‎♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

the exception (squid game/the salesman):

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

part 5

part 6

he belongs to you, (the boys/homelander):

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Summary: You claw for control, but with every breath, every choice, you’re pulled deeper into his world… and further from your own.

Warnings: smut, violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

“I do now.”

The words hit you like another slap.

Your chest tightens. Your throat burns.

No.

Your hands curl into fists at your sides.

How dare he say that like he understands you. Like he owns you. Like he’s done you some fucking favor.

Before you can stop yourself, your voice cracks open. Louder than you meant. Fiercer than you’ve ever heard yourself.

“Shut up!”

It’s a snarl. A scream. A last breath before the fall.

God, you don’t even recognize yourself.

The words hit the air like a slap. His smile doesn’t drop, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes anymore.

“You keep saying you saved me, like I should be grateful. Like I should be—what? Thanking you? For kidnapping me? For killing someone and calling it protection?”

He blinks slowly.

“You don’t even know me,” you say, voice cracking. “You saw me on a fucking screen and decided we were—what—dating?! That’s not love. That’s obsession. You’re a fucking psycho.”

Still, he says nothing.

Just watches.

And somehow? That’s worse than yelling back.

“Say something!” you demand.

Without saying a word, he rises from his chair like it’s choreographed. Smooth, controlled.

Terrifying.

“You think love comes from time?” he asks softly. “From talking, dating, pretending? That’s what the world told you, isn’t it?”

He steps closer. You back away.

He follows.

His voice lowers, gentle yet deadly. “You’ve been begging to be kept your whole life.”

Your back hits the wall. He stops in front of you. Not touching… but too close.

“You don’t have to ask anymore.”

Your heart’s pounding. Your skin’s on fire.

“Fuck you,” you whisper.

He gives you a cheeky smile. So soft. So loving. “Whenever you’re ready.”

“I want to go home.”

“You are home.”

Without even thinking, you slap him.

Hard.

His head turns with the force of it.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Shit.

He stands still for a long moment.

Then slowly turns his face back toward you.

And he’s… smiling again?

But not wider.

Just darker.

“Feel better?” he asks gently.

You stare at him, horrified. His fingers reach up and lightly brush the corner of his mouth, where a trace of your touch still lingers. He leans in, voice like silk wrapping around your throat.

“You can hate me,” he murmurs. “You can fight me. Curse me. Make me bleed if you want. Make me suffer.”

His hand slides into your hair, soft and slow and careful.

“And I’ll still take care of you.”

He kisses your forehead—tender, reverent.

Silence lingers, but you find your voice again.

“You’re sick. You’re delusional. You think this is love? You think this—” you gesture wildly to the walls, the locked-away cliffside, the pristine kitchen “—is what I wanted?”

He watches you quietly. Such a good observer.

“You drugged me. You undressed me. You touched me without asking. That’s not protection. That’s control.”

You take a shaky step toward him, hoping you can hit something that cracks whatever delusion he’s built in his head.

“You didn’t save me,” you spit. “You just wanted to own something pretty before someone else got to it. Am I wrong?”

And that’s when he moves.

Suddenly, his hand grabs your jaw. Not hard enough to bruise, just enough to shut you up. His fingers press into your skin with quiet, practiced pressure. You freeze.

His eyes meet yours.

Gone is the softness.

What’s left is glass.

“You’re not special because I saw you.”

He leans in, breath hot against your face.

“You’re special because I chose you.”

His jaw twitches once.

“You think I haven’t watched girls like you before? You’re not the first one to cry and curse and tell me how cruel I am.”

He smiles now, small and brutal.

“But you’ll be the last.”

You can’t breathe. He presses his body closer, pinning you completely. He leans in until your noses almost touch. His voice is a whisper, but it’s razor sharp.

“And the cute thing is, you think this is control.” he murmurs. “Baby, if I wanted control, you wouldn’t be standing.”

His eyes flick over your face. Down to your lips, your chest. The bandages he wrapped himself.

“You’d be on your knees eating from my fucking hand.”

His hand drops to your waist, then lower, fingers curling possessively around your hip.

“I’ve been kind,” he says through his teeth. “Patient. Gentle. I let you scream. I let you run. I even let you hit me.”

He tilts his head.

“But let’s be clear.”

His voice dips lower, darker.

“You belong to me now. That body you keep trying to guard? Already mine. That fire in your voice? Mine. I’ll break it down, kiss it better, and make you beg for the pieces back.”

You turn your face away, but he follows.

“Don’t look away,” he growls. “Look at me when I tell you the truth.”

You do.

You’re not sure he’ll let you live if you don’t.

“You want to hate me?” he whispers. “Then hate me in my bed. Hate me while I pull your hair and make you beg for it. Hate me then. Not now.”

Your breath hitches.

He smiles.

“See?” he murmurs. “Even now, you listen better when I touch you.”

His hand brushes your face. Soft again, but cruel in its tenderness.

“You’ll understand soon. All this anger… it’s just the part of you that hasn’t accepted what the rest already knows.”

He leans in. His lips ghost over yours, but they don’t touch.

“You were fucking made for me.”

Then he steps back, leaving you breathless and trembling against the wall. And with a maddening smile, he says:

“Now sit down and eat, or I’ll feed you myself.”

You can only stare back—still pressed to the wall, hands clenched at your sides. Chest rising fast with every shallow breath.

He waits.

One second.

Two.

Three.

You don’t sit.

You don’t even speak.

So he sighs, long and theatrical, like a man disappointed with a child.

“I gave you a choice,” he says quietly.

His hand wraps around your wrist, not rough, but tight enough that you feel it. He walks you back to the table. You try to resist, just enough to say you did, but your feet still follow. There’s nowhere else to go, after all.

He pulls out the chair.

You still don’t sit.

So he does it for you.

You’re dropped into the seat like you weigh nothing. And before you can get your bearings, he’s already moving behind you.

You feel his hand brush your hair aside. He leans down, lips close to your ear:

“I told you I’d feed you myself,” he whispers. “You didn’t believe me?”

He picks up the fork, casual, elegant. Spears a piece of soft, golden egg and lifts it toward your lips.

“Open,” he says.

You don’t.

His other hand cups your chin firmly, guiding your face toward the bite.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” he murmurs. “I hate repeating myself.”

You finally part your lips, just slightly.

He hums, pleased.

The fork slips past your teeth. You taste butter. Salt. Warmth. But nothing tastes real when his eyes are on you like this.

He watches your every movement. Watches you chew. Swallow. Watches your throat work like it’s the most erotic thing he’s ever seen.

“Good girl,” he breathes.

He cuts another bite. Brings it to your mouth.

“Again.”

You hesitate, but obey.

You’ve seen what happens when you don’t.

“You see?” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles across your cheek. “I know what’s best for you.”

A third bite.

Then a fourth.

His fingers trail down the back of your neck as he feeds you, slow and methodical. Almost like he’s priming something delicate to be devoured later.

“I’ll teach you how to accept care,” he whispers. “Even if I have to spoon-feed you every fucking day until it sticks.”

And something about the way he says it — so low, so certain — makes you realize he’s not bluffing.

The fifth bite slips past your lips with a quiet scrape of silver. You chew slowly. You hate how easily your body accepts it. How your hunger betrays you.

He watches every swallow like it’s proof of something. Proof he’s winning, perhaps.

And then, just as you start to reach for the water—

His hand catches your chin.

“Messy,” he murmurs, thumb grazing the corner of your mouth.

You start to pull away on instinct, but he doesn’t let you.

His grip is soft, but unmovable. Thumb still pressing to the spot just at the corner of your lip, dragging slow, like he’s savoring the act more than the cleanup.

Then, still holding your face in place, he slips that same thumb into your mouth. Not deep. Just enough to press to your tongue.

Just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Clean it,” he says.

Your stomach flips.

Huh?

His eyes darken.

“I said,” he breathes, “clean it.”

You close your lips around his thumb. He watches the way your mouth moves, lashes lowering slightly, chest rising with a quiet inhale like it’s affecting him, too.

You hate that your skin is burning under his touch. You hate the way your body responds.

He pulls his thumb out with a soft, wet sound and wipes the last trace of saliva against your lower lip.

“Good,” he says. “Much better.”

His hand lingers a moment longer. His eyes dragging down your face, over your mouth. You want to scream. Throw something. Bite him, for fuck sake.

But you sit still instead.

Then, without a word:

He steps back.

Turns.

And walks away.

No warning. No softness. No smug look over his shoulder.

Just the casual scrape of the chair as it’s pushed in, the steady rhythm of his footsteps fading into the hall.

He doesn’t even look at you. The silence he leaves behind is worse than his voice. Worse than his hands. Because now?

You’re alone.

Your breath comes in shaky bursts.

He didn’t lock you up.

Didn’t scream.

Didn’t force anything.

And somehow, that makes it worse.

Because he didn’t need to.

You sit there.

You wait.

Five seconds.

Ten.

A minute.

Ten.

Twenty.

He doesn’t come back.

You expect a door to slam. A lock to click. A punishment to start.

But there’s nothing.

Just you.

He touched you. He fed you. He put his fingers in your mouth and smiled like he owned you. And now he’s gone, like it meant nothing.

You shoot up from the chair so fast it topples over. The legs hit the tile with a crash.

Your breath is ragged, too loud in the stillness. Your hands shake as you grab the plate and hurl it across the room. It hits the wall and shatters, scrambled eggs and ceramic exploding like a warning shot.

Then the water glass.

Then the second plate he set aside for himself.

You don’t stop.

You can’t.

You grab the chair and shove it down. You kick the edge of the table. Something inside you breaks loud, and you want him to hear it.

COME BACK.

No, you don’t say it out loud.

But your body does.

You want him to react. To yell. To hit. To do something.

Can he just come back?

Because the silence is worse.

You stand there, panting, fists clenched, the kitchen a war zone of broken glass and ruined control.

No footsteps.

No voice.

No “good girl”.

Just the sound of waves outside and the echo of your own breathing.

Your legs finally give, and you slide to the floor, curling into yourself. The glass crunches beneath your folded knees, sharp against your skin. Your palms are sticky from something—water? Juice? Blood?

Who knows.

You cry until your body stops fighting back.

Until your breathing slows.

Until your limbs go heavy, and your lashes flutter closed, and the floor becomes the only place you exist.

You fall asleep in the wreckage of your own fury.

All that’s left is you.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Summary: You wake from one nightmare only to step into another—one with softer sheets and sharper teeth.

Warnings: violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

You wake to the sound of birds.

No shouting. No gunshots.

Birds.

And waves—soft, slow, rhythmic. Crashing somewhere just beyond the walls.

Your first instinct is panic. Your eyes fly open. Your chest tightens like something’s wrong, like danger is close.

But the air is warm. There’s sunlight on your skin. A breeze against your face.

You’re in a bed.

A real bed.

Soft sheets. Heavy blankets. The pillow cradles your head like it’s been fluffed just for you. The mattress is so cloud-like it takes effort to remember how to move.

Your brain screams get up, move, run—but your body doesn’t want to. For the first time in what feels like forever, you’re comfortable.

And not just physically. There’s something deeper. A dangerous, disorienting peace humming through your bones. It feels like being held. Like being safe.

Which is why your stomach flips the second you realize what that means.

You didn’t put yourself here.

You didn’t wash.

You didn’t change.

Your hand flies to your clothes—soft cotton, unfamiliar. A loose shirt, clean shorts. Your skin is warm and dry. Smells like lavender soap. Your hair is washed. Brushed.

Your blood runs cold. Not a chill. Not a shiver.

This is the kind of cold that kills.

The kind that seeps up through your spine and settles deep in your chest.

A scream that hasn’t been born yet.

You sit up too fast—heart hammering, chest heaving, vision already tilting.

Your skin is clean.

Your hair smells like soap.

Your clothes aren’t yours.

No. No. No.

“Help!” you scream, voice shrill, already cracking.

The sound crashes against the walls like a bird slamming into glass.

“Someone please help me!”

You don’t know who you’re screaming for—there’s no one here. But it’s reflex. It’s survival. It’s the only thing you have left.

You claw at the sheets like they’re chains.

Your voice breaks, but you keep going.

“GET ME OUT—”

The waves crash just outside the window, calm and cruel. The sound of paradise. A fucking lie.

And then it hits you.

The memory.

The needle.

The way he held you—steady, unshakable—while your body went slack.

The soft voice in your ear:

“Shhh. Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

Your stomach drops.

That man.

The one in the suit.

The one who looked at you like you were a gift—no, a fucking possession.

Is he the reason you ended up in that game?

You clutch the edge of the blanket, breath coming in fast, ragged bursts.

Your mind races.

Was he watching the whole time? Did he pick you out before you ever stepped into that room? Was the game just a cage—just a test—to see if you could survive long enough for him to take you?

Was it always going to end like this?

You stumble out of bed, legs weak, body still betraying you with how good it feels here. The air is warm. The sheets were soft. You didn’t even want to move when you woke up—and now you want to rip your own skin off just to feel real again.

“What did you do to me?!” you shout, though no one’s answered yet. No one’s even appeared.

But you know he’s there.

You can feel it.

You can feel him.

Your screams continue to drown out the waves. Blood curdling and heavy.

And then, like clockwork, a shadow falls in the doorway.

Him.

The tall man from before.

The one with the calm voice and the black suit and the terrifying stillness.

The one who touched your face like he already owned it.

Like he knew you.

Does he?

He stands in the doorway, relaxed, one hand on the frame, a soft smile pulling at his lips like he’s been watching you sleep for hours.

“Wow,” he says, his tone warm, casual—like you’re old friends. “You slept for so long.”

Your breath hitches.

He doesn’t move toward you. Just stands there, watching you with those unreadable eyes. A little amused. A little in awe.

“You needed it,” he adds, nodding slightly. “Your body was exhausted. So malnourished. I’m impressed you were still standing when I found you, to be honest.”

You blink at him, throat dry.

When I found you?

You don’t respond.

You’re too busy cataloging the details—the clean clothes, the way your hair smells, the dampness in your lashes from where someone wiped your face.

Your eyes narrow. Your voice is hoarse when it finally comes out.

“…Did you touch me?”

He blinks, just once.

Then—he smiles again. Not offended. Not angry. Just… calm.

“No,” he says. “Not like that.”

His tone darkens by a shade—only slightly, but enough to send a chill down your spine.

“I’m not a monster.”

He lets the silence hang. Like he wants you to hear that. Believe it.

“I bathed you, yes. You were covered in dirt. Blood. Sweat. I couldn’t leave you like that.”

You flinch, and he sees it.

“Don’t worry,” he adds. “I kept everything appropriate. I wasn’t rough. I didn’t look more than necessary. I didn’t take anything from you. I wouldn’t do that.”

His eyes hold yours, steady and sincere. “I know it’s hard to trust anyone right now.”

His voice is calm. Gentle. Like he’s talking to something breakable.

“And I get it—after everything you’ve been through… of course you’re scared.”

He crouches in front of you. Eyes level. One hand resting on his knee, the other reaching—almost brushing your wrist. Almost, but not quite.

“But I meant what I said,” he continues, voice dropping into something low and warm.

“I only want to take care of you.”

A pause. Just long enough to let you breathe.

Then he smiles.

Soft.

Too soft.

“Which is why you need to do me a favor, sweetheart.”

His head tilts, and for the first time, something shifts behind his eyes. Like a mask slipping just far enough to see the steel underneath.

“Don’t give me a reason not to.”

He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t move. But the air still changes.

He’s still looking at you with affection—still so tender, so calm—but the weight of those words pins you in place.

Because you realize he’s not asking.

He never was.

He could end you with the same hands he uses to stroke your hair.

And he’s letting you know—with a smile—that your safety is only guaranteed as long as you behave.

You swallow, unsure whether to scream or cry or just lie back down and pretend none of this is happening.

He smiles like he can see every single thought in your head.

“You need to eat something,” he says. “And drink. And walk. You’ve been unconscious almost twenty hours.”

“Twenty—?” you echo.

He nods. “Don’t worry. You didn’t miss anything important.”

He takes a slow step forward now—measured, non-threatening, like he’s learned the exact pace not to spook you.

“I made you breakfast. It’s still warm.”

You watch him, your chest rising and falling too fast.

You still don’t know his name, and yet he looks at you like you’re the only person he’s ever met.

He sets the plate in front of you. An olive branch.

Warm eggs. Toast. Sliced fruit arranged in a neat little fan. A glass of cold water sweating against a crystal glass.

“Eat,” he says gently.

You stare at it.

Your stomach growls, but you feel sick.

You didn’t cook this. You didn’t ask for it.

For any of it.

And the man across from you—this calm-eyed stranger in a pressed shirt and rolled sleeves—he’s the one who stripped your clothes and bathed your body while you were unconscious.

Even if he says he didn’t touch you like that, it doesn’t feel like mercy.

It feels like power.

Like he’s already rewritten the rules and expects you to thank him for it.

Suddenly, your eyes dart past him.

There — a side door.

Barely visible, half-concealed by a curtain. You hadn’t noticed it before.

You rise from the chair slowly, head down, heart racing.

“I… I just need air,” you whisper.

He nods, unconcerned. “Of course.”

You walk.

Then the second your hand touches the knob—

You run.

Fast.

Barefoot on tile.

You shove the door open with your shoulder and sprint into the light.

The wind hits your face.

The cold slaps your skin.

Stone underfoot. Open air. The sound of crashing waves.

Go. Go. Go—

You don’t know where you’re going. You don’t care.

You just run full speed, hair flying, lungs burning.

And then—

Your foot hits the edge.

Your body lurches forward—

Your heart stops.

There’s nothing.

The ground vanishes.

You throw your arms out, trying to catch balance, momentum still carrying you forward.

Your heel slips.

The cliff drops into a jagged abyss. Ocean roaring below. The wind howls past your ears.

You start to fall—

Hands.

His hands slam around your waist and yank you back.

You hit the ground hard, breath knocked out of you, palms scraping against stone. He’s above you, one knee braced, arms still around your middle.

You gasp.

He’s not breathing hard.

He didn’t even run.

He simply followed.

Calm. Calculated. Certain.

You twist in his grip, wide-eyed, shaking.

He’s watching you. Chest rising slow. Expression unreadable.

“You could’ve died,” he says, like he’s scolding a child. Like you just disobeyed curfew.

You’re still panting. Frozen. Every muscle tense.

He leans in slightly, voice low in your ear.

“Don’t run from me again.”

His tone is soft. Not angry. But something in it cuts deeper than if he had screamed.

He pulls you up gently, brushing dirt from your arms.

“There’s nowhere to go,” he adds, glancing toward the sea. “Can only get here by chopper.”

He says it so casually. Like it’s trivia. Like you didn’t just try to jump off a cliff to escape him.

“You’re not a prisoner,” he says, and somehow that’s worse. “I saved your life.”

He smiles like he’s proud of that. Like he gifted you this.

“But next time you want to see the ocean,” he adds, voice dipping lower, “just ask me.”

Then, like nothing happened at all, he nods back toward the open door. You let him guide you inside. Your legs move, but not because you want them to. They’re jelly, instinct, muscle memory. Your mind’s still stuck at the edge of that cliff, caught in the moment your heel slipped, your body lunged, your brain whispered freedom—and he yanked it all away.

The door closes behind you with a soft click, and he releases you just long enough to pull out a chair.

You sit down without thinking.

You’re still trembling.

He crouches in front of you again, slower this time. Not like before, when he was showing kindness. Now it’s something more… clinical. Like a caretaker. A doctor. A man preparing to stitch something up he doesn’t want to admit he broke.

Your palms sting.

You didn’t even realize you scraped them on the stone when you fell.

He takes your wrists carefully and lifts your hands into the light.

“Tsk,” he murmurs. “Look at you.”

He doesn’t sound annoyed. He sounds… disappointed.

He gets up, moves to the sink, and runs a soft towel under warm water.

You don’t move.

You just watch him. Your breath shallow. Your chest hollow.

He comes back and kneels again, his movements slow and practiced. He presses the warm towel gently against your palms, wiping away the grit and blood with so much care it makes your throat close.

“You hurt yourself,” he says softly.

You almost laugh. But it sticks in your chest like a bruise.

He switches hands, fingers curling lightly around your wrist.

“I didn’t want to grab you like that. I didn’t want to scare you.”

He looks up at you now. And his face — fuck, his face — is the worst part. It’s soft. Almost apologetic.

“You made me be rough,” he says gently. “I didn’t like it.”

Your eyes sting.

You can’t tell if it’s the pain or the shame or the twisted part of your brain that wants to believe him.

He sets the towel aside. Blots your hands dry. You notice he brought bandages, too.

Of course he did.

What a gentleman.

As he begins wrapping your palm, his voice drops again.

“You don’t need to run. Or scream. Or fight me.”

The bandage tightens.

“You just need to listen.”

Your jaw clenches.

He finishes wrapping your hands like he’s tucking a child into bed. Like he’s doing something good.

As if he didn’t just stop you from throwing yourself off a cliff.

Like he didn’t say Don’t run from me again like a threat dressed in velvet.

Then, softly:

“You’ll behave now, won’t you?”

Your throat locks.

You nod.

Because what else can you do?

He smiles — pleased.

Then he leans in, kisses your bandaged hand like it’s holy.

“Good girl.”

₊ ⊹ .₊

You sit across from him in silence, hands wrapped, wrists burning.

The plate is still untouched in front of you. The fruit glistens. The toast is golden. You can smell the warmth of the eggs.

You don’t move.

He doesn’t force you to.

He just watches.

Like he’s waiting for you to settle. To accept. To understand what he’s giving you.

Your mouth is dry. Your voice barely works. But it comes out anyway.

“…Did you put me in that game?”

His expression doesn’t change at first.

Then—he blinks, slow. Like the question surprised him, but not in the way you expected.

He sets down his mug, tilts his head.

“Put you in that game?” he echoes.

His voice is soft. Almost amused. Like you asked something silly.

You swallow hard.

“Was it you?” you ask again, more firmly this time. “Were you the reason I was there?”

A long pause.

Then—

He smiles, shaking his head slowly.

“No,” he says. “I’m the reason you’re out of the game.”

The words hit you like ice water.

You blink at him.

He leans forward, resting his arms on the table, voice still gentle. Like he’s explaining something to someone fragile. Or someone fucking stupid.

“You would’ve died in there. Eventually. They all do. But I saw you.”

He nods once. Firm. Final.

“I got you out.”

He says it like it’s a rescue. Like he dragged you from a fire and not into a gilded cage.

“But why—” your voice wavers, “—why me?”

He smiles again. Like you’ve finally asked the right question.

“I don’t know,” he says. “Maybe it was the way you looked that first day. The way you didn’t cry. Or maybe it was the way you held that spoon like it could cut something.”

He shrugs.

“You didn’t belong there.”

His gaze darkens—still soft, but with an edge now. A gleam of something personal.

“And most importantly, my love—I don’t share what’s mine.”

You stare at him, your chest tight.

He reaches across the table, slow and unthreatening, fingers brushing the corner of your bandaged hand.

“I didn’t put you in that game,” he says again, eyes steady on yours. “I pulled you out.”

Like he’s correcting a simple misunderstanding.

Like you’re the one getting confused.

His voice softens as he watches your face, like he can feel you slipping further away from him — emotionally, mentally — and he hates that. You can see it in the tiny twitch of his jaw. The breath he holds.

So he leans in.

Not closer, physically — but emotionally. His voice drops into something warm. Personal. Gentle.

“…And if it makes you feel any better?”

A pause. You brace yourself.

His smile curves—soft, casual. Too calm.

“I killed the guy who did.”

Your blood freezes.

He says it like he’s telling you he made the bed. Like he took care of a chore.

Your mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

He watches your reaction carefully, almost proudly.

“He shouldn’t have touched you,” he adds, voice quieter now. “Shouldn’t have offered you up like you were disposable.”

He tilts his head.

“He laughed about it, you know. Said it would be funny to throw you in with the others. I’m sure he thought no one would notice.”

A pause.

“But I noticed. You should be thanking me.”

The words settle like poison in your stomach.

Your fingers curl tight around the edge of the chair. You stare at him—really stare—and for the first time since you woke up here, something flares behind the fear.

Anger.

You grit your teeth.

“You drugged me.”

He blinks. Doesn’t flinch.

“You kidnapped me.”

Still no reaction. Just that maddening calm.

You laugh. Bitter. Ugly.

“And now you’re sitting here, telling me to thank you? What the fuck is wrong with you? Are you like a—I don’t know— a fucking serial killer? Who the fuck are you?!”

He tilts his head, like he’s observing you from a distance. Not offended. Not surprised. If anything, he looks pleased.

“You’re angry,” he says softly, like he’s diagnosing it. “That’s okay. You’ve been through a lot.”

You stand too fast. The chair legs scrape against the tile with a sharp screech.

“I didn’t ask to be saved,” you snap.

He stands too, slow and measured. Taller than you. Steady.

“Would you rather be dead?”

You blink, chest heaving.

“I might have survived—”

“You wouldn’t have.”

His voice is firmer now. Still low. But no longer just sweet. Something sharper, quieter, truer bleeding through.

He steps toward you. One step only.

“I’m not your enemy.”

You take a step back.

“No?” you whisper. “Then let me go.”

He smiles. Not cruelly. Not kindly. Just… certain.

“I did let you go,” he says. “Out of there. And now you’re here. With me. Where you were always meant to be.”

He gestures to the walls, the light, the food.

“You’re safe. Fed. Cared for. Isn’t this better?”

You stare at him, your throat burning.

“You don’t get to decide what I want.”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

Then he walks toward you.

Not fast.

But deliberate.

You move to back away, but your heels hit the cabinet. There’s nowhere left to go.

He lifts a hand—slowly—and touches your face. Just a brush of his knuckles along your jaw.

“I do now.”

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

PART 6

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Summary: The air changed, your skin knew, and deep down, some part of you already understood: nothing would ever be the same.

Warnings: violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Something’s changed.

You feel it like pressure behind your eyes. The moment before the storm.

The air’s too still, the room feels too wide. Or maybe you just feel too small.

You sit cross-legged on your bunk, same metal tray on your lap. Same white rice in a discolored bowl. Same cracked cup of lukewarm tea. Same bottle of whole milk.

You glance around at the others. Everyone is hunched and exhausted. No one seems to notice anything different.

Are you just overthinking?

Wouldn’t be the first time.

You’ve been overthinking since you were literally five years old.

Since you asked your grandma if the sun would explode and she said, “Not for billions of years,” and you spent two weeks checking the sky every five minutes just in case she was wrong.

Since you used to flip the light switch on and off until it felt “right.” Since you counted your steps in fours. Since you had to tap both sides of a doorway evenly or else something awful would happen—but you never knew what. Just that it would. Definitely. Certainly. Absolutely.

Your brain doesn’t stop. It never has.

It chews through every silence. Every glance. Every unfinished sentence. Every second someone takes too long to respond.

It makes patterns out of nothing and danger out of patterns.

And now?

Now you’re in a place where real things are dangerous. Where people actually do die if they make the wrong move. Where guards with guns don’t blink before pulling the trigger.

So how are you supposed to know what’s real?

What’s fear, and what’s instinct?

You press your fingers against your temple, trying to ground yourself.

Maybe nothing’s wrong.

Well, besides the obvious.

Maybe you’re just spiraling again.

Constantly building catastrophes in your head. Spinning one second of stillness into the end of the world.

You rub your arms, suddenly freezing.

“Eat,” a guard snaps from the wall.

You flinch. Pick up your spoon. You don’t taste the food, you just chew.

You keep your eyes down, but your mind is sprinting.

Overthinking. Please just be overthinking.

God, you’d give anything to be wrong about this. To be the girl who’s just thinking too much.

Fuck.

This is all your fault.

That voice in your head? It’s not the kind that screams. It whispers. Cold and certain.

You should’ve known better.

You should’ve stopped daydreaming years ago. Should’ve stopped thinking you were special. That maybe you were meant for something different—something better than what you were given.

You always had your head in the clouds. Pretending. Escaping. Telling yourself that if you played your cards right, life would finally stop hurting. That if you kept fantasizing hard enough, kept making yourself small enough, kind enough, sweet enough—something would change.

You hoped someday, you’d wake up in a softer world.

But no one ever tells you how dangerous daydreams can be when you grow up in the wrong place.

Not something they teach you in school.

People can smell it on you—the desperation, the hope, the willingness to believe in something nicer. Something better.

How easy it is to mistake an opportunity for a miracle.

And how simple it is for people to take advantage of you.

You’re the kind of girl who wants to believe people are good, even when they’re not. You mistake charm for kindness, confidence for safety.

You think too long before saying no, hesitating when you should run.

Too polite. Too lonely. Too desperate for something that felt like a way out.

You thought you were being offered a role. A chance. A job that could finally turn things around.

You wanted so badly to believe someone saw you. Noticed you. Chose you.

And, fuck, they chose you alright. But not for the reasons you prayed for.

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek. Taste blood. It helps.

You wrap your arms around yourself and look at your hands as they tremble.

You should’ve known.

No.

No, you’re not doing this.

You’re not going to lose yourself. You can’t.

That’s how you die.

A hand suddenly brushes your shoulder, making you flinch so hard your tray clatters.

Before you can move, fingers close around your arm—firm, gloved, quiet.

“Come with me,” the guard murmurs under his breath, barely moving his helmet. His voice is low. Controlled. Like he’s trying not to make a scene.

Too late.

“Eh?” a voice behind you barks out.

You already know who it is.

That douchebag Thanos.

Is that even his real name?

He’s built like a wall and acts like a god. No one’s corrected him. No one dares.

He leans forward from his bench, smirking like it’s funny. “Ohhh… American girl,” he says, loud enough for half the room to hear. “What did you do?”

Nam-Gyu snorts, mouth full of food. “Probably tried to bribe them with her pretty eyes.”

You stiffen under the guard’s grip. “I didn’t do anything,” you whisper, but your voice cracks, betraying you.

The cafeteria buzzes louder now. A few players stop eating. Others start whispering.

Your heartbeat spikes like a grenade under your ribs.

Don’t panic.

Don’t show fear.

But your chest tightens. Breath shortens. You can’t pull enough air in if you tried.

“Are you okay? Hey, what are you doing to the girl?!” a voice calls out. He’s hesitant, but strong enough to be heard.

You turn to see Player 456 stepping forward. His brows are knit, expression uncertain, but he’s watching you. Watching the way your hands shake.

His English is rough, but he tries.

The other guards move.

One raises his rifle—

BANG.

The shot blasts through the air, shattering the tension into chaos.

Screams. Shouts. Trays crashing.

“BACK TO THE BUNKS!” the lead guard bellows. “Anyone out of line will be eliminated.”

People scramble. Thanos mutters something under his breath but sits back down. Nam-Gyu glares but follows. Even 456 backs away, jaw clenched, eyes still locked on you.

One last look.

Then he disappears behind the crowd.

And you?

You’re being dragged toward the door.

Your legs are jelly. Your pulse is screaming. You don’t know what you did. You don’t know what’s happening.

The doors open and close with a hiss.

Silence.

Just cold, sterile air.

And then—

A man steps forward.

Not a guard.

No red suit. No mask.

He’s tall, handsome. He’s wearing a sharp black suit like he just walked off the cover of a magazine.

He reaches up slow, deliberate. Fingers curl under the edge of his black mask and he pulls it off.

He’s beautiful.

Unsettlingly so.

Dark eyes, sharp cheekbones, lips soft but dangerous. There’s a quiet elegance to him. Like someone born into power and perfectly at home in it.

But it’s not just the way he looks…

It’s the way he looks at you.

He sees you.

Really sees you.

And the strangest part?

You haven’t even spoken a word.

No name. No reason. Just silence.

But his gaze still undoes something in you.

He steps in closer. You stay still.

His hand reaches for your face slowly, like he’s trying not to startle a wild animal. His palm brushes your cheek, warm and steady.

He watches your reaction with quiet interest, like he’s cataloging how you flinch. How your breath stutters when his thumb grazes the corner of your mouth.

“Poor thing,” he murmurs. “You’ve been running on fear for so long, you don’t even know when you’re safe.”

His fingers trail into your hair, gathering a lock and twisting it around his knuckle like he’s done it before. Like he’s thought about doing this a lot.

“Don’t fight it,” he says, eyes flicking down to your mouth. “There’s nothing out there for you anymore.”

He brushes his thumb across your lips once before sliding the pad of his finger into your mouth. Not forcefully. Not fast. Just enough to feel the warmth of your tongue.

Your lips part on instinct, eyes growing wider.

Fuck, those innocent eyes.

He watches you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Like this is his right.

“You’ll understand soon,” he whispers.

Then, with one final pass of his fingers down your jaw, he exhales like a decision’s been made.

“You need rest.”

Your stomach twists. “What—?”

He lifts his hand. There’s something between his fingers. Sleek. Metallic. A syringe.

“No—wait—”

But it’s already happening.

His arm wraps around your waist, and he’s surprisingly gentle as he pulls you against his chest.

You struggle, panic flashing white-hot in your head, but he holds you still with terrifying ease.

“Shhh,” he breathes against your ear. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be.”

You barely feel the needle pierce your skin.

Just the warmth spreading.

The numbness.

Your knees buckle.

Your last glimpse before the world tilts is his face. Still calm, still watching—like this is exactly how he wanted it to go.

And right before everything fades, you hear him whisper:

“Already such a good girl.”

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

PART 5

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Summary: Somewhere behind the curtain, a choice is made… and your fate begins to twist in ways you’ll never see coming.

Warnings: violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Him

“She might be safer in the game, than she’ll ever be with you.”

The words echo now, low and steady, like the tick of a timer that only he can hear.

Safer in the game.

The audacity.

As if leaving you with these fucking losers is the merciful option.

Pathetic, drooling degenerates playing at desperation. Fighting each other like animals for a second chance they’ll only waste again. Scraping the floor for crumbs of hope they don’t deserve.

You don’t belong with them.

The thought of you sleeping next to those sniveling cowards in shared bunks, eating their slop, getting shoved in lines and stared at like you're just another body—it makes his jaw clench.

But he’s not stupid.

He knows himself too well.

He knows what’s lurking behind the sudden urge to “save” you. Knows that it’s not pure.

No, this rescue is not about pity. Don’t mistake it for that.

The moment he saw you on that screen—beautiful in that raw, wounded way—he stopped being a spectator.

You became his problem. His fascination.

His possession.

Deep down, he knows pulling you out of the game won’t be a second chance at life. It’ll be a different kind of prison.

One with quiet walls, soft sheets, and his eyes on you.

Always.

But you’ll be safer with him.

Someplace quiet. Hidden.

A home, maybe. Remote. Untraceable. With thick curtains and a lock only he knows the code to. A kitchen with tea always ready. A bed with your favorite sheets—once he figures out what you like. He will, eventually.

He pays attention. Always has.

You’ll wake up and he’ll be there, waiting. Watching. Loving you in silence before you ever speak a word.

You'll be much happier than whatever life you had before. He can already tell.

He sees the way your eyes scan the corners of the room, like you’re waiting for something to go wrong. The way you freeze when someone looks at you. The way your body curls inward, instinctively, like it’s trying to disappear.

That’s not just fear. That’s history.

That’s someone who’s been through things they don’t talk about. Someone who’s learned not to expect kindness.

But with him, there will be no more disappointments. No more people walking away. No more being ignored or forgotten or used.

Fuck, he's going to worship you.

He’ll bring you gifts. Soft clothes. Expensive jewelry. Flowers he grows just for you.

He’ll give you everything, as long as you're a good girl.

You won't need to work. Hell, you won't even need to think.

You’ll only need to smile, let him hold you. Say thank you when he brings you dinner and ask for more when he makes you cum.

It’s not a prison. It’s safety.

It’s love.

And sure, maybe you’ll cry at first. Maybe you’ll fight. That’s normal.

He’s patient. He understands trauma.

He’ll wait.

He’ll be so gentle when you finally give in. He’ll wipe your tears and say, “See? Isn’t this better, baby?”

He'll do anything for you.

Anything.

Even if it means breaking you to do it.

And while he'll feed you, clothe you, protect you...

He’ll also keep you. Not because you asked. But because he wants to.

And maybe that’s what the Front Man meant. That his kind of hurt is slower. Cleaner. Wrapped in obsession in the illusion of care, a silk rope around your throat slowly draining the life out of you.

He breathes out.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

Safer in the game.

Maybe it’s true.

But it doesn't matter anymore. There are no other options.

He’s not going to watch you get passed around like some toy for deranged amusement.

If you’re going to be anyone’s toy…

You’re going to be his.

Handled gently, or broken completely.

He's not sure which one yet.

✧˚⋆

The Front Man lifts his walkie, slow and casual, like he's adjusting his glove.

Then, with a voice meant only for the inner circle, he speaks:

"Shut the feeds down. Say there’s a signal issue."

Your protector watches from the back of the room, jaw tense, knuckles white where they curl behind his back. He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t speak.

He’s focusing on the one who brought you here.

The one who threw you into the game like you were nothing but a joke, grinning through his mask like it’s all so funny. He strolls to the side lounge like nothing’s happened. Still laughing. Still loose in his movements, like he’s not even slightly worried about what he’s done.

Not noticing the way eyes follow as he pours himself another drink.

The ice clinks.

Laughter behind him grows louder.

This man has signed his own death warrant, and he doesn’t even know it yet.

The Recruiter follows him into the lounge in silence. No footsteps, no warning. A quiet shadow with death under his skin. He clicks the door shut behind them like a trigger being pulled.

The VIP hums to himself as he uncorks the bottle, still smirking — until the silence settles.

The Recruiter stands motionless by the door, back straight, hands behind him like a soldier. His eyes gleam, calm and glassy, but the air around him is vibrating with something hotter. Darker. Rage, buried so deep it’s nearly surgical.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t raise his voice. Instead, he lifts his tablet. One flick. He turns the screen around.

A video begins to play.

Sunlight. A quiet kitchen.

A woman — elegant, gentle, unaware — humming as she brushes the long, honey-blonde hair of a little girl seated on a stool.

The child giggles. The mother smiles.

Suburbia. Safety.

What fragile little lies.

“Does she know what you do in your free time?”

The man doesn’t respond. He’s not laughing anymore.

His eyes flick to the tablet. Back to the door. He starts to speak, but nothing comes out.

The Recruiter takes a step forward. One step only. No need to rush.

“You have two options,” he says, voice smooth as glass. “You either kill yourself.”

A pause.

“Or I kill them.”

The words aren’t shouted, they’re not dramatic. They’re simply final.

The VIP stares like he’s looking at something not human. There’s a silence in the room now that feels like the moment before a wire snaps.

It's not fear. It's inevitability.

This isn’t a negotiation. It’s a promise.

The man breathes like a cornered animal. Shallow. Panicked. His fingers twitch against the edge of the bar, searching for something — an excuse, an escape, anything.

His eyes flick to the screen one last time.

The little girl leans into her mother’s chest, laughing.

Then—

"Not me! Them-" he chokes out. "Just don't let them suffer. Please!"

A whisper. Weak. Almost like he’s asking for permission.

Not defiant. Not brave. Just pathetic.

The Recruiter doesn’t blink. He stares at the man for a long moment, silent. Then, finally—he tilts his head, like a teacher disappointed in a slow student.

“Wrong choice.”

The VIP’s lips part in confusion. “Wait—wait, no, I meant—”

One shot.

Close range.

Muffled. Precise.

The sound barely echoes in the velvet-lined lounge, but the impact is thunderous. Blood splatters across the crystal decanters. It paints the bar in a spray of red and ruin. The man’s body crumples to the floor, still twitching.

The Recruiter exhales, steady and calm. He sets the gun down beside the corpse, neatly. He reaches for the man’s silk robe — now soaked with the consequences of cowardice — and wipes his hands clean.

First the palms, then the fingertips. Meticulous. Like this is just another part of the job.

He checks his cuffs. Straightens his jacket.

And leaves.

Let the cleanup crew handle it.

Let the Front Man rage.

Let the VIPs whisper.

Let the consequences come.

Fuck it.

Fuck them all.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

PART 4

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Summary: He watches hundreds die without blinking—until you show up. Now the game isn't the only thing unraveling.

Warnings: violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

You

You grew up in a house where love was loud and broken.

Your parents divorced when you were young. You hardly remember them together.

Any memories of them hand in hand feel imagined. Stitched together like a fairytale.

A bedtime story you told yourself at night to feel safe.

Your father was your hero. He still is. You love him, so much.

But he carried his demons in a bottle. Lullabies slurred between binges, disappearing into himself more often than not.

He wasn’t absent. No, he was there. Always.

He showed up to every recital. Every scraped knee, every nightmare.

But sometimes he showed up half-gone. Eyes glassy, smile too wide. Holding you close like he was afraid he’d float away.

You didn’t understand it then.

Why he’d lock himself in the bathroom for hours.

Why his hands sometimes shook when he held your glass of chocolate milk.

Why his voice cracked when he said he was proud of you for nothing. Just breathing. Just being.

You thank God he sobered up before you were old enough to name it.

Before you could understand what the pills were for, or why he cried quietly in the laundry room when he thought no one was listening.

Your dad is flawed. Fragile. Human.

Your dad.

Your mother, on the other hand, didn’t want to love you.

She wanted to be you.

Her eyes were mirrors, always searching for a younger, shinier version of herself in your reflection.

When she wasn’t nitpicking you to pieces, she was molding you into something she could control. Teaching you, wordlessly, that men were the answer to everything.

To safety.

To validation.

To money.

To worth.

So you listened.

You became what she taught you to be.

You learned how to look pretty when you were hurting. How to reach for a man’s attention like it was oxygen, to measure your value by how hard someone wanted you.

Somewhere along the way, you forgot how to want yourself.

"Don’t be such a kiss-ass,” your mother would sneer, reading your texts over your shoulder. Never asking, never needing permission.

She’d scoff at the hearts, the double texts.

“No wonder he doesn’t want you,” she’d mutter, hurling your phone onto the kitchen table. The same table so buried beneath half-used makeup palettes, unopened boxes, expired coupons, and prescription bottles that you couldn’t even remember what color it used to be.

Maybe white?

Brown?

She didn’t hit you. Not physically. But her words left welts in places no one could see.

Invisible bruises that bloomed quietly, over time.

And you felt every.

Single.

One.

You haven’t spoken to her since 2020. And yet, her voice still lives in your head, sharp as ever.

Especially when you find yourself daydreaming. When you feel too much, too fast.

When you reach for love and find only echo.

You’ve always craved to be seen. Truly seen.

To be cared for, not just touched.

To be wanted in your entirety.

But love comes to you in the dark. Always leaving you emptier than it found you.

And yet... you hold onto every 2 a.m. call like it means something.

Because in a twisted way, it does.

It means you exist.

A warm body they remember when their hand slips beneath their boxer briefs.

He's just busy.

Just bad at texting.

But you know the truth. You always did.

They weren't interested.

Not in the way you needed, at least.

They wanted warmth without the burn, touch without the weight.

Every man you let in because you thought maybe, this time, love would fix it.

Fix you.

You thought if someone wanted you enough, it would stitch up the wounds your mother carved with her words.

You thought being chosen would quiet the noise inside you. That being loved would finally make you... lovable.

You were nothing but a security blanket.

Soft, worn, easy to toss aside when the sun came up and the world started spinning again.

So when the email came from your agent—that you’d finally booked something, a real job, a Samsung commercial, for fuck’s sake—in Korea, of all places...

It felt like divine intervention.

Like the universe had finally cracked open and said, "Hey, this one’s for you."

You sat on that plane with your forehead pressed to the window, watching the clouds like they were promises.

You didn’t cry when you left Texas.

Didn’t look back.

You packed your bag, booked the ticket, and told no one.

Not because you were hiding.

Because, for the first time in your life, you were doing something for you.

Sure, it was just a commercial.

But it was a stepping stone.

A small, shining thing that proved your dreams weren’t a joke.

Then came the second email.

Casting Opportunity – Guest Role in New K-Drama (Seoul, Immediate Booking) Hi! I hope this email finds you well! My name is Min Jae, and I’m assisting with international casting for a new K-drama currently in early production. We came across your headshot at the Cheil Production Office and were immediately drawn to your energy and look—something about your presence really stood out. We’re currently looking to cast a foreign guest role for a special episode featuring an American character. The part would involve emotional depth, limited dialogue, and a strong on-screen dynamic with our lead actor. It’s a unique opportunity to showcase subtle performance. This is a closed project, not yet publicly announced, so discretion is appreciated. Filming will take place just outside Seoul, and all accommodations will be arranged for you, including transportation to the set. It would be a quick turnaround—ideally you’d be available to begin shooting within the next week. We believe this could be a meaningful next step in your career, especially if you’re looking to expand your international reel! Let us know if you’re interested, and we’ll send over a non-disclosure agreement and the next steps. Looking forward to hearing from you, soon!

Warmly, Min Jae Casting Coordinator HanStar Entertainment [email protected]

Maybe good things have to start somewhere, you thought, gripping your phone like it was a lifeline.

Too afraid to believe it, but desperate enough to try.

Besides, it wasn’t just you. Even your agent thought it was legit. They looked over the email, clicked through the website. It had everything. A full portfolio, staff bios. A polished demo reel. HanStar Entertainment looked like the real deal.

They said it was a great opportunity. Told you to go for it.

So you said yes without hesitation. Without question.

Maybe this was the role that would finally rewrite everything.

Fifteen hours in the sky, no familiar faces. No plan but your own.

Because if the world was going to chew you up anyway:

You might as well see something beautiful on the way down.

You believed that.

Clung to it like it could soften the landing.

Who would've thought you'd end up here.

Not on set.

Not on screen.

But curled up on a metal bunk, blood on your sleeves, silence ringing louder than applause ever could.

The hum of the plane is long gone. Replaced by the flicker of fluorescent lights and the sharp, sterile buzz that fills the air between games.

Games that aren’t games at all.

No cameras. No scripts.

Just silence.

Pain.

A growing understanding that maybe, this is what the world looks like when it stops pretending to be kind.

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Him

He had seen many things in the games.

Desperation, betrayal, death.

Constants, reliable as the masks worn to cover the monsters inside.

They all wore them, didn’t they?

The players.

The staff.

The VIPs.

Some glittered. Some cracked. But all masks hid something uglier underneath.

And when the masks slipped, what came out was worse than anything any sane person could imagine.

A mother gutting a man with her bare hands for a loaf of bread.

Two lovers whispering promises before one turned and shoved the other off a glass tile.

A man crying as he strangled his best friend, sobbing out I'm sorry as if he really was.

There was nothing sacred here. Nothing shocking.

He had seen people become animals, and animals become gods.

Drunk on the power that only comes when no one’s watching to make you feel ashamed.

He watched people kill just to be seen.

Not for survival, not for glory.

For the brief, flickering validation that someone might notice their existence.

Even if only for one more round.

And the fucked up part?

He likes it.

Not in the way the VIPs do.

Not with cigars and velvet robes and cackling laughter.

But as he watches you lost, out of place, barely holding it together—there’s no satisfaction.

No twisted thrill like the others give him.

Just a gnawing discomfort, like something sacred is being chewed up by a machine he helped build.

The way you look around with those wide, confused eyes. A doll dropped into a nightmare you were never meant to survive.

You don’t belong here. Not even close.

You’re too soft. Too untouched.

Too—

His.

The thought hits him before he can stop it, sharp and uninvited.

He clenches his jaw.

Shut up. You don’t even know her.

But it’s too late.

The word echoes in his head like a trigger he can’t unpull.

His.

What the fuck is happening to him?

He’s watched hundreds of players. Watched them beg, cry, die.

But not you.

He can’t watch you like that.

Every terrified expression of yours makes something primal twist in his gut.

You're a flame in a room full of butchers.

And he decides he’ll burn this whole place to the ground before he lets them snuff you out.

“Can we have a word?” he says, voice low and unreadable. But the look he gives the Front Man is sharp enough to cut through the mask resting on his face—

a look that says you know exactly what I want.

Without a reply, the Front Man stands, cloak brushing the floor as they step into a hallway just out of view.

The masks stay on, but the familiarity is unmistakable. Years of blood-soaked business etched beneath the surface.

"So... Who is she?”

The Front Man doesn't respond right away.

“What, we’re just letting anyone in now?!” he continues. “No card. No approval. No vetting. That's my job.”

The Front Man turns slowly, voice cold and flat. “You didn’t get to approve her because she wasn’t meant to be approved. She’s here because the VIPs thought it’d be a fun... twist.”

“A twist?” he echoes, a humorless laugh curling at the edge of his mouth. “She’s not a twist. She’s not theirs to twist.”

His voice sharpens. Still controlled, but only just. He leans in just slightly, gaze steady and cold.

"If they wanted a show, they should've picked someone else."

A pause. The Frontman inches closer, voice laced with a sour bite.

"You’re not mad she’s here. You’re mad it wasn’t you who found her."

“What?! You think I care about—”

"And my friend, don’t pretend you’ve suddenly grown a conscience. You’ve watched them die by the hundreds. Sent them to slaughter with your own hands."

A long silence stretches between them, heavy. Uncomfortable.

Finally, the Front Man speaks—his voice low, unreadable.

“You want her? Fine.” He tilts his head slightly, the mask catching the light. “Consider it a favor.”

A pause. His voice drops lower, colder.

“But if I give you this—expect to repay me. No questions. No refusals. Whatever I ask.”

Your new shadow hesitates, just barely, before speaking.

“Yes,” the Front Man replies, already turning toward the doorway. “I’ll get her out. But don’t fool yourself. You’re not saving her.”

He stops in his tracks, just long enough to look back.

“She might be safer in the game,” he says, voice low and final, “than she’ll ever be with you.”

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Summary: He didn’t give you the card, but he’s the one who can’t look away. And when he pulls you out? He’s not planning to let you go.

Warnings: violence, death, kidnapping, power imbalance, possessiveness, manipulation, emotional tension, stalking, implied violence, murder planning, toxic relationship dynamics, yandere

‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋‧₊ ˚ ⊹ ࣭ ⭑ . ₊ ⊹ .₊๋⁺˚⋆｡

Him

They watch you through the screen.

Laughter hums like static, muffled behind the thick pane separating the predators from the prey. 

You don’t know it yet, but you’ve already become a focal point.

The center of gravity in a room full of men who believe everything is theirs to take. 

Sipping whiskey. Trading bets.

To them, you’re just a number. A choice on a gilded menu, dressed up for the slaughter.

But then he sees you.

At first, it’s nothing. A glance. Background noise.

But something makes him look again.

He narrows his eyes.

Something isn’t right.

He remembers every player he’s ever recruited.

Remembers the sound the Ddakji tile makes as it cracks against the floor.

The expressions people wear when they realize they’re being tested, not chosen. Their faces, their debts, their desperation.

But he never met you at the station.

Never offered you the card.

Never played the game with you.

He’d remember.

He’d remember the way your lashes cast shadows when you blink, or how your mouth parts slightly as you’re trying not to cry.

He’d remember the curve of your throat exposed so carelessly, like you don’t realize you’re being watched.

The way your fingers tremble as you hold yourself together—barely.

No.

Fuck.

He should look away.

But his gaze lingers, crawling over the slope of your spine. The way your hair falls against your back like silk he'd kill to touch.

You move like you don’t belong here. Like softness in a room meant for cruelty. Like something he wants to hide away and keep to himself.

No—

You're not someone he’d forget.

You're someone he missed—and that mistake is already burning in his chest.

Now that he’s seen you, he doesn’t want to stop.

So, what the hell are you doing here? And most importantly:

Who are you?

You

You thought it was part of the show. Some elaborate concept—performance art? A game? A... game show? You weren’t sure.

But the moment you woke up in that cold room, your memory hazy and your mouth dry, you knew something was wrong. Deeply, unmistakably wrong.

You were terrified. Disoriented. Alone.

An outsider, begging for someone—anyone—to hear you. To understand you. To literally understand you.

But hardly anyone speaks English. You’re drowning in words you can’t grasp, faces you don’t recognize, systems you don’t understand.

God, why didn’t you ever take the time to learn another language?

Why did you always assume you’d never need to?

Now you’re here. Trapped.

And no one cares.

Not about your questions.

Not about your panic.

Not about you.

You try to stay calm. Try to breathe through it.

But the room is too bright. Too quiet. Too wrong.

The walls don’t echo like they should. The corners feel too clean, too controlled. Like this place was built for watching, not shelter.

You speak again—your voice hoarse, trembling.

“Hello?”

Nothing. Just the shuffling of feet, a murmur in a language you don’t understand.

A few players glance at you, then look away, as if the sight of you—panicked and foreign—is uncomfortable.

Simply inconvenient.

You press your hands to your face and try to remember the last thing you did. The last thing you chose.

The casting call.

You’d been excited. A new opportunity. Big budget. NDA paperwork so strict it almost felt... important.

You’d boarded a private shuttle, signed your name, followed a handler who smiled too much and said too little. The rest?

Fog.

Now you’re here. In a holding cell of smiles and silence. In this sick theater.

There’s a weight pressing against your skin—like someone’s eyes are crawling across you. Memorizing you.

You can’t see him.

But he sees you.

Him

His attendance tonight was supposed to be a formality. A favor for the VIPs. Just another game.

But now, he can't focus.

In a matter of seconds, it feels like he’s known you forever. Like he’s been waiting for you.

Searching, without realizing it.

You don’t belong here. You shouldn’t be here.

And now that he’s seen you, he won’t be able to look away.

Not until he knows who you are.

Not just your name—no.

That’s not enough.

He wants to know what your voice sounds like when you're not trying to be brave.

What your skin feels like when it’s warm under his hands.

What your breath does when he leans in too close.

He wants to know the shape of your fear.

The taste of your relief when he tells you you're safe—with him.

He wants to learn every part of you, slowly, like a secret unwrapped by touch.

Because watching already isn’t enough anymore.

He needs you close.

Under him.

Against him.

He doesn't realize he's leaning forward until—

“A beauty, isn’t she?” one of the VIPs drawls, his voice thick with smoke and champagne, eyes glued to your figure on the screen. He tilts his head like he’s admiring fine art. Like you’re an object.

The Salesman doesn’t look at him.

His eyes stay on you—on the way you shift nervously, on the panic behind your composure.

His jaw tightens, the muscle ticking like a warning.

“Who is she?” he asks, voice low. Controlled. Dangerous.

The way he says it, it isn’t curiosity.

It’s a demand.

And beneath it, something darker—like the answer might justify violence.

“Oh, that one’s got a hell of a story.”

He doesn’t respond. Just stares—unblinking, unbothered—until the man feels the weight of it.

Heavy. Intimidating. A warning dressed as curiosity.

“Well?” he says, voice sharp with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Tell me the story. I could use a good laugh.”

The man chuckles nervously, shifting in his seat. “Well—it’s kind of... fucked up, actually.”

He takes a long drag of his cigar before continuing, smoke curling like a shield between them. 

“She’s an actress. Was in Seoul shooting some Samsung commercial. One of my buddies is high up in their marketing division. I saw her headshots in his office. Told him I wanted an introduction.”

He leans in, lowers his voice. “Couldn’t tell him the truth, of course. Had to play it clean.”

“The truth?”

A noisy, overweight Australian in a bear mask bursts out laughing, the sound crude and grating.

“Oh, you bastard, just say it,” he slurs, the cigar wobbling between his fingers as smoke snakes toward the ceiling. 

“Mate—he made her think it was just another gig. Told her it was some exclusive casting call. Real hush-hush, high-end stuff. Got her in here before she could even blink.”

The man grins wide—yellow teeth flashing beneath the mask, reeking of whiskey and ego.

“There was a bet. First one to reel in a foreigner for the games. Winner gets a ticket on that NASA moon tour. Real luxury shit. Guess the bastard won, eh?”

The VIPs erupt in laughter. Ugly, drunken noise—cigars smoldering between fingers, champagne sloshing in crystal glasses. Like you’re nothing more than a joke. Like your fear is entertaining.

He doesn't join them.

His eyes stay fixed on the screen, on you—shoulders drawn tight, lips parted like you're holding back a scream. You don’t even know you’re being watched. Tasted.

“Pretty little thing though,” one of them cackles. “Wouldn’t mind a private round, if you know what I mean.”

Another nudges him, slurring through smoke. “You like that type, don’t you? Fragile. Lost. Breakable.”

The Salesman says nothing. But he feels it—something hot and primal rising in him. He glances toward the Frontman.

They’ve known each other for years. Long enough for the Frontman to recognize the signs—the barely restrained violence that lives beneath his polished smile. The predator pacing behind the mask.

But this look? This is something else entirely.

Not rage. Not madness.

Obsession.

And just like that, in a single moment, you've become a fire he can't contain.

The hum under his skin.

The exception.

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