered in a flush, and every breath he took seemed labored. Shaky.

You decided to play his own game, fuck with him a little, “C’mon Dex, show me what you promised.”

You reached down, rubbing a thumb over the leaking slit between you. He let out a breathy moan, hips involuntarily bucking up into you.

You didn’t stop in your ministrations, leaning down to speak directly in his ear. “You said you wanted all of me, so take it. You have me.”

Your words caused another twitch in your hand. “You have me, I’m yours.”

The words were barely out your mouth when you were flipped onto your back, bouncing against the mattress. You let out a startled giggle at the movement, only sobering when you looked down.

The look Dex gave you made your heart stutter for a moment. The only way you could describe it was carnivorous. His eyes were dark and shadowed, and if you didn’t know him well enough to recognize the want in his expression, he looked almost pissed off.

It only made wetness pool in your core.

“You want this?” He left a trail of open mouthed kisses down your stomach.

It was a rhetorical question, but you nodded anyway.

“Where do you want me? Here?” He bit at your hipbone, soothing the flesh with a lick afterwards.

“Or here?” His breath ghosted across the damp patch of your panties, making you thrum in anticipation.

“Yes, right there.” Any more dilly dallying and you’d probably start begging. You had a feeling that’s exactly what he wanted.

“Hmm, interesting.” He ignored the area, trailing lips down your inner thighs. His hands gripped your knees, preventing you from closing yourself off to him.

He bit random spots all the way down your thigh, licking a stripe on the way up.

“Dex- c’mon.” You huffed. The feeling of his mouth on yours was amazing, but it wasn’t nearly enough and he knew it.

“Whose are you?” The words are spoken into your skin, in the crease of your hip.

“Yours.”

“And who do I belong to?” He grasped the waistband of your underwear between his teeth, dragging them down slowly.

“Me.”

You only saw the flash of a smile before his mouth was on you fully. You let out a shuddering moan as his lips latched onto your clit, sucking hard.

He juggled between your bundle of nerves and trailing his tongue down to your entrance, licking inside.

You could feel him groan against you as you grabbed a fistful of his hair, holding him steady.

Between your existing wetness and his mouth, you were soaking, juices dripping down to the bedsheets past his mouth.

His mouth traveled up again to focus on your nub while one of his hands snaked around to press two fingers against your entrance.

They slipped in easily, quickly building a rhythm trusting into you while his tongue lapped at you from the outside.

You couldn’t even make a sound as your peak quickly approached, your body just seized with the amount of pleasure rolling through you.

Your eyesight blanked out, and you took a few heaving breaths before you were able to find your voice again.

Even as your moans turned to over sensitive whimpers, he didn’t let up, only slowing down the movement of his hands and mouth. He seemed to be lost in the action, only focused on you and your enjoyment.

You had to yank his head back to get him to stop, and he did so with a bit of reluctance.

His hands trailed over you, running smoothing circles over your hips and legs.

Impatiently, you dug your heels into his back, nudging him upward towards you.

He followed happily, the same hungry expression on his face, except now there was a lack of tension. He seemed more relaxed, like he was the one who came and not you.

“I might not last too long. Don’t do this much, or at all really.” He analyzed your face after he’d said it, looking for any shift in your expression.

You were kind of shocked by the revelation, but weren’t put off by it at all. For a normal guy that looked like Dex, you’d assume they had a steady stream of people coming into their bed.

He wasn’t normal, and he definitely wasn’t the type to have one night stands. In fact, before tonight, you weren’t completely certain he was interested in sex at all.

You would’ve accepted him either way of course, but it was nice to know he shared the same want as you did.

“That’s fine, I just need you inside me.”

The words shocked a groan out of him, and he nuzzled his head into the juncture of your neck.

You could feel his hands wrap around your legs to reposition you accordingly.

He slid out of the last piece of fabric covering him and reached down to position his head at your entrance.

It slipped at first from the wetness, but after a few tries the tip caught onto you, slipping inside halfway.

The pressure punched the air out of you, mouth falling open in an ‘o’ shape. Even with his preparation it was a tight fit.

Dex let out a noise somewhere between a whine and a moan, dipping down to capture your mouth in his, siphoning heat into your mouth.

The taste of yourself on his tongue only heightened the experience, and you could barely catch your breath between that and his slow ruts forward.

Every movement pushed him further into you, and before you knew it he was sheathed inside you fully.

You both shuddered at the feeling, and you were sure you could feel every ridge and vein of him in your walls.

“Shit- you feel so good. I gotta pause for a sec.” He breathed against your mouth.

So you waited.

Until you didn’t.

His head tipped forward with a groan as you squeezed around him. One of his hands held your hip in a vice grip, sure to leave bruises later.

“Don’t do that.” His eyes flashed at you in warning.

You couldn’t even focus on a teasing response, you only wanted him to move.

Then he did, starting in shallow thrusts into you, building into longer drags where he pulled almost fully out before snapping into you again.

He grabbed your wrist, planting the palm firmly over his throat and guiding it to squeeze.

You followed the instruction even as his hand fell away, tightening around the corded muscles of his neck.

His eyes fluttered, hips stuttering before speeding up into a faster pace.

His breaths panted against your face as he pounded into you with quick succession. The angle shifted slightly, and he flashed a sharp grin at me hearing your higher pitch.

He pinpointed that spot, hitting it over and over again, only pausing to slip your ankles over his shoulders before continuing.

You couldn’t tell where you began and he ended, mind so blissed out. It was clear from your noises that you were reaching your peak again, and he slipped a hand down over your clit to accelerate it.

He didn’t rub, just pressed down his thumb firmly over you as you tightened around his shaft again.

The feeling of your fluttering walls made him follow right across the edge with you, letting out a shuddering moan as he pumped a few more times and released inside you.

All the strength seemed to sap from him once he came, body falling onto you heavily. You could still tell he was holding himself up a bit on his forearms in order to not crush you completely and you pulled him down solidly to increase the weight.

His rapid heart rate beat in unison with yours where you were pressed to his chest, the slick feeling of sweat and other fluids clinging to your bodies as he softened within you.

The time stretched on as you both sat there in breathless blissfulness, neither one eager to move positions.

His face hadn’t moved from where it sat nestled in your neck, warm breaths disturbing the strands of hair there. When he spoke, you felt it more than you heard it.

“You okay?” It was spoken with an air of unsureness that was unlike him. Based on what he’d said before, you had an idea of what his worries were.

“That was amazing.” And you weren’t lying, the entire experience had knocked a bit of your soul out your body and you were certain there’d be consequences of soreness the next day.

He made a humming noise, satisfied with the answer, and moved to lift off you.

A flare of panic lit up within you. Eventually, you’d have to go back to the real world, real responsibilities and concerns, but at the moment you didn’t want the stretch of peace to end. “Wait, not yet.”

He lowered himself back down immediately even though a frown creased his expression. “You need to get cleaned up, it might feel worse later.”

“Well,” you let out a soft chuckle, rubbing a hand along his scarred spine, “that’s for later me to worry about. Just a bit longer.”

He didn’t make much argument about it, settling his head back over your chest where he gave soft nips at your collarbone.

Despite relishing the peacefulness, there was something else nagging at your mind.

“Hey Dex?”

He hummed out a response, still mapping you out with his mouth.

“What happened?” You didn’t have to clarify, you knew he knew that you were referring to the event that caused him to show up in your room covered in blood.

A soft sigh, and he was leaning back to respond, “The one who put a hit on you, he found out that I hadn’t exactly,” he paused deliberating the words, “followed instructions. He sent a team to finish the job, and I made sure that didn’t happen.”

“I won’t let anyone hurt you.” There was a burning in his eyes that showed the extent of violence he was capable of.

The idea of him choosing to not kill you even though he’d been ordered to do so, and fighting off anyone else who tried was… rousing to say the least.

His eyes tightened in a wince of overstimulation as you involuntarily tightened around him.

“It’s gonna be a bit longer for that.” He sounded like he detested that fact just as much as you did.

You grinned, “I’ll be counting down the minutes,” you were going to continue with something teasing, but the look on his face stalled you.

The light from your open window casted a bluish tint over his face, contouring the edges of features softly. He fixed you with a searching gaze, like you were the only thing worth looking at.

“I meant what I said before,” You started, “it’s no going back for me either. I’m with you.”

He traveled up to your face silently and your eyes fluttered closed in preparation. Instead of kissing you on the lips, his mouth pressed firmly over your forehead. The touch trailed down to press two consecutive pecks over your eyelids and finally melt against your mouth.

“I’m with you.”

You knew that no matter what was coming in your lives that you weren’t afraid, fully willing to delve into the future with the person that knew you best.

Div by: @pixopix

The office sat high above the city, glass walls stretching from floor to ceiling, swallowing the skyline of Taipei in muted reflections. Night had already settled in, but the lights below pulsed endlessly—neon bleeding into the room in soft, fractured hues.

Behind the desk, Yuta leaned back in his chair—sleek, black, expensive. One arm rested lazily against the armrest, fingers tapping once against the polished leather before going still again. His posture was relaxed, almost careless.

Almost.

A knock broke the silence.

He didn’t look up immediately.

“Come in.”

The door opened with a quiet click. An employee stepped inside, posture straight, though the tension in his shoulders was hard to miss.

“Sir,” he began, voice measured. “I’ve compiled the latest reports. All divisions are operating within expected margins. The cybercrime interception rates have increased by—”

Yuta’s gaze lifted then, slow, deliberate.

The man faltered for half a second before continuing.

“—by approximately eighteen percent this quarter. Most of the branches are maintaining efficiency levels.”

Silence stretched.

Yuta tilted his head slightly, as if considering it, though his expression barely shifted.

“Everything is going well, then,” he said, voice calm, smooth. “What’s the problem?”

The employee hesitated. It was subtle—but noticeable.

“…There have been complaints,” he admitted carefully. “From multiple branches. They’re reporting excessive workload. Some are requesting extended leave.”

A pause.

Then—barely perceptible—Yuta exhaled through his nose, something almost like amusement ghosting across his features.

His head shook once, slow.

“Increase their salaries,” he said, as if it were obvious. “Double it.”

The employee blinked.

“They won’t have anything to say after that.” There was no arrogance in his tone.

Just certainty.

“…Yes, sir.” The man nodded quickly, relief flickering across his face before he turned and left, the door closing behind him with a soft click.

Silence returned.

For a moment, Yuta didn’t move, his broad frame still and commanding in the dim light of the room, the air thick with the scent of arousal and submission. Then, slowly, he shifted in his seat—straightening just slightly, his piercing gaze lowering under the table—to where you knelt trapped between his muscular thighs, the powerful cords of muscle flexing subtly as they caged you in place.

The zipper of his pants hung open, exposing his thick cock, still throbbing with unspent need, the veined shaft glistening with your saliva and a bead of precum leaking from the flushed tip after you had pulled your mouth away, gasping for breath, your lips swollen and slick.

The ease in his expression didn’t change, that calm, predatory serenity holding steady. But his voice did—quieter, colder, laced with an unyielding authority that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Who said you could stop… Y/N?”

His hand moved then, fingers tangling firmly in your hair, guiding your head back down without mercy, pressing your mouth against the hot, pulsing length of him. You parted your lips obediently, taking him in again, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head before sliding down, sucking with renewed fervor as his cock filled your mouth, stretching your jaw.

He groaned low, the sound vibrating through you, his thighs tightening around your shoulders to hold you steady. “Good girl,” he murmured, voice a cool thread of praise amid the command, his hips bucking shallowly to push deeper into the wet heat of your throat. “You’ve learned to do your job better, hmm… Keep going, just like that—suck harder, take every inch until I say otherwise.”

Your cheeks hollowed as you worked him, bobbing your head with desperate rhythm, the salty taste of him flooding your senses while his grip urged you on, unrelenting and possessive.

Your mouth worked him relentlessly, lips sealed tight around the girth of Yuta's cock as you bobbed your head, taking him deeper with each pass, the thick vein along the underside pulsing against your tongue. Saliva dripped from the corners of your stretched lips, mixing with the steady leak of his precum that coated your throat, making every swallow a slick, desperate effort. His fingers tightened in your hair, not guiding now but holding you firm, his hips thrusting up in controlled, insistent rolls that forced more of his length past your gag reflex, the head bumping the back of your throat until tears pricked at your eyes.

“That's it,” he rasped, his voice a low growl edged with that icy command, his free hand gripping the armrest as his thighs clamped harder around you, muscles bulging like iron vices. “Feel how hard you make me? You're mine to use, and you're doing so fucking well.” The praise sent a twisted heat pooling in your core, your body betraying you with a fresh wave of wetness between your legs, even as the ache in your jaw deepened.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucking harder, your tongue flicking relentlessly over the sensitive slit at his tip, drawing out a sharp hiss from him. His breaths came quicker, ragged now, the calm facade cracking as his cock swelled impossibly thicker in your mouth, twitching with the building pressure.

“Don't you dare pull away,” he warned, voice dropping to a dangerous whisper, his grip yanking your head down until your nose pressed against the coarse hair at his base, his balls tight and heavy against your chin. You gagged softly, but held there, throat convulsing around him, milking him with involuntary spasms that only spurred him on. His thrusts grew erratic, hips snapping up faster, fucking your face with raw possession, the wet sounds of your mouth filling the room—slurps and gasps mingling with his deepening groans.

“Fuck, yes—take it all, every goddamn inch. You're going to swallow everything I give you, aren't you? Good girl, just like that.” The tension coiled in him like a spring, his body tensing, abs clenching under his shirt as he chased release. Then, with a guttural curse, he came—hot spurts flooding your mouth, thick ropes of cum hitting the back of your throat, salty and bitter as you struggled to gulp it down.

“Swallow it all,” he ordered through gritted teeth, holding you in place as his cock jerked, pulse after pulse emptying into you. You tried, swallowing frantically around him, but the volume overwhelmed, a few pearly drops escaping the seal of your lips, trailing down your chin and splattering onto the front of your blouse, soaking the fabric in warm, sticky evidence of your submission. He finally released your hair, pulling back just enough to watch, his chest heaving as the last shudders faded.

A smirk curled his lips, dark and satisfied, as he took in the mess—your flushed face, smeared lips, the damp spots blooming on your clothes. “Still a messy eater,” he drawled, thumb brushing a stray drop from your chin only to smear it further across your skin, his eyes gleaming with possessive amusement.

“Well, you look better this way—exactly how I like you.” The intensity lingered in the air, his cock softening but still heavy against your tongue, the taste of him lingering as you panted, body trembling from the ordeal.

Slowly, you pulled back fully, wiping your face with the back of your hand, smearing the remnants across your cheek before rising unsteadily from between his thighs, legs shaky as you straightened your disheveled clothes, the wet patches clinging uncomfortably to your skin.

Yuta's gaze never wavered as he watched you, his dark eyes hooded with lingering satisfaction while he casually tucked his softening cock back into his pants, zipping up with unhurried precision. The air in the office hung thick with the musky scent of your encounter, a reminder of the power he wielded so effortlessly.

You fumbled for the tissues on his desk, hands trembling slightly as you dabbed at the sticky patches on your blouse, the fabric clinging damply to your skin where his cum had seeped through. Each swipe only spread the warmth further, a humiliating brand that made your cheeks burn hotter than before. You could feel his stare like a physical touch, tracing the curve of your neck, the flush creeping down your throat, making you hyper-aware of every shaky breath you took.

A low, amused hum rumbled from his chest, drawing your eyes up just enough to catch the smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, one finger tapping rhythmically against the polished wood of the desk—a deliberate, taunting cadence that echoed in the quiet room.

“We go shopping tonight,” he said finally, his voice smooth and commanding, laced with that casual authority that brooked no argument. “Be ready to leave by six.”

“But before that…”

He paused, the words hanging in the air like a threat wrapped in silk. Slowly, deliberately, he extended his palm toward you, fingers splayed open in silent expectation. You knew exactly what he wanted—had known it for months now, the ritual ingrained like a scar.

You forced a smile, chill and practiced, though it felt brittle on your lips, like it might crack under the weight of resentment. Your hand dipped into the pocket, fingers closing around the cool metal of your phone. Hesitation gripped you for a beat—long enough to imagine smashing it against the desk, walking out, ending this—but reality crashed back in, heavy and unyielding. No choice. Not with what he held over you. With a steadying breath, you placed the device in his waiting hand, your skin brushing his just long enough to send a shiver racing up your arm.

Yuta's fingers danced across the screen, unlocking it with the passcode he'd long since memorized, scrolling through your messages, your photos, your digital footprint with the ease of someone who owned it all. A smile tugged at his lips, genuine this time, though no less predatory. “Improvements, I see,” he murmured, his tone almost approving as he flicked through whatever evidence of your 'progress' he deemed fit to inspect. Then, his eyes lifted to meet yours, piercing and unblinking. “But I'd rather like if you could look at me more lovingly, you know?”

“.......”

“I'll try,” You whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue. It wasn't what you wanted to say—not even close—but defiance was a luxury you couldn't afford. Not here, not with him.

He hummed again, a sound of lazy contentment, as if your capitulation was the most natural thing in the world. Satisfied, he slid the phone back across the desk toward you, his finger tapping once more in that infuriating rhythm. “That's my girl. Now, get out of here. I have work to do.”

“......” You snatched up her phone and turned on unsteady legs, the door clicking shut behind you with a finality that released the breath you'd been holding. The hallway outside felt like freedom by comparison. Because that man... Yuta... he'd been blackmailing you for what felt like an eternity now…

—

It started the day you moved here. In Taiwan.

After countless applications, interviews that blurred into one another, and polite rejections that all sounded the same—you were finally selected. It had felt… earned. Deserved.

The first few months were exactly what you had imagined.

Structured. Productive. Yours.

You moved through your days with quiet precision—waking early, maintaining your routines, balancing work with discipline. Office hours were clean and efficient, your performance consistent. Even outside of it, your life held a certain rhythm—work, home, workouts, occasional evenings spent in the quiet comfort of a library or a café.

That says…

There was a café not far from your office—small, warm lighting, the kind of place that didn’t try too hard. You found yourself there often during your free time, seated by the window with a book or your laptop, exchanging small, familiar conversations with the staff, sometimes even other regulars. Nothing deep. Nothing personal.

Just enough to feel… at ease.

Like everything was going well.

---

Until it wasn’t.

The shift was subtle at first. Then obvious.

You were accused of something you didn’t do.

No clear explanation. No solid proof. Just… implication. A quiet suggestion passed around just loud enough to be heard, just vague enough to stick. You knew how these things worked. You also knew you weren’t imagining it.

There were people who didn’t like you. Maybe it was because you were new. Maybe it was because you didn’t try to fit in. Or maybe—because you were simply doing too well.

Whatever the reason, it didn’t matter. The result was the same. Your impression dropped.

Conversations grew shorter. Glances lingered a second too long before looking away. People who once acknowledged you began to avoid you altogether.

You noticed. You just didn’t react. It didn’t affect your work, and that was all that mattered.

---

Then came the call.

A transfer.

Not just anywhere—but to the CEO’s direct division.

You had stared at the notification longer than necessary, reading it twice, then a third time, as if the meaning might change.

It didn’t.

Even now, you weren’t entirely sure how it had happened. Others, however, had opinions. They didn’t like it.

You could feel it in the shift of the room, the tension beneath forced politeness. Working under the CEO—directly—meant better exposure, better pay, better opportunities. More profitable.

You understood why they resented it. And yet—You believed you had earned it. Your work spoke for itself. That had to be it. But in reality…

You were fooled.

—

The first few days in the new division were… normal.

Quiet. Professional. Nothing out of place. Which was exactly why the change didn’t sit right.

“Ms. Y/N.”

You looked up from your desk as the manager approached, a file already in hand before you even registered the movement.

“Yes?”

“I need you to take these to the CEO’s office.”

Your fingers paused over your keyboard. Then, slowly, you leaned back slightly in your chair, studying him.

“…Is there an issue?” you asked, tone even. “Something I need to be aware of?”

After what had happened before, you weren’t careless.

The manager blinked, almost caught off guard by the question. “No,” he said quickly. “Nothing like that.”

Your gaze didn’t shift.

He cleared his throat. “The boss wants to see his new employee.”

A pause settled between you.

You didn’t respond immediately. You weren’t entirely convinced. It was too sudden. Too direct. But there was nothing you could question without sounding… defensive.

A small nod followed, controlled, minimal. “I see.”

You reached for the file, fingers brushing over the neatly stacked papers before lifting it from the desk. Curiosity lingered, quiet but present. After all—This was the CEO.

Someone who handled far more than what was visible on the surface. Power, influence, decisions that shifted entire systems. You wondered what kind of person he was.

Without another word, you stood, smoothing out the fabric of your dress instinctively before stepping away from your desk.

The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.

You stepped inside. Pressed the button. And waited. As the doors closed, your reflection stared back at you—composed, unreadable.

---

Once inside, the first thing you noticed was him.

Seated behind the wide desk, posture relaxed yet composed, phone pressed lightly against his ear as he spoke to someone on the other end. His voice was low—controlled, measured—but carried a quiet authority that didn’t need volume to be felt.

He didn’t look at you. Not even once.

You stepped forward anyway, heels muted against the polished floor, placing the file neatly on the desk—just within his reach, not too close, not too far. Precise. Intentional.

Then you stepped back. Far enough to maintain distance. Close enough to remain professional. And waited.

“…Handle it.”

That was all he said before the call ended.

The phone was set aside without a second glance, his attention shifting seamlessly as his fingers moved to the file you had brought. He flipped it open, scanning the contents briefly.

You didn’t waste time.

“Sir, the report includes the latest breach analysis from the eastern sector,” you began, voice steady, efficient. “The anomalies were traced back to—”

“Name?” The word cut through your explanation, quiet but firm.

You paused. A second, no more.

“…Y/N.”

A soft hum left him, almost absent-minded.

“Y/N…”

He repeated it—not as a question, not quite as acknowledgment either. Just… testing it.

“I heard you were accused of something in your previous division.” The statement was casual. Too casual.

Your fingers tightened slightly around nothing, though your tone remained even. “I didn’t do anything.”

He nodded. Slowly. Then, for the first time since you entered, he looked up. Directly at you. It wasn’t a long look. But it was enough.

“Oh, I know,” he said. “You did nothing.” A pause followed—brief, deliberate.

“It happens,” he continued, gaze steady. “Especially when you’re… an outsider.” The word lingered, though his tone didn’t change.

“But don’t worry,” he added, almost lightly. “You won’t be accused here.” Another pause. Subtle. Measured.

“Unless…” He didn’t finish. Didn’t need to.

His attention shifted back to the file, conversation dismissed as easily as it had begun.

The silence stretched.

You remained where you were for a moment longer, standing still, processing—not the words themselves, but what lay beneath them.

Then it clicked. You were done here.

Without another word, you turned, heels sharp against the floor this time as you made your way out, the door closing softly behind you.

The interaction lingered for a moment. Then faded. At least—that’s what you thought.

The first encounter wasn’t anything significant. Nothing overt. Nothing that stood out. Not at the time.

The changes began quietly. Subtly. Within a week, your salary increased.

You had double-checked it yourself, brows knitting slightly before you approached your manager.

“There’s been an update to my compensation,” you said. “Is that correct?”

He nodded without hesitation. “For your performance.” That was all.

—

It should have been satisfying. And it was. At first. Then you started working more.

Staying later. Pushing just a little further each time. It wasn’t forced. It didn’t feel like pressure. Just a simple thought, repeating itself—The more you do, the more you get.

—

Days blurred into evenings. Evenings into nights. And somewhere in between—You began to notice him.

He would pass by your desk before leaving. Not every day. But enough.

“When are you leaving?”

The first time, you glanced at the clock.

7:55 p.m.

“I’ll be staying,” you replied. “Overtime.”

He didn’t respond immediately. Just looked at you. For a moment longer than necessary. Then he left.

—

The next time—

“Tonight as well?”

You gave a small nod. “Yes.”

A brief pause followed before you added, almost out of habit—

“Good night, sir.”

He didn’t return it.

—

Another evening.

You were midway through a data project, focus fixed, fingers moving steadily across your keyboard when his presence registered beside you.

“Would you like to have dinner?”

The question caught you off guard. Not because of what it was—But because of who it came from.

You hesitated. Only for a second. But it was enough. There were things you had learned the hard way.

Assumptions. Appearances. The way people watched, the way situations twisted into something they weren’t. You weren’t careless anymore.

“…I’m sorry, sir,” you said politely, eyes returning to your screen. “I’m working—”

“Overtime.” He cut in, voice quiet.

“I know.”

Silence followed.

Then, just as simply as he had appeared—He left.

You exhaled slowly, fingers pausing over the keyboard. A faint unease settled in your chest, subtle but persistent.

Maybe you shouldn’t have refused. Maybe it didn’t matter.

—

You told yourself it was nothing.

Things happened. For a reason. For the better. But this time—It didn’t feel like it.

Because the next call from him wasn’t what you expected it to be.

You had assumed it would be about work—perhaps the project you’d been handling, or even your refusal the other night. Either way, you prepared yourself before stepping into his office, posture straight, expression composed.

The door closed softly behind you.

For a moment, he said nothing. He simply looked at you. Not a glance. Not a passing acknowledgment. An assessment—slow, deliberate, as if he were taking in details you hadn’t offered.

You held his gaze, steady. Waiting.

“I would say…” he began at last, voice low, measured, “you’re very dedicated to your work.”

It took you a second. A small pause, followed by a quiet—

“…Thank you, sir.” Your tone was polite. Controlled.

“And also…” he continued, the faintest shift in his posture as his head tilted slightly, one brow lifting just enough to be noticed, “…a little obsessed with money. Hmm?”

The words settled between you. Not accusatory. Not entirely light either.

You blinked once. Twice. Then answered.

“…Who isn’t?”

For a fraction of a second—barely there—he seemed taken aback. Not by the content. But by the ease of it.

Then something shifted in his expression. Subtle. Amused. A quiet smile, not quite reaching his lips, but present in his eyes.

“Mm.” A soft hum.

“You’re exactly as I imagined.”

Silence followed. Longer this time.

Uncomfortable—not because of anything obvious, but because he wasn’t dismissing you. Wasn’t continuing either. Just… letting the moment stretch, keeping you there under his attention.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he reached for something on his desk.

A black card. Sleek. Minimal. Expensive.

He slid it across the surface toward you, the motion slow, deliberate—the soft sound of it against the table louder than it should have been.

“Have dinner with me tonight.”

Your thoughts stalled. Just for a second.

“What…?”

The word didn’t leave your lips, but it lingered in your mind all the same.

Was he serious?

You looked at the card. Then back at him. Careful. Measured.

“…May I ask,” you said, choosing your words deliberately, “why you want to have dinner with me?”

A quiet hum left him. His fingers tapped lightly against the card—once, twice—before stilling.

“Would you prefer a direct answer?”

You didn’t respond. But you didn’t look away either.“Well…” he continued, tone unchanged, “it’s because I’m interested in you.”

A slight pause.

“Hm?” His gaze held yours, unwavering now.

“So,” he added, almost lightly, “I’m looking for a ‘yes’ from you… Ms. Y/N.”

“.......”

---

The dinner, in itself, wasn’t anything unusual.

At least—not on the surface.

The restaurant was exactly the kind you would have chosen on your own—dim lighting, quiet ambiance, the kind of place where conversations stayed private and the staff knew when not to interrupt. You had barely glanced at the menu before realizing… you didn’t need to.

He already had.

Dishes arrived—one after another—each aligning a little too well with your preferences. The flavors, the presentation, even the smaller details you hadn’t thought anyone noticed.

You didn’t question it. Not out loud.

“You should try this.” His voice had been calm as he nudged a plate slightly toward you, gaze steady, expectant without forcing it.

You did. And it was good.

The conversation stayed light. Controlled. Nothing intrusive. Nothing that crossed a line you couldn’t step back from.

If anything—It felt easy.

—

He dropped you off afterward.

The car slowed to a stop just outside your place, the city quieter now, the night settling in.

“Be on time tomorrow.”

That was all he said. No elaboration. No softness. Just expectation.

And then it continued.

The next day.

And the day after that.

Dinners became routine. Not every night at first. Then almost every night.

He would take you out without asking much anymore—as if the answer had already been decided. Different places, different settings, but always the same controlled atmosphere. Always the same attention.

“You have a good sense of style.”

The comment came one evening as his gaze lingered briefly—not intrusive, but deliberate—taking in your outfit, your shoes, the way everything sat just right.

And, the next day, something new would appear.

A box. A bag. Another pair of shoes. A dress. Jewelry.

Expensive. Thoughtfully chosen. And always—Just slightly different from what you usually wore.

The cuts were a little bolder. The fabric a little softer. The designs… more revealing than what you preferred.

Subtle. But intentional. And yet—You never wore them in front of him.

If he noticed, he didn’t say it. But the way his gaze lingered sometimes… told you enough. Let him think. Let him imagine.

Well, It didn’t stop there.

At some point, it extended into your routines. Appointments you hadn’t booked—but somehow existed.

A message waiting for you. A confirmation already handled.

Spa treatments. Hair appointments. Makeup sessions curated down to the smallest detail. And the next day—

He would look at you.

Not briefly. Not casually. But with that same quiet, assessing attention.

“You look beautiful.”

You weren’t unaware. You understood exactly what this was.

The way he looked at you—quiet, observant, taking in more than he ever voiced. The way he would sometimes reach out absentmindedly, brushing a loose strand of your hair back into place while speaking, leaning just a little too close without ever making it obvious.

It wasn’t accidental.

At some point, he had even offered—

“No need to arrange transport,” he said one evening, sliding a set of keys across the table. “Take one of mine.”

You had looked at it for a moment longer than necessary. Then taken it anyway.

You knew what he wanted. Even if he never said it out loud. And you—

You chose not to acknowledge it. Not directly. Instead, you let it play out. Slowly. Carefully.

Pushing just enough to see how far it would go. Because if you were being honest—You didn’t mind.

Not the attention. Not the luxury. Not the way he spent on you without hesitation.

You understood the exchange. Even if it remained unspoken. And for now—You were content to play along. Just to see how long he would keep going.

---

Yet things took a turn you couldn’t quite place.

Not sudden. Not obvious. But enough to unsettle the balance you had carefully maintained.

You had known—at some point—that he would become more direct.

You just hadn’t expected it to be… today.

---

“Y/N.”

The call had been simple. No context. No explanation. Just that.

Now, you stood in his office once again.

The same space. The same quiet. The same controlled atmosphere that seemed to close in just a little more each time you stepped inside. This time—He gestured toward the chair in front of his desk.

“Sit.”

You did. Hands resting neatly on your lap, posture straight, composed as ever. He didn’t sit.

Instead, he remained standing, a faint smile playing on his lips—calm, almost casual. Too calm. Then, slowly—He moved.

Circling around your chair. Unhurried. Measured.

Each step deliberate as he came to stand just behind you, his presence settling in before his voice did.

“I wonder what I’m doing wrong…” A pause.

“Could you tell me?”

Your fingers pressed lightly together in your lap. “I… don’t understand what you mean by that, sir.”

A soft hum left him. You could almost feel it before you heard it.

“You do.” Another step. Closer.

“You’re just playing with me.” There was a shift in his tone then. Subtle. Lower. Not louder—but heavier.

“I liked it though… your act.” A brief pause followed, as if he were considering something.

“Well…” His voice dipped just slightly. “I’m getting a little impatient now.”

Silence pressed in around you.

“You don’t have any… business outside, do you?” The question came suddenly. Casual on the surface. But it wasn’t. Not really.

You glanced at him from the corner of your eye. A small movement. Controlled. “I don’t,” you said. Then, after a pause—

“…but what if I did?”

The air shifted. Barely. But enough.

“Then there’d be consequences.”

The words were simple. Spoken just as evenly as everything else. And yet—They landed differently.

You stilled for a second, caught slightly off guard by the response.

A quiet chuckle followed. Light. Almost dismissive.

“Well… I’m glad to hear that you don’t.”

He moved again, stepping around to stand in front of you now. Close. Not too close. Just enough.

“And misunderstandings happen in every relationship,” he continued, tone returning to that same calm ease, as if nothing had shifted at all. “So there’s nothing to worry about, hmm?”

His hand lifted. Familiar now. Fingers brushing lightly through a strand of your hair, smoothing it back into place.

A gesture you had, somehow, gotten used to. You looked at him. Directly this time.

“What relationship…?” The question was genuine. Unfiltered.

He stilled. Just for a moment.

His gaze settled on you—steady, unreadable—as if weighing the question rather than answering it immediately.

Seconds passed. Quiet. Heavy.

“Our relationship.”

Silence.

He didn’t look away. Didn’t soften it. Didn’t explain further. As if that alone was enough—

“That said…” He continued. A slight pause.

“To make sure…” His voice lowered just a fraction.

“May I kiss you… respectfully?”

The question came too suddenly. Too directly.

Your breath caught—just slightly—as confusion flickered across your expression, your body shifting in your seat, not quite pulling away, not quite leaning in.

He noticed. “If not…” He leaned forward. Slowly. Carefully.

Closing the distance just enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath—close, controlled, intentional.

“Then you kiss me.”

You stared at him for a brief second—long enough for your thoughts to scatter, not long enough to gather them properly.

There were too many questions.

If you agreed—then what? And if you didn’t… then what?

Either way, it felt like a decision that wouldn’t stay contained to just this moment. Something that could follow you back to your desk, into your work, into everything that had already started to blur together.

Would it affect your job? Would it not? You couldn’t tell. A hesitation settled in your chest, quiet but firm.

“…Not here.” The words came out softer than you intended, but they were enough. An exit. At least for now.

He watched you. For a moment longer than necessary. Then—He smiled.

“Ah…” A quiet breath of amusement slipped into his tone.

“I didn’t know you were this bold.”

“....?” Your fingers tightened slightly in your lap.

“Well then,” he continued smoothly, straightening just a little, that same calm composure returning as if nothing had shifted at all, “be ready to leave by nine.”

A small pause.

“I have a few things to finish.”

The smile remained. Unchanged. And it was clear—There wasn’t really an option to refuse. Not without consequence.

You gave a small nod. Nothing more. Then stood, smoothing your dress instinctively before turning toward the door.

As you stepped out, the air felt… different. Heavier.

‘Am I making this worse?’ The thought lingered as you walked down the hallway, heels echoing softly against the floor. But then another followed, quieter—more rational.

‘If he fires me… I’ll find another job. It wasn’t the end of anything. It couldn’t be.’

Right?

By seven-thirty, your shift ended as it always did. Routine. Predictable. You packed your things, movements precise, controlled—like every other day.

On your way out, you noticed your manager still at his desk. Later than usual.

“Y/N.” His voice stopped you mid-step.

You turned slightly. “Yes?”

“Already?”

There was a brief pause before you answered. “…Yes.” A small tilt of your head. “It’s my usual time to clock out.”

“I see.” That was all he said.

But his gaze lingered a second too long as you turned and walked away.

Usually, Yuta would drop you home. It had become… routine. But today—You were alone. And somehow—The walk felt longer. The same streets. The same turns. The same distance.

Yet what usually took twenty minutes stretched into something heavier. Slower. Each step just slightly more reluctant than the last.

Almost as if—Your body was resisting. Sensing something your mind hadn’t fully caught up to yet.

And when you reached your apartment—You understood why.

He was there.

—

Yuta stood just outside, near his car, the faint glow of a cigar between his fingers, smoke curling into the night air in slow, deliberate spirals.

You stopped on the steps. For a second—Just to make sure.

It was really him. And by the time the confirmation settled—It was too late to turn back.

He had already seen you.

The cigar dropped to the ground, crushed beneath his shoe without a second thought as he began walking toward you. Unhurried. Certain.

Step by step until he stood in front of you. Close. Too close to pretend this was coincidence.

“I think someone didn’t hear me properly…”

His voice was calm. But something beneath it had shifted.

“You were supposed to wait, no?”

Your throat tightened slightly. A quiet swallow as you searched for something to say—Anything that made sense.

But he didn’t give you the chance.

“Ha…” A soft sigh left him, head tilting just slightly as if in mild frustration.

“I really hate it when I don’t understand…”

He leaned back just enough to give you space. Not out of consideration. But control.

“That’s why I keep asking you,” he continued, gaze settling on you once more, steady, unrelenting.

“Tell me…” A brief pause.

“What am I doing wrong?”

“......."

Well… you didn’t have an answer either. Not a clear one.

It wasn’t that you hated him—Or even the attention he gave you. If anything, you had accepted it… adapted to it, in your own way. But still—

Something about him didn’t sit right.

Maybe it was his presence. The way he carried himself—too controlled, too aware. Or maybe—It was just your instincts.

A quiet, persistent feeling somewhere beneath everything else, telling you to step back. To be careful. Even if you couldn’t explain why.

You exhaled slowly, trying to gather your thoughts into something that made sense.

“I’m just… not sure,” you began, voice measured, choosing each word carefully. “I’ve been trying to focus on my work, and I don’t really—” You didn’t get to finish.

The sharp sound of a lighter clicking echoed in the quiet space. He had already taken out another cigar.

A slow drag. Smoke curled between the two of you, thick, deliberate, as if filling the silence you hadn’t been allowed to complete.

“So you’re telling me…” His voice cut through, lower than before. Colder. Stripped of that usual calm ease you had grown used to.

“…I was patient for nothing?”

You stilled.

He exhaled, the smoke drifting past you as his gaze settled—direct, unyielding.

“After everything…” A brief pause.

“You’re still hesitant?” There was something sharper now. Not loud. But present.

“For what?”

Your fingers tightened slightly at your sides.

“I thought we were doing just fine.”

That was the closest you had ever heard him to losing that composure. Not fully. But enough.

—

He moved suddenly.

“Get in the car. You’re coming with me.”

The words came out sharp. Serious. Not a trace of that calm, composed tone he usually carried.

You blinked, taken aback. “…What?”

A small step back, your brows drawing together in a frown. “No.” The refusal was immediate. Instinctive.

A quiet sigh left him. Slow. Controlled.

“I don’t really like creating a scene in public,” he said, almost casually, though the weight behind his words didn’t match the tone. “Especially this late.”

A pause.

Then his gaze locked onto yours. Direct. Unmoving. Smoke slipped past his lips as he spoke again—

“Remember I told you before…” Another step closer. “That you won’t get accused here unless…” A faint tilt of his head.

“You disrespect me.”

Your breath caught slightly.

“Well,” he continued, voice even, almost thoughtful, “I’m feeling very disrespected right now, Ms. Y/N.”

A pause.

“I suppose this isn’t how you treat your boss.”

Your fists clenched at your sides. Tight. For a moment, you just stared at him—Trying to reconcile this version of him with the one you had been dealing with all this time. The one who smiled calmly. Who spoke softly. Who—Wasn’t this.

“You…” your voice came out lower now, controlled but firm, “also shouldn’t treat your colleagues this way.”

He blinked. Once. As if your response had genuinely caught his attention. Then—His head tilted slightly. A slow, almost curious motion.

“Oh…” A quiet breath of amusement followed.

“No.” His lips curved into something faintly resembling a smile.

“You’re not my colleague anymore.” A pause.

“You’re…” He stopped himself. Deliberately.

“…Well,” he added lightly, though the look in his eyes didn’t match, “I don’t think it would be appropriate to say it here, don’t you think?”

The smile lingered. Mischievous. Mocking. Something about it made your chest tighten.

Your heartbeat picking up—not from anything obvious, but from the unease settling deeper under your skin.

Your gaze flickered briefly past him—toward your building, the entrance just a few steps away. So close. If you could just walk past him—Get inside—End this—Resign tomorrow. Be done with it. The thoughts rushed through your mind all at once. Fast. Unsteady.

“Y/N…” His voice stopped you before you could move.

“I’ve been standing here for an hour now,” he said, tone quieter this time, but no less firm. “Not for you to just walk past, yeah?”

A pause settled between you. Then—A shift. Subtle.

“But you know what…” He exhaled lightly, almost amused again. “I don’t want to force you.”

Another pause. Deliberate.

“Well…” A slight tilt of his head.

“I don’t have to.” The words lingered.

“Do you know why?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he leaned closer. Slowly. Closing the space between you just enough for his presence to feel overwhelming without touching.

“Because…” His voice dropped. Lower. Certain.

“You’ll come crawling to me on your own.” The confidence in it—Unshaken. Absolute.

For a split second—Your body reacted before your mind did. A flicker of heat. Weakness. Something you didn’t like—something you didn’t trust.

And that was enough.

You pushed him back. Not hard. But enough to create space. “I’m resigning.”

The words came out sharp. Final.

Before he could respond—You turned.

Heels striking hard against the ground as you walked past him, straight toward your apartment, not stopping, not looking back.

Leaving him behind.

---

You were ready to face the consequences.

That’s what you had told yourself.

If it meant getting kicked out of the company—fine. If it meant another stain on your image—fine. You had been through that before.

You would deal with it. Get over it. Find something new.Start again.

That’s what you thought it would be. But the next day—Everything shattered.

The accusation wasn’t small. It wasn’t something you could brush off.

You were reported.

For stealing. Company data. Confidential information. And worse—

Money. Large amounts. Gone. And you—Were the one who “ran away” with it.

It didn’t even make sense. Not to you. Not in the way it unfolded.

You were arrested before you could even process it.

Hands gripping your arms. Questions thrown at you before you could answer the first. Your voice lost somewhere between denial and disbelief.

Your bank accounts were frozen. Your passport. Your visa.

Every document that tied you to the life you were building—Gone. Locked. Restricted.

—

Three days.

Three days of interrogation. Of repeating the same words over and over again—

“I didn’t do anything.”

But words weren’t enough. They never were.

“Do you have proof?”

Silence.

Because how do you prove something you never did?

This wasn’t what you had planned. Not even close. You had come here to build something.

A future. To settle. To grow. Not—This.

Your family… your relatives… everyone you had—They were in another country. Far. Out of reach.

You didn’t even know if they had heard. If they knew. If they believed it. And here—You had no one. No one to stand up for you. No one to help you. No one—

Except the one who had done this. Yuta.

You were sure of it. There was no doubt left in your mind. And now—You were sitting across from him.

—

The interrogation room felt smaller than it should have.

Cold. Closed. Suffocating.

A metal table between you. Harsh lighting above. Walls that seemed to absorb every sound and give nothing back.

The officer kept asking questions. One after another. Sharp. Repetitive.

“Where did you transfer the data?”

“Who were you working with?”

“Where is the money now?”

But you—You didn’t answer. Not anymore.

Your eyes stayed on him. Only him. Hatred. Clear. Unhidden.

He noticed. Of course he did. And it amused him.

A faint shift in his expression—barely there, but enough. Then—A soft tap of his finger against the table. Once. Twice.

“Enough.”

The officer fell silent immediately.

“I’d like to speak with her… in private.”

There was a brief hesitation. Then—

“…Ah, yes. Of course.”

The officer stepped back, glancing at the others in the room. A silent exchange. A nod.

Yuta hummed quietly, as if satisfied.

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a cigar. Turning it slightly between his fingers before bringing it up.

“It’s okay to smoke here, right?”

The word ‘right’—It wasn’t directed at them. It was directed at you. But before you could respond—

“Of course, sir. Of course.”

The officer stepped in quickly, almost too quickly. A lighter placed neatly on the table in front of him.

“…Here.” The eagerness was obvious. Almost uncomfortable.

Yuta didn’t react to it. Not directly.

The officers left soon after. The door shutting behind them with a soft, final click. Silence settled. Heavy.

He placed the cigar between his lips, lighting it with ease, the flame flickering briefly before fading.

A slow inhale. Then—Without looking at you—

“Come here.”

Your body moved before your mind fully caught up. You stood from your chair. Took a step forward—

“Mm…”

You froze.

His gaze lifted slowly to meet yours. Calm. Unhurried.

“On your knees.”

With a silence that felt like torture to yourself—You bent. Slowly. Reluctantly. And then—You moved.

Crawling toward him. Just like he had said you would.

Each movement felt heavier than the last. Your palms pressing against the cold floor, your breath uneven, your thoughts loud—too loud—but none of it stopping you.

Because what choice did you have?

When you finally reached him—Close enough—He exhaled a slow puff of smoke, watching it drift between you before his hand moved.

A paper. He held it out to you.

Your fingers hesitated before taking it. Your eyes dropped to the page. And then—They stilled.

‘Marriage registry.’

You looked up at him instantly—disbelief written clearly across your face.

He only smirked.

“I can’t risk you running away right after getting out of here, you know…” His tone was calm. Casual. As if this—this situation—was something completely reasonable.

“So it’s better if we seal the bond.”

Your mind felt blank. Empty. Nothing was processing the way it should. You stared at the paper again. Then at him. Then back.

Nothing made sense.

He leaned down slightly, closer to your bent form, his presence closing in around you as his voice dropped near your ear—

“Come on…” A pause.

“You don’t want to stay here forever, do you?”

Your throat tightened. “I… I don’t understand why you’re doing this…” your voice came out uneven now, the composure you held for so long slipping just enough. “Is it… because of the money?”

A shaky breath. “I—I promise I’ll pay you back… someday… I will… so please…”

He shook his head. Slowly. Another drag of the cigar before he spoke again. “I have enough of that.” A pause. His gaze steady.

“I’m not interested in money.” A slight tilt of his head.

“But you.”