Sky

You step closer, barefeet whispering against broken glass without being cut. Your eyes glow faintly. Hungry, starved, ancient.

“Someone who likes watching you work.”

Blood drips from Ghost’s glove. A fresh kill. Your nostrils flare softly as if inhaling a perfume.

“You enjoy it, don’t you?” you murmur. “The power. The silence after their last breath.”

Ghost hates how his jaw tightens. Hates how something inside him responds.

You choose him.

Because Simon Riley is hollow. A man who kills because he must, not because he wants to, but deep down he could. He can. There’s a sleeping beast in him.

And you, you love nothing more than waking beasts. You whisper gently, fingers trailing over the edge of his mask.

“Let me help you, Simon.”

He shivers.

Shivers, something he hasn’t done since childhood.

The first time you kill with him. It’s supposed to be a simple extraction. Two targets, quick and efficient. But you decide you want more. The lights go out, the air thickens and screams echo.

Ghost watches you move. Not human, not sane, not bound by gravity or mercy. You carve through men like art. Every puncture, every strangled cry, every gush of warm blood a symphony only you understand.

And Ghost, he feels something.

Heat. Pulse. Excitement in his throat like he’s alive for the first time in years.

When the last body hits the floor, you turn to him. Blood stains your lips. You lean your head to his shoulder.

“You see?” you whisper. “We could be… magnificent together.”

And he doesn’t push you away.

It becomes routine. Operations, missions, casual murders in alleys. You appear—always—when he’s just about to kill. And instead of stopping you, Ghost lets you in.

Into the violence. Into the silence. Into the place inside him he thought was long dead.

He stops seeing you as a hallucination. He starts seeing you as a partner. A shadow beside his shadow.

“What are you?”

That night he asks you quietly. You sit on his lap like you belong there, swinging your legs, smiling with sharp teeth hidden behind soft lips.

“A demon,” you answer simply.

“I feed on pain. On fear. On suffering. And you–” Your finger drags down the skull mask slowly. “You give me everything I hunger for.”

He swallows. For the first time in his life, Simon Riley doesn’t fear the darkness. He wants to touch it.

The turning point, the kill that changes him. A man begs on the floor, hands raised, voice shaking, and his breath thick with terror.

Ghost raises his gun, but instead of pulling the trigger he looks at you. Asking, inviting, offering. Your smile is catastrophic. You wrap your hands over his, guiding his finger on the trigger.

“Good boy.”

The gunshot is thunder. And Ghost feels a shiver run down his spine so intense he almost moans. That’s when he realizes, he wasn’t corrupting you. You were corrupting him. And he let you.

Later in the dark of his apartment, he corners you against the wall. Not with hostility but with hunger. Eyes sharp, mask half removed and breath ragged.

“You make me feel,” he growls.

The admission sounds like it tears him open. You stroke his cheek, slow and approving.

“I chose you, Simon.”

His grip tightens around your waist.

“Why?”

Your lips brush his ear like a promise and a threat.

“Because you’re the only human who kills like a demon.”

He exhales, trembling, not from fear, but from desire.

“Then keep choosing me.”

You smile, pupils dilating with ruinous affection.

“Always.”

Ghost doesn’t sleep much anymore. But he dreams of you, your laughter, your blood red grin, the way your fingers wrap lovingly around death itself. And when he wakes, he hunts with you again.

Not for justice. Not for orders. But because the demon you are and the demon he is becoming fit together perfectly.

You take his hand after another kill, intertwining your fingers with his.

“Simon,” you whisper, voice soft like sin, “you’re mine now.”

Ghost doesn’t deny it. He squeezes your hand back.

“Good.”

Because he wants to be.

The words hit you like a quiet blow.

“You think I don’t?”

His eyes flicked to yours, like he hadn’t expected that.

“I think you don’t know what I’m capable of.”

“I think you don’t know what I’ve already chosen.”

His hand slid to your cheek. He held your face like it was something breakable, something sacred. And in the silence, in the space between his touch and your breath, something deep in him broke open.

“I dream about you,” he whispered. “Even when I don’t sleep.”

Your heart twisted.

“I feel you under my skin,” he went on. “All the time. Like… you’re in my blood and I can’t get you out.”

You kissed him—not hard, not rushed. Just lips against lips. Warm. Present. Steady.

When you pulled back, your voice trembled.

“Then don’t try to.”

You didn’t talk for a while after that.

But his hands never left your skin.

He pulled you closer, so close you could barely breathe. Your thighs tangled with his. His mouth found the hollow of your throat. Your hands slid through his hair. And when he moved against you, it wasn’t rough—it was intentional. Like he was trying to memorize every piece of you, map it into memory with skin and breath.

Every kiss was slower now.

Every touch lingered.

He kissed your neck with reverence. He let you guide his hands. He held you when your breathing stuttered. And when your fingers dug into his back, he only whispered your name again and again—like it grounded him, like it saved him.

When it was over, and you lay together in silence, he pressed his forehead to yours.

And just breathed.

Like he hadn’t done it right in years.

When morning came, he didn’t leave.

You woke to find him lying on his side, watching you—quiet, unmoving, but not detached. Something in his gaze had shifted.

The walls weren’t down.

But they’d let you in.

You reached for his hand. He let you take it, lacing your fingers together without hesitation.

You rested there for a moment—just skin and silence—and finally asked, “What are we now?”

He didn’t answer.

But his thumb brushed over your knuckles in slow circles.

Then he leaned in and kissed your forehead, your cheek, your jaw.

Then your lips.

Soft.

Like a promise.

When he pulled back, his voice was barely a breath.

“I’m yours.”

That was it.

No flowery confessions.

No dramatic declarations.

Just that.

I’m yours.

And somehow, it meant more than I love you ever could.

It happened on a rainy Sunday, just after sunset.

You’d spent the afternoon holed up in your room together. It had become a routine—door locked, phones forgotten, the storm outside nothing compared to the quiet between your bodies.

He lay on your bed with his shirt off, one arm behind his head, the other resting lazily across his stomach. He didn’t look at you, but you could tell he knew you were watching him.

The bruises on his ribs were fading, yellowing at the edges. His chest rose and fell slowly, his skin warm against the lamplight, the sharp lines of muscle and bone interrupted only by old scars and fresh scrapes.

You reached out and touched one near his shoulder.

He flinched—but not from pain. From surprise.

“You always look like you’ve just walked out of a war,” you murmured.

He finally looked at you.

“Maybe I did.”

You dragged your fingers down the center of his chest, slow and light. “Do you ever let anyone touch you like this?”

His voice was quiet. “No.”

“Why me?”

He didn’t answer right away. But he caught your wrist and held it there, pressed over his heartbeat.

“You don’t treat me like a monster.”

“You’re not.”

“You don’t know that.”

You leaned down, your face hovering above his. “Then let me find out.”

You kissed him again—longer this time, slower. He didn’t grab you, didn’t devour you. He let you lead. His mouth was soft under yours, and the way he exhaled into the kiss made your chest ache.

He pulled you closer, guiding your body to straddle his hips. His hands didn’t roam. They held—your thighs, your waist, your back—like he was anchoring himself to you.

You slid your hands over his stomach, up his chest, feeling the way his breath stuttered at your touch.

“Do you like this?” you whispered against his throat.

His grip tightened slightly, but his voice was softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Only when it’s you.”

The room was dark now.

You lay beside him, chest to chest, your legs tangled beneath the covers. He still hadn’t put his shirt back on, and you hadn’t moved in what felt like hours.

He ran his hand up and down your spine—slow, rhythmic, like he was memorizing the shape of you.

He was so quiet.

Not in the way that made him unreadable.

In the way that made you feel like he didn’t want to break the moment.

“You scare me sometimes,” you whispered into his neck.

His fingers paused. “Why?”

“Because I know how dangerous you are.”

He didn’t pull away.

“But you’re gentle with me.”

He exhaled, long and shaky. “That’s the problem.”

You pulled back enough to look into his eyes.

“What do you mean?”

His jaw flexed. “You’re the only softness I have left.”

He said it like a confession. Like a curse. Like he didn’t know whether to protect you or hide from you.

“You think that’s weakness?”

He looked at you for a long time. Then shook his head. “No. I think it’s what’ll destroy me.”

You brushed his hair back from his forehead, your thumb trailing over his temple. “Then let it.”

For the first time, his expression broke.

Just a little.

His eyes closed, and he leaned into your touch like someone starving.

“You don’t know what you’re doing to me,” he whispered.

“I do,” you said. “And I’m not stopping.”

He opened his eyes. And what you saw there wasn’t cold. It wasn’t blank. It was need. Bare, bleeding, uncontainable need.

He pulled you back to him—not rough, but with the kind of urgency that made your heart lurch. His hand slid under your shirt, just enough to rest on bare skin, his thumb drawing slow circles on your hip.

His voice, low against your throat. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

You looked him in the eye. “I trust you.”

That broke something in him.

His mouth met yours again, deeper now, the kind of kiss that felt like surrender. He rolled you gently beneath him, his weight a promise above you.

And when he whispered your name, it sounded like a vow.

One Friday evening, he showed up outside your apartment building.

No text.

No warning.

Just Seongje, leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes already on your window.

You buzzed him in.

Your room was quiet, dimly lit by the golden spill of your desk lamp. You sat on the edge of the bed, and he stood near the door for a long time. Watching. Breathing slowly.

“Why did you come?”

He said nothing.

And then, “I had to see you.”

That wasn’t like him. He didn’t admit need. He was need, buried so deep under restraint that every word he offered felt like a wound opened just for you.

“Come here,” you whispered.

He crossed the room slowly, his steps quiet but heavy, deliberate. When he stood in front of you, you looked up at him, your knees almost touching his legs.

You reached for his hand.

He let you take it.

His fingers were calloused, warm, tense beneath the surface. You turned it over, tracing the bruises on his knuckles with your thumb.

“You always fight like it doesn’t hurt,” you said softly.

“It doesn’t.”

You looked up again. “Liar.”

Something in him flickered.

He knelt in front of you—suddenly, wordlessly—his knees on the floor, head bowed slightly as he rested his hands on your thighs.

Your breath caught.

“Is this what you want?” he asked. Quiet. Low. Dangerous.

You didn’t answer. You leaned in.

And this time, it wasn’t frantic.

It was slow. Deep. Intimate.

His lips moved against yours with a strange kind of reverence—like he was memorizing the shape of your mouth, the rhythm of your breathing. Like he couldn’t believe you were letting him do this.

When his hands slid up, over your thighs and around your waist, you felt the control in him crack just a little.

He pulled you closer—your body pressed to his chest, your legs half-wrapped around him—and you could feel everything he wasn’t saying.

How badly he wanted to lose control.

How terrified he was of what might happen if he did.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, “Don’t hold back.”

His eyes opened.

And they burned.

He leaned into your neck, exhaling sharply against your skin.

“You don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“I think I do.”

A pause. His grip tightened.

“You want all of me?”

You nodded.

And when he kissed you again, it was rougher—needier. His hands gripped your hips with bruising intensity, and his mouth moved like he was trying to carve your taste into his memory.

You felt yourself dissolve into him, losing track of time, of sound, of anything but the weight of his body and the sound of his breathing.

That night, you didn’t sleep beside him.

But you did fall asleep in his arms—fully clothed, tangled in warmth and silence, your head on his chest and his arms around you like a shield.

He didn’t speak again.

But when you woke hours later and found his fingers still brushing softly along your back, you understood what his silence meant.

He never said he loved you.

You didn’t expect him to.

But he started doing things.

He stopped leaving when he should have.

He started sitting on your bed for hours, just watching you read or sleep or stare out the window. His presence wasn’t comforting—it was overwhelming. But you never asked him to stop.

He started noticing everything.

That you hated orange-flavored candy.

That you flinched when people raised their voices.

That you liked it when he sat close but not too close—until you didn’t, and you needed him to touch you like you might break if he didn’t.

And when he did touch you, it was always a little more than necessary.

His hand on your lower back as you walked down empty staircases.

His fingers brushing your lips when you weren’t paying attention.

His mouth hovering near your collarbone when he spoke your name for the first time, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever said.

“You’re dangerous, Geum Seongje,” you told him one evening, when he had you pinned gently against the wall of your bedroom, his hands on either side of your waist, his lips ghosting over your skin like a secret.

“So are you,” he murmured. “You make me want things I’m not supposed to have.”

You tilted your head back, eyes half-lidded.

Instead, he dragged you out of the fire, chained you to the back of the Impala like a damned mutt, and drove off into the night.

You never asked why.

Not when he interrogated you. Not when he left you starving. Not even when he stood in a motel room with his hands gripping your throat just a little too tightly after a fight.

You didn’t ask—because you knew.

He didn’t spare you.

He claimed you.

The bond revealed itself three days after.

When Dean got ambushed by a nest of vampires in Missouri, you felt it. The pain. The adrenaline. You’d collapsed to your knees in your cell, clutching your chest as if your ribs were splitting open. You knew he was bleeding.

And Dean felt it too.

He came back to you that night, jaw bruised, knuckles split. And when he stepped into the room, you were already curled against the wall, gasping, his pain still echoing in your veins.

“You feel me?” he asked quietly, not with fear—but fascination.

You nodded.

His eyes darkened. “Good.”

He didn’t touch you at first. Not in the way you expected.

Instead, he watched.

You could feel his eyes on your neck, your hands, your mouth when you drank water. He treated you like a caged animal—but with reverence. Like something dangerous, sacred. Something only he was allowed to keep alive.

Eventually, you stopped flinching when he sat beside you.

He let you outside for air.

He laughed when you told him the sky looked less hostile than you remembered.

And then—he kissed you.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t romantic.

It was hungry. Brutal. Like something inside him had snapped after holding back too long. You kissed him back with the same kind of madness. Because it was never about love.

It was about the bond.

The bond that made you his.

The next time you tried to run, it wasn’t because you didn’t want him.

It was because you did.

Because you were losing yourself—becoming something fragile, something warm.

You didn’t make it past the tree line before Dean tackled you to the dirt, teeth gritted, eyes wild.

“Where were you going?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

He stared at you for a long time.

Then he kissed you again—harder. And when he pulled back, his lips brushed your ear.

“You run again, sweetheart, and I swear—next time, I won’t chase you to bring you back.”

He cupped your face. “I’ll drag you back.”

You never ran again.

And he never let you forget you weren’t spared.

The woods behind his hidden estate were thick, dangerous. You barely made it a mile before he caught you—boots silent, grip hard. Now, your back was against the cold tile of the kitchen. Rain poured outside, and you shook in your torn nightgown.

“You think I’m your prison?” Price spat. “I dragged you out of a hellhole, love. And this is the thanks I get?”

You glared at him, breathless, defiant. “I didn’t ask you to save me.”

“No,” he said darkly. “You just kept running back to men who hurt you.”

He cupped your jaw—not gentle. His thumb traced the bruise you got falling during your escape. The touch burned, not from pain, but from the terrible tenderness in his eyes.

“I’m the only one who knows what you need.”

He keeps you in the house.

Not locked in chains, but under surveillance.

The windows are bulletproof. The phone line only calls him.

Price brings you tea in the morning. Sometimes, he sits on the bed and reads the paper aloud like you’re a happy couple. He calls you sweetheart when he’s pleased, darling when he’s not. You forget how long it’s been.

Once, you asked him what he wanted.

He didn’t answer with words.

He took you by the hips, lifted you onto the table, and kissed you like he was starving. Like you were the last piece of him he hadn’t burned away in war.

You should’ve hated him.

You told yourself you did.

But the longer you stayed, the more it felt like the outside world was the lie.

You weren't Cinderella.

You were the ghost in the tower.

And John Price?

He wasn’t the prince.

He was the hunter who slaughtered everyone trying to find you.

Now you sit beside the fire, your head in his lap. He runs his fingers through your hair, humming softly. There’s blood on his boots again.

“Someone came looking,” he murmurs. “Thought you were still a missing person.”

You don’t ask what he did to them.

“Are you going to kill me too someday?” you whisper.

His hand stills.

“No, love.”

He kisses your forehead.

“You’re the only thing keeping me alive.”

And even though the glass slipper never fit—

you decide not to run again.

Not tonight.

The first few sessions were silent wars. You spoke gently. He stared. You asked questions. He gave non-answers. But then—something shifted.

He started showing up without being forced. Sometimes he wouldn't speak. Sometimes he’d test you, saying cruel, cutting things just to see if you'd flinch. You didn’t.

Until one day, he asked, “Why haven’t you quit yet?”

You just answered honestly. “Because you’re still showing up. That means you’re not past saving.”

His laugh was hollow, echoing. “That’s a dangerous assumption, doc.”

And then he began sitting closer. Watching longer. Asking about you. Not personal questions—no, he never asked your birthday or favorite color.

“Do you ever lie to patients?”

“What’s your worst fear?”

“If you had to choose who lives—yourself or the one you're treating—who would it be?”

You answered carefully. Always carefully.

Then, he said it.

“I don’t sleep unless I see you first.”

You froze. “Simon—”

“Don’t,” he growled, voice low. “Don’t shrink me now.”

That night, someone tried to remove you from the assignment. A bureaucratic shift. An early closure.

Your room was locked from the outside. You weren’t told why.

When you confronted the officer in charge, he just shook his head.

“Ghost made it clear. If you go, he won’t cooperate. Not with us. Not with anyone.”

You found him waiting in your temporary office, relaxed in your chair.

“You threatened command?” you asked.

He didn’t deny it.

“You think I need you,” he said. “But it’s the other way around. You make the static stop.”

“Simon, this isn’t healthy. You can’t depend on me to stay grounded.”

He stood and crossed the room in two slow steps. Towering over you.

“You want to run?” he asked. “Then run. But I’ll follow. Not because I love you. But because you’re the only thing left between me and the void.”

You didn’t run.

Some part of you, twisted and afraid, stayed. You convinced yourself it was for him. That he needed help. That you could still be his lifeline.

But as weeks blurred into each other, your world shrank. He knew your schedule, your habits, your tells. You stopped receiving external contact. Your credentials were quietly revoked.

One night, as you stared at the wall of your quarters, he entered without knocking.

“I buried the part of me that cared about the world,” he said. “But you? I kept.”

He leaned close. “You’re my constant, doc. You understand what that means?”

Your throat tightened. “I’m your prisoner.”

He tilted his head. “No. You’re my anchor. Don’t ever confuse the two.”

And the most terrifying part?

You weren’t sure if you wanted to leave anymore.

The sky was full of clouds but no stars.

“Because I’m not afraid of you,” you said.

He exhaled—soft, almost a laugh, but not really.

“You should be.”

You turned to him. “Why?”

He looked at you then, fully. The weight of his gaze was like gravity—pulling, pinning. Your breath caught in your throat. Not out of fear. Not anymore.

“Because I don’t know what I’d do if someone tried to take you away.”

The words were calm. Terrifying in their quiet certainty.

“You think I’m yours?”

That muscle in his jaw twitched. His eyes dropped briefly to your mouth, then back up. “You haven’t run yet.”

You took a step closer, and he didn’t move.

“Maybe I’m not afraid of getting caught.”

“You should be,” he said again. But softer this time. Not a threat.

A warning.

You were standing close now—too close. You could smell the rain still clinging to his collar, the metallic edge of dried blood, and something faintly warm beneath it. Something human.

He didn’t touch you.

He didn’t have to.

The air between you buzzed like it was waiting to burn.

“I want to know who you are, Seongje.”

He shook his head, slow and bitter. “No you don’t.”

“I do.”

He leaned in then—not a kiss, not quite—but his lips brushed the shell of your ear as he spoke.

“You think there’s something to save.”

A shiver ran through you. “There is.”

His hand came up—hesitant for the first time—and brushed your cheek with the backs of his fingers.

And then, softly, like confession. "Then don’t leave.”

Everything changed after that night.

You weren’t together. Not in the way other people dated. There were no walks holding hands. No cafeteria conversations. No selfies. No labels.

But his attention was no longer distant.

It was intense. Focused. Consuming.

He started showing up at your classroom door after the last bell.

He started walking behind you on the way home—not beside you, always just far enough to pretend it wasn’t intentional.

He never touched you.

Until the day you cried.

It wasn’t over him. Not directly. You’d come home to find your mother gone again—two days now—and a notice from the landlord shoved under the door. You hadn’t meant to call him.

But you did.

And thirty minutes later, he was standing in your bedroom doorway.

Soaked from the rain.

Silent.

And you broke.

You didn’t even try to hide it—didn’t try to be strong. You sat on the floor and let it all fall. Your shoulders trembled. Your hands covered your face.

When you felt his hands, they were warm. Large. One on your wrist, the other sliding behind your back. He lifted you like you weighed nothing and pulled you into his chest.

He didn’t speak.

He just held you.

But the way his hand cradled the back of your head, the way his other arm locked around your waist—it wasn’t comfort. It was claiming.

“I didn’t want you to see this side of me,” you whispered against his chest.

He responded without hesitation.

“I want to see all of it.”

You looked up, breath shallow.

His face was close. So close.

You felt it before it happened—the moment he stopped fighting it.

Then his mouth was on yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It wasn’t soft.

It was need, raw and deep, and barely restrained. His lips bruised yours with control that shook at the edges. His fingers gripped your waist like he couldn’t bear the space between you. Like if you pulled away now, he wouldn’t let you go.

You kissed him back.

Not because it was right.

But because it was real.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them.

“You still think you’re not mine?”

You didn’t answer.

Because you were.

The teacher dropped a packet of worksheets on the desk and disappeared with a yawn and a warning, “no talking.”

You sat two rows ahead of him.

The silence between you wasn’t empty—it felt dense. Like it had shape and heat and teeth. You tried to focus on your worksheet, but your hand kept trembling. Not out of fear. Not exactly. More like... adrenaline.

Finally, his voice broke the air.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t have to.

“You were the one who started it?” you asked softly.

A pause.

“I told him to push you. Thought you’d back off.”

You closed your eyes.

“And now?”

“Now you’re still here.”

You slowly turned. He was watching you openly now, his face still unreadable—but his eyes had something in them. Something shadowed. Like he’d expected you to vanish, and now wasn’t sure what to do with your stubborn presence.

“Why?” you asked. “Why are you—watching me?”

His expression didn’t change, but something shifted in the air. Like gravity leaning closer.

“You’re not afraid of me.”

“Should I be?”

He tilted his head slightly. “Everyone else is.”

You hesitated. “I think you like that.”

A longer pause this time.

Then his voice, low and almost thoughtful, “I like the quiet it gives me.”

You smiled—just a little.

“Maybe I do too.”

And there it was again, that flicker in his eyes. Not warmth. Not tenderness. But focus. Sharp and dangerous. As if, somehow, you’d just volunteered for something irreversible.

After detention, you walked down the corridor together, though neither of you said it out loud.

He didn’t offer to carry your bag.

He didn’t ask where you were going.

But when two seniors from the rival class cut across the hall with narrowed eyes and muttered threats, Seongje’s hand brushed your elbow—not soft, but deliberate. His body shifted just enough to place himself between you and them.

And they looked away.

That night, you couldn’t sleep.

You kept replaying his voice in your head. His calmness. His stare. The way he saw you—not as a project, not as prey, but as something… undecided. As if he hadn’t made up his mind whether to push you away or pull you closer.

And part of you—the part that had always kept its head down—suddenly wanted to be chosen.

Even if it meant being consumed.

A week passed.

You didn’t talk every day. He didn’t text. You didn’t even know if he owned a phone.

But then, after last bell, you heard shouting in the courtyard.

You shouldn’t have gone toward the sound.

You definitely shouldn’t have pushed through the circle of yelling boys, fists pumping, phones recording—because in the center of it all was Seongje.

His knuckles were already bleeding. His face was cut again—lower lip split this time, a line of red on his temple. The boy he was fighting—older, bigger, someone from outside school—was spitting curses and lunging like a wild dog.

But Seongje didn’t flinch.

He moved like ice melting over a blade—slow, fluid, final.

And then, suddenly, it was over. The other boy was on the ground, coughing blood, groaning. Seongje turned, expression blank—and saw you in the crowd.

Something broke in his composure.

Not anger. Not shame.

But... tension. Like your presence had reached under his skin.

He walked past the crowd, past the whispers, straight to you.

“Come with me.”

You should’ve said no.

But you followed him.

He led you behind the old gym building. It was abandoned, half-boarded, a place where rules didn’t reach.

Inside, it was dim. Dusty. The faint smell of sweat and time.

He turned to you, breathing hard, blood still dripping from his hand.

You grabbed his wrist. “You need to clean this.”

He didn’t stop you as you pulled tissues from your bag, gently dabbing at his skin. He watched you the entire time. Unmoving. Eyes locked on yours.

“You shouldn’t have seen that,” he murmured.

“You didn’t start it.”

He didn’t argue.

“You hurt him,” you said.

“I wanted to.”

Your fingers paused. “Why?”

“I was angry.”

The confession was simple. Raw.

“And me?”

Another long silence.

He didn’t look away.

“You make it worse,” he said finally. “The quiet. When you’re not there.”

You let that settle between you.

“So don’t push me away again," you said to him.

He didn’t speak. But when you finished cleaning his hand, he took your wrist in return—gently, but possessively.

His thumb brushed your pulse, and his voice dropped to something darker.

“I won’t.”

He was sitting on the bench like he belonged there. Like the rain wasn’t soaking him, like he didn’t care about rules or visibility or being caught. His posture was perfectly still, back straight, one leg stretched out lazily like he had nothing better to do than intimidate the storm itself.

His uniform clung to his frame, and you could see how broad his shoulders were. His hair was slicked back by the rain, revealing sharp cheekbones, a deep cut on his lip, and eyes that didn’t blink when they landed on you.

You froze.

And so did he—just for a breath, like a predator registering movement.

“Didn’t think anyone else came up here,” you said, your voice quiet, testing.

He didn’t answer. Of course he didn’t. Everyone knew Seongje didn’t speak unless it was with his fists—or when Baek Jin gave the nod.

But he didn’t get up either. Didn’t glare. Just… watched.

You looked away, lips tightening. “I can go.”

“No.”

That single word landed harder than it should have. You turned your gaze back to him. His voice was low, rough, like it had to break through layers of silence to get out.

You waited for more, but he’d already looked away again, the moment gone.

They said Geum Seongje once broke a boy’s jaw for spitting near Baek Jin. That he’d put someone in the hospital for bumping into him without apologizing. That he didn’t feel anything—no anger, no mercy.

You didn’t know if the stories were true, but you knew he wasn’t normal.

He walked the halls of Ganghak High like a ghost bound in muscle and silence. Everyone moved out of his way. Teachers didn’t make eye contact. Even other gang members gave him space.

But that afternoon, he let you sit on the bench beside him.

Neither of you spoke. The rain soaked through everything. Your thighs were pressed close, your elbow barely brushing his—but it felt like sitting next to a loaded gun.

Still, something about it made you feel… safe. Or maybe bold.

“You always come up here?” you asked.

Seongje didn’t answer. But he didn’t move either. You glanced at him from the corner of your eye.

There was something terrifyingly still about him. His breathing barely moved his chest. His knuckles were red. His left hand, you noticed, was clenched so tightly the skin had gone white.

“Rough day?” you offered.

That earned a glance. He looked at you like you were a puzzle someone had tossed at his feet—unwanted but suddenly interesting.

You were used to being invisible. To fading into background noise. But Seongje was looking at you now, and there was nothing casual about it.

When you stopped talking. And he… softened? No. Not quite. But the cold edge of him seemed to retreat just an inch.

The rain slowed to a drizzle.

“I come up here,” he said suddenly, “when I don’t want to break things.”

Your breath caught. You looked at him, but he didn’t look at you. Just stared out at the city through the bars of the rooftop rail.

“Me too,” you said.

And for the first time, he nodded.

You did. You hoped. But life doesn’t give you kindness like that.

He wasn’t the boss.

But he worked for one. A worse one.

And you owed that boss five million won. Past due. Interest crawling like rot.

You expected fists. A broken nose. Maybe worse.

Instead, Seok Dae just watched you.

“You always had that stupid fire in your eyes,” he said, flicking ash onto your floor. “Still think you’re too good to beg?”

You held your head high, even if your hands trembled. “I’m not begging.”

He laughed. Low. Rough. Dangerous.

“No. But you’re bleeding desperation.”

The deal came later. Not spoken—but felt.

He showed up the next day, dropped a brown envelope on your kitchen table. Thick with cash. Enough to erase your debt.

You stared at it. Then at him. “What do you want?”

He smirked. “That’s the smart question.”

You ended up in his apartment that night. It wasn’t clean. It wasn’t warm. But it was private.

“You could’ve made me do worse,” you said, cornered by his gaze.

He stepped closer. “I still might.”

Your breath hitched. “Why are you helping me?”

He pinned you with that stare. Not cruel. Not kind. Just hungry.

“Because I remember you. From school. The one girl who looked at me like I wasn’t just a fuck-up.”

“And now?”

He leaned in, hand brushing your jaw. “Now I want to see how far you’ll fall for me.”

It happened fast.

Clothes on the floor. Mouths crashing.

He was rough—but reverent. As if he couldn’t believe you were letting him touch you.

“Tell me you want this,” he growled, fingers digging into your thighs.

You gasped, pulling him closer. “I want you.”

He didn’t make love.

He claimed.

With bruises that bloomed like ink.

With lips that left trails down your throat.

With hands that learned your body like a debt he intended to own forever.

After, you lay tangled in sheets and silence.

“You didn’t have to help me,” you whispered.

He lit another cigarette, staring at the ceiling.

“Didn’t do it for free,” he said. “I’m collecting you.

Weeks passed. You never paid a single won.

But every night, he came back.

And every night, you let him.

Maybe that was your second mistake.

Or maybe it was the smartest thing you ever did.

Because monsters don’t always want to hurt you.

Sometimes they just want to keep you.