𝓙𝓮𝓷

"There you are!"

I turned to see who had yelled my name; a man wearing a white tank top, blue sunglasses, and a black cardigan had come towards me like a drunken man before sitting down next to me. "Oi, your brother was looking for you throughout the day. let's go to him right now." He said before grabbing my forearm, but I quickly refused it. He sighs before saying, "Look, if you don't wanna make it harder for me, just go with me." He said before grabbing my forearm again, “Just leave me alone, dude—” I yanked my arm back, sharper this time. The guy didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered, tightening just for a second before finally releasing me. He looked at me, annoyed now.

“You don’t get it,” He muttered, pushing his sunglasses up into his messy hair, revealing sharp, tired eyes. “Your brother’s losing it. Thinks something happened to you. I was just sent to find you, alright? I don’t even wanna be here.”

I stared at him, arms crossed, trying to figure him out. He was tall, lean, had this jittery energy like he was always about to bolt or punch someone. Not the type my brother usually hung around with.

“Then tell him I’m fine and I’ll come back when I want to.”

“Yeah, well, he’s not the kind of guy who takes ‘later’ for an answer. You know that,” He said, shifting uncomfortably on the bench. “and frankly? I don’t need him biting my head off over this.”

I squinted at him. “What’s your name?”

“…Yuken,” he muttered. “Odajima Yuken.”

He didn’t say it with any pride. More like he was tired of introducing himself to people who didn’t care. I tilted my head.

“Alright, Yuken. I’m not going with you. So you’ve got two options: lie to my brother or drag me, and I’m warning you, I bite.”

That made him snort, unexpected and a little amused. “Damn. You really are his sister.”

“I don’t need you to babysit me.”

He looked at me for a moment, eyes narrowing. “You always this stubborn?”

“Only when guys in cardigans try to drag me places like I’m a lost puppy.”

He blinked, then leaned back on the bench, arms stretched across the backrest like we were just two people casually hanging out. “Fine. Five minutes. Then I’m dragging you. And if you bite me, I’ll bite back.”

“Try it,” I muttered, looking away with a smirk. “See how that works out for you.”

He didn’t say anything for a while after that. Just sat there next to me, one leg bouncing like he was fighting the urge to stand up and drag me by the ankle.

I expected him to keep pushing, to keep throwing my brother’s name around like it was supposed to scare me—but he didn’t. He stayed quiet. And weirdly, that annoyed me more.

He smirked. “Only when I’m sent to collect runaway siblings who sit in parks like they’re in a movie scene.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitched. “This park is peaceful. Unlike your face.”

“Oh?” He turned his head slowly to look at me, like I’d just challenged him to a duel. “You’ve been holding that one in?”

“Nah. Came to me just now.”

He shook his head, smiling like he couldn’t help it, like maybe he hadn’t had a real conversation all day. “…Look, your brother’s not mad. He’s worried. And, between you and me—he only gets like that when it comes to you. Don’t tell him I said that.”

“I won’t,” I said, glancing over at him. “You say that like I’m supposed to feel bad.”

Yuken shrugged. “Wasn’t trying to guilt trip you. Just letting you know.”

We sat there for another minute in silence. The wind rustled the trees above us, and I could hear kids playing in the distance. It was peaceful.

Then I heard it—heavy footsteps behind us.

“…You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I muttered, already knowing who it was before I even turned around.

“RINAAAAA!”

I closed my eyes for a second, groaned, and turned just in time to see Jinkawa storming toward us with a frantic look on his face, panting like he’d sprinted across the city. “Where the hell did you go?!”

Yuken blinked. “You’re late.”

“I know!” Jinkawa shot back, straightening up with a wild look in his eyes. “I looked away for one second, ONE SECOND—and next thing I know, she’s gone!”

Yuken stood up, then started clapping like maniac. “I found her. Alive. Sarcastic. No injuries.”

I raised an eyebrow. “What were you even doing?”

“…Kenzo dared me to jump over two park benches while holding a soda can on my head,” he admitted, completely serious.

Yuken snorted. “That explains the bruised ego.”

Jinkawa waved him off, still catching his breath. “Sachio’s gonna kill me if he finds out I lost her. He told me, ‘Just watch her for five minutes, Jinkawa,’ and I said ‘Got it,’ and then Kenzo was like ‘Bet you can’t—’ and now here we are.”

“I wasn’t lost,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I was just sitting here. Alone. Peacefully. Until cardigan boy showed up and tried to drag me back.”

“I said I wasn’t dragging you,” Yuken replied. “I was politely threatening.”

Jinkawa groaned. “Great. Now she’s mad, and Sachio’s gonna be mad, and Kenzo owes me a soda. Everything’s a mess.”

I brushed some hair behind my ear and stood up. “Tell Sachio I’m fine. And that next time, maybe don’t assign my babysitter based on how many dares they can complete in thirty seconds.”

“Hey!” Jinkawa pointed. “That’s unfair. I made it over one bench.”

Yuken shook his head, already walking ahead. “Let’s just go before you two embarrass yourselves even more.”

Jinkawa jogged to catch up, muttering, “Pretty sure she’s scarier than Sachio.”

“She is,” Yuken said, glancing at me sideways with a small smirk. “But in a cute way.”

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The hallway glows gold. Not metaphorically—like, it’s actually glowing. Warm light spills from the high vaulted ceiling in golden ripples, dancing across polished marble floors like sunbeams poured from the gods’ own teacup. The air smells faintly of roses and ozone, that electrifying scent that always signals Big Magic is in play. Wisps of cloud cling to your boots as you walk, soft and curling around your ankles like affectionate cats. You’ve been here before, of course training missions, mock assignments but today? Today is different.

Your wings twitch behind your shoulders, nervously folded, the feathers too pristine, too obvious. The white of them catches every shimmer of the light, like they know they’re being watched. You swear they’re sweating. Your heart drums a frantic beat in your chest, like it’s trying to take flight on its own. Because today is The Day. Your Final Field Exam. The last test before you earn your full Agent status with the Department of Matchmaking Magic.

You try to breathe. It comes out shaky.

As you round a towering marble pillar, carved with runes of fate and really unsubtle cherub motifs—you’re greeted by a glowing crystal screen pulsing with your name in delicate cursive. The calligraphy sparkles with a soft lavender hue, but the formal tone of it might as well scream: NO PRESSURE, RIGHT?

Hovering in the air beside it is a painfully pink folder. It levitates just at eye level, flipping lazily in the air like it’s bored. Then like it’s finally acknowledging your presence it zips forward and plops itself into your hands with a theatrical flourish. The corners curl slightly, as if the folder itself is judging you.

You swallow hard. Inside: the target file.

Subject: Final Assignment – Match 143-B

Status: Mortal Realm, Earth Sector #0312

Difficulty: Advanced (Emotionally Complicated)

Tools Provided:

• 1x Standard-Issue Bow

• 3x Heart Arrows (Use sparingly)

• 1x Identity Charm (Single-use disguise)

Goal: Complete a Perfect Match.

Restrictions: Do not interfere with mortal emotion.

Critical Warning: Do NOT fall in love.

Your eyes pause. That last part is underlined twice. A chill tiptoes down your spine, cold despite the golden glow.

You flip the page and freeze. The name on the assignment file flashes up like a punch to the stomach: Geum Seong Je.

You blink. No fucking way. It couldn’t be. Him? Of all people?

Your pulse goes from flutter to full-on bongo drum solo. Every nerve sparks alive. You remember that name. You remember the eyes, those glasses he wears, the way he said your fake Earth name like it mattered. You remember the trouble it nearly caused during Match 45-Z, when you maybe lingered a little too long, maybe watched him punch dudes on the corner of some aesthetic café more than strictly necessary.

Just as you're spiraling into an emotional black hole, a scribbled note catches your attention, inked in sparkly red and underlined in glitter like a warning in lipstick:

“Try not to get distracted by him this time. You do remember what happened with Match 45-Z, right?”

— Sincerely, Aphrodite 💋

Rude.

You bite your lip, trying not to smile. Classic Aphrodite. Dramatic as ever, but annoyingly right.

You close the folder and look down the rest of the hallway. At the end, a gilded archway gleams, already humming with portal magic. You can see the hazy outline of Earth beyond it—gray cityscapes, amber sunrises, and the flicker of candlelight in what might be a corner bookstore.

Your fingers tighten around the folder. Your wings ruffle once, as if bracing themselves. Your mission is simple: find the soul match, aim true, and don’t let your feelings get in the way.

But your gut is already telling you… this match? This one might break all the rules.

The portal chamber hums with ancient magic, a mix of soft harp music and the crackle of raw cosmic power. Golden rings spin overhead, like halos on espresso shots. Cupids-in-training mill around with jittery wings and last-minute pep talks. The air smells like rosewater and nerves.

Min wings you in the shoulder with a heart-shaped pillow, her expression somewhere between smug and motherly. “Girl, an all-girls school on Earth? You’re gonna combust the second someone offers you iced coffee and drama.”

You roll your eyes so hard it’s practically a flight maneuver, but a smile sneaks out anyway. There’s warmth here—deep, unshakeable warmth. The kind forged in glitter-drenched battle drills and wing-mending circles, in whispered gossip under celestial covers and synchronized eye-rolls at mandatory harp solos. These are your people. Your chaos cohort.

Hyeri sidles up, eyes serious, voice low. “Be careful, okay? Mortals don’t play fair.”

You tilt your chin, heroic and maybe a bit dramatic. You're playing it cool, like you're not already internally spiraling about the Geum Seong Je thing. “Please. I’ve read every mortal romance novel twice. I’m invincible.”

Min snorts like a disbelieving goddess. “That’s exactly what Match 77 said before she caught feelings for a barista who gave her oat milk unprompted.”

Okay, that’s fair.

But before you can lob back a snarky comeback or, y'know, beg to switch missions, the magic flares.

The scroll in your hand glows hot. The Identity Charm snaps into action. There's a rush of light, a cool blue and white color and your wings dissolve into nothing, feather by feather, like snowflakes on a summer sidewalk. The folder seals itself and disappears in a puff of glitter that smells like cotton candy and impending doom.

You barely have time to breathe.

The marble floor beneath your feet gives out like someone pulled a trapdoor in reality. The world tips. You're falling.

It’s not like a mortal fall—this is cleaner, sharper, like being sliced from one realm to another. Time and space whirl into a tunnel of color and stars and ancient lyrics you can’t quite remember. Your heartbeat tries to match the rhythm but fails. You clutch the charm against your chest like it might anchor you to something real.

Landing in the mortal realm isn’t exactly smooth.

You crash into Earth’s atmosphere with a sparkly thud, like a meteor that shops at glitter boutiques. There’s a rush of wind, a whoosh of ancient magic, and then darkness.

When you wake up, you’re sprawled on a twin mattress in a room roughly the size of a celestial storage closet. The overhead light flickers like it’s afraid of you. Your back is sore, your wings are gone, and you’re in a plaid skirt and an itchy mortal sweater vest that smells aggressively like static cling and someone else's lavender dryer sheets.

The school is just as chaotic in its elegance.

An all-girls private academy tucked into the misty mountains just outside Seoul. The buildings are old, like really old—stone corridors, arched windows, and whispers in the walls. It smells like freshly sharpened pencils, perfume that costs more than your wingspan, and centuries of untold tea just begging to be spilled.

This school might just be its own kind of battlefield.

You spend the first few days blending in like a socially awkward chameleon with your made up name “Park Yu Na”. You study how the girls talk—half gossip, half poetry. They say things like, “He liked my post but didn’t comment, which means he’s either emotionally repressed or already dating Soojin.” You take notes. You practice in the mirror. You get really good at pretending to be confused by physics and pretending to be way too interested in cafeteria menu changes.

The other students accept you. Mostly because you keep your head down, laugh at the right times, and fake being terminally obsessed with the school’s unofficial boy ranking list (you’re sorry, but "Hotness Olympics" shouldn’t have its own spreadsheet).

But deep down? You’re bored. Bored like only an undercover divine being who hasn’t shot a heart arrow in five days can be.

Because where is your target?

Where is Geum Seong Je?

You check the scroll every night in the bathroom stall with the best Wi-Fi signal. The little golden map still blinks. Still shows he’s nearby. But no name, no photo, no beacon. Just a pulsing dot that refuses to move past “You’re close. Wait.”

You consider launching an arrow at random, just to see what happens. But Aphrodite's “DO NOT FALL IN LOVE” warning plays on loop in your brain like a cursed ringtone.

It’s not until Friday afternoon, halfway through a rainy music class, that the air finally shifts.

Your hands grip the rusted rooftop railing, metal biting into your palms. The clouds overhead twist like they're holding their breath. And below you, chaos dances.

Seong Je stands in the middle of the alley like he owns it, blood on his knuckles, defiance in his spine. The kind of boy mortals write poetry about and then immediately regret dating. His shirt’s half-untucked, his lip split and already healing with the stubborn pride of someone who’s been through worse and decided to smile anyway like he is enjoying it.

The two guys flanking him—also in uniform, also bloodied—look like they just realized this isn’t going to end well for them.

And they're right. Because Seong Je doesn’t hesitate. He swings.

It’s fast, brutal, controlled. His fists speak their own language—one of warning, maybe history, or don’t touch what’s mine kinda. You recognize it. Not because you’ve seen it in your training, but because something deep and ancient in you responds to it.

He moves like a storm.

And yet when he looks up after he finishes beating up the two men, when his eyes land on you, everything stops. Like the world hit pause just for him to breathe in your presence. He freezes, for a second.

Then the corner of his mouth quirks up in a slow, knowing smirk. The kind that says trouble recognizes trouble.

“Who are you?” he calls out, voice edged like a switchblade and smooth like honey-drenched sin. A cigarette dangles from his fingers, half-lit. His uniform blazer draped like a cape, and one side of his lip is bruised. He is the very image of “do not engage.”

Your scroll lied. This is not a soul match. This is a slow-motion disaster.

Because Seong Je isn't some innocent mortal with tragic eyes and a soft heart. He’s not waiting for love. He’s the top dog of Ganghak High. Part of the Union—a syndicate of student delinquents with iron knuckles and loyalty tattoos. The kind of group that writes their homework in blood and uses lockers like coffins.

“You spying?” he asks, tone amused, but there’s something sharp under it. “Or just lost, angel?”

You flinch, not physically. Just internally. He said angel. A coincidence, probably. A joke. Right? It is.. I guess.

You force yourself to speak. “I-I’m not spying. I just.. needed some air.”

“On a rooftop. With eyes that look like they’ve seen gods.”

He blows out smoke. It coils upward, brushing the invisible string between you.

Your heart is not beating fast because of him. It’s the altitude. The weather. Definitely not the way his voice wraps around your name like he already owns it.

You should leave. You have to leave. This is not what Cupid agents do. This is not how you pass a field exam. This is exactly how Match 77 ended up crying on a Vespa in Milan.

But you don’t move. Because something in your chest has clicked out of place.

Just down below, Seong Je doesn’t look away. Maybe he remembers you too.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The sky is bruised with clouds and insomnia. It’s just past midnight when you sneak out of your dorm.

You slip out of the dormitory around 12:15 a.m., hoodie over your head and anxiety practically bouncing off your sneakers. The scroll won’t stop pulsing. The identity charm is hot against your chest. You haven’t slept in two nights and your celestial brain is short-circuiting over this stupid, emotionally-complicated mortal.

You need food. Sugar. Instant noodles. Maybe something deep-fried and emotionally supportive.

So you make your way to the neighborhood convenience store—the kind that hums under flickering fluorescent lights and smells like squid chips and low-stakes rebellion.

The 24-hour convenience store glows like a portal at the end of the empty street. It buzzes softly, like it’s trying to stay awake with you. Seoul’s night air is cool, humming with traffic in the distance and the quiet loneliness that only creeps in during mortal after-hours.

You push open the glass door. The bell above the frame jingles. Just like that. There he is.

Leaning against the counter like the universe owes him a favor. Messy hair, his back half-turned, the cold light painting shadows on his face. He's dressed in black, again. Hoodie, jacket, a silver chain just barely peeking out from under his collar. He’s holding a pack of cigarettes in one hand and glaring at the clerk like the guy just insulted his ancestors.

He hasn’t seen you yet. Well you could back out and go to another convenience store, or you could pretend you’re here for tampons and run, or just teleport. No, wait. You’re mortal. Too late. He turns around to face you.

You froze at the spot. His eyes lock on yours and he recognizes you immediately.

“You stalking me?” He says it flatly, like it’s a fact. Not a question. While pocketing the cigarettes like he's daring you to say something about it.

You force a laugh, totally casual, definitely not panicking and definitely gonna pretend you don’t recognize him. Even though your stomach just did a backflip. “...No?” You wince at how unconvincing that sounds. You walk past him to grab the honey butter chips on the shelf.

He doesn't smile, but he doesn’t look away either. He leans a little against the counter like he has all the time in the world and nowhere better to be. The clerk behind the register is so tense you think he might actually burst into confetti.

He cocks an eyebrow. You hate how good he looks under this cursed lighting. “So it’s just a coincidence you’re here. Alone. At 12:17 A.M. In the exact same store I’m in.”

“I just wanted honey butter chips.” You hold up a bag like it’s holy proof of your innocence. Your hand is literally shaking. Not because you’re scared. Just match jitters. Totally normal.

He narrows his eyes. Then smirks. “Park Yu Na, right? Transfer girl from the fancy dead-girl school up the hill.”

Your mouth goes dry. How does he know your name? You haven’t told anyone. “You know my name?”

“You’re loud.” He shrugs, already walking past you, brushing your shoulder with a heat that makes your skin buzz. “And you stare. A lot.”

You spin to protest, but he’s already at the drink fridge. Grabs a coke with casual aggression. “You always walk around alone this late?” he says over his shoulder, tone unreadable. “This street is not exactly safe after midnight. Even for angels in hoodie.”

That word again. Angel. Is it a joke? Does he know? Is the veil slipping or is he just... uncannily observant and unfairly hot?

You clear your throat. “Are you always this dramatic in front of carbonated drinks?”

He snorts. For the first time, it feels like his guard lowers a millimeter. Just enough to see something flicker in those storm-colored eyes.

He pays in cash, doesn’t wait for change. As he passes—the scent of tobacco and danger trailing behind him, he pauses at the door. “See you around, transfer girl.” then he glances back over his shoulder, “Try not to get caught staring next time.”

The bell jingles. He’s gone. And you’re standing in the snack aisle with a bag of honey butter chips, a cursed scroll vibrating in your pocket, and a heart that’s beating like it just failed an ethics test.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s the next day. Seoul’s sun is doing her most, all golden and dramatic like she knows something’s about to happen.

You’ve tracked Seong Je halfway across the city using a very not-suspicious divine scroll hidden in your mortal physics textbook.

He’s walking through a narrow side street, earbuds in, head down, looking like he’s halfway between ditching class and starting a turf war.

And beside him was your opportunity: a girl from his school. She’s walking his way. She’s cute, definitely crushable, and technically a match-compatible soul. This is your chance.

You duck behind a vending machine. The divine bow shimmers into your hand, cloaked from mortal eyes. You notch one of your three heart arrows. This time, you’re focused. Calm and unshakable.

This is it. The shot. Cupid's gonna be proud. You’re gonna make the match, pass the exam, and forget about that smirk he gave you at 12:17 A.M.

You draw back the bowstring and just as you release the string, The girl sidesteps. Right at the last second.

And you realize, with the slow-mo horror of a Greek tragedy, you just fired an enchanted love arrow directly at Seong Je’s hoodie. And the universe, because she’s petty, makes him turn around.

Your arrow whizzes past his cheek like a divine mosquito.

He catches a flicker of pink light. His eyes narrow.

You dive behind a recycling bin like a gremlin with poor decision-making skills. The bow vanishes just as he stalks toward the alley where you definitely are not hiding.

Too late. He turns the corner and stops. Arms crossed. Eyebrows raised. Confusion and suspicion battling on his stupidly handsome face. “You,” he says. “You’re literally following me again.”

You blink up at him like a raccoon caught with a cursed glowstick. “What? No. I-I was just… checking on the structural integrity of this recycling bin.”

“With jazz hands?” he continued.

You look down. Yep. Your fingers are still twitching from the leftover spellcast. Glittery.

You clear your throat and try again. “You’ve got a very punchable aura, okay? I needed to make sure you weren’t going to ruin the vibe of this alley.”

He blinks. Then he chuckles. Actually chuckles. Like, deep and low and unfair. Like someone just whispered a secret to his ribcage. “You’re the weirdest girl I’ve ever met.”

You scramble to stand, heart thumping like a drumline inside your ribs. “You haven’t met enough girls.”

His smile—fucking hell. It’s half amused, and entirely illegal under celestial law.

The sun hits him just right. You hate it. You love it. His whole face glows like a problem you want to write essays about.

For a second, he just looks at you. “Park Yu Na…” he says slowly, like he’s tasting it. “Whatever planet you’re from, stay on it. It’s entertaining.”

He turns and walks away, hands in his pockets, leaving you standing there with one less arrow and a matchless mission.

You have two shots left and also maybe a problem.

Because your heart? Well It’s probably not listening to the scroll anymore.

You return to school like nothing happened. No bow. No arrow. No rooftop flashbacks or inconveniently attractive gang leaders in your dreams.

Just you, “Park Yu Na,” the totally average, definitely-not-a-divine-being student from Class 2-B, sipping banana milk and trying not to panic.

You slip into the last class of the day, but it’s too late. Ms. Hwang, your history teacher (and mortal stress monster), pauses mid-lecture and narrows her eyes.

A chill runs down your spine like someone just cursed your GPA.

After class, she calls you over. Her tone? Ice. Her vibe? Well, betrayed middle-aged warrior queen.

“Miss Park,” she says, voice low and stern. “I checked the attendance log. You’ve missed four periods today. Without a pass. Without explanation.”

You try to improvise. “I-uh-got lost…in my thoughts?”

Well she does not laugh. Instead, she hands you a slip of shame-colored paper with nine bold letters at the top: D-E-T-E-N-T-I-O-N.

“You’ll be cleaning the gymnasium. Alone. After class.”

“Maybe while you’re scrubbing the floor, you’ll remember how to stay in school.”

You nod solemnly, clutching the paper like it personally offended your ancestors.

As you walk away, a single thought runs through your head: “Cupids, give me strength.”

After school, the hallways empty out like the soul of a group project. Laughter echoes from outside where normal students are escaping into freedom, phones out, uniforms unbuttoned, homework forgotten.

But not you.

Nope.

You push open the creaking gymnasium doors, and the smell of floor polish and faint embarrassment hits you like a divine slap.

The gym is big and echoey—high ceilings with faded championship banners drooping like tired ghosts. Dust motes spin in the slanted rays of golden hour sunlight. The silence is so loud, your footsteps sound like drumbeats.

You grab a mop from the corner, roll up your sleeves, and start scrubbing the floor like it’s responsible for your emotional damage. The echo of your own footsteps is your only company. Well—your footsteps, and the squeaky wheels of the mop bucket that is definitely not enchanted but you desperately wish it was so you could clean this place in one divine snap.

There’s something weirdly therapeutic about it. The repetitive motion. The squeak of rubber shoes. The way the sun slowly drips down the walls, turning everything a soft amber.

You curse the teacher who noticed your disappearance. Curse the scroll. Curse Seong Je and his stupidly dodgeable presence. You’re half-convinced the gods are watching this like a telenovela.

“Clean the gym,” they said.

“No powers,” they insisted.

“Reflect on your actions,” they scolded.

You're reflecting, alright. You’re reflecting on how incredibly not smooth you looked eating floor after that arrow fumble.

You’re halfway through grumbling about Seong Je ruining your life when you hear it. A sound that is barely there. The door creaking open.

You straighten your posture, heart skipping. “Sorry, gym’s closed,” you call out, not looking.

“Didn’t ask,” a voice replies. It was low, unbothered, a little amused and a little TOO familiar.

You spin around, mop still in hand. And there he is, Geum Seong Je. In your school gym. Like some delinquent prince who got lost on his way to a street fight and decided to visit your personal hell instead.

He's wearing that same loose uniform jacket, slouched over one shoulder like the laws of gravity don’t apply to him. His hands are in his pockets. His hair's messy, like he either just woke up or just won a fight.

Your throat goes dry. “What are you doing here?” you hiss, trying to look casual while holding a mop like a confused magical girl.

He shrugs, walking in like he owns the place. His eyes flick lazily across the gym, then settle on you. “Was in the neighborhood.”

“The neighborhood?” you echo. “This is a private girls’ school. You’re not even allowed on the sidewalk.”

“Guess I’m breaking more than just hearts now.”

You nearly drop the mop on the floor. He smirks. Like he knows. Like he’s teasing you. Like this is a game and you’re already losing—dang it, he is right.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” you say again, but quieter now. The gym feels smaller with him in it. Warmer. Unbearably so.

He takes another step forward. His boots squeak softly on the waxed floor. There’s something unreadable in his gaze now—no smirk, no jokes. Just this quiet, curious look.

“You looked pissed earlier,” he says. “Didn’t like seeing you that mad. Figured I’d check on you.”

Your brain short-circuits. Because Geum Seong Je—Ganghak’s top dog, Mr. I smoke under streetlights and fear nothing—is here. In your school. After hours. Because of you.

“So you stalked me this time,” you say, desperate to deflect the panic in your chest.

“Maybe,” he says. “But at least I didn’t bring a bow.”

Your face heats up. You want to crawl into a locker and never return. “I wasn’t trying to shoot you,” you mutter, returning to the floor like it’s safer to mop than to feel things.

There’s silence. Then a soft footsteps. He walks closer. Closer still. Until you feel him behind you—close enough that your heartbeat does the Macarena.

“You’re weird,” he says again, voice quieter this time. “But you’re not boring.”

And then, just like that he’s gone. Like the smoke from his cigarettes. Like the ghost of a rooftop stare.

You’re left in the gym, mop in hand, floor half-cleaned, heart absolutely losing its damn freaking mind. And outside, the sun finally sets.

Later That Evening. The gym smells like sweat and lemon disinfectant, and your limbs feel like noodles left too long in boiling water. You mop through the final square foot of parquet flooring like a war veteran scrubbing trauma into the floorboards.

As the last light fades behind the bleachers, you drag yourself toward the hallway—sore, hungry, and still trying to figure out what just happened. Did Seong Je really show up? Did he say he was worried? Nah, there’s no way he will be worried about you. Your thoughts are full of ONE incredibly illegal boy with sinfully good looking face who definitely should not have shown up today, but somehow did. You try to shake it off. You’re a celestial agent. A divine intern. A professional. You are here for one reason, and that reason is not the slow curve of Seong Je’s grin.

So why is your heart doing pirouettes?

You make your way to the third-floor corridor where the dorm lockers are—dimly lit, quiet, that weird echo of sneakers and whispers long gone. Your school bag’s right where you left it, tucked neatly inside Locker #413. You yank open the creaky metal door and then you see it.

Something’s there. Sitting right on top of your books, perfectly centered, like it’s meant to be noticed.

It’s not flashy. No glitter, no love note, no magical sparkle. Just a single bottle of banana milk. Your favorite brand. Chilled. Still sweating from the cold. With a folded scrap of paper taped to the side, messily ripped from a math workbook.

Your heart stutters. Your breath catches. Your fingers feel too clumsy as you peel it off and unfold it, revealing just three short words in jagged, all-caps handwriting:

“EAT SOMETHING, WEIRDO.”

— SJ

Because the handwriting is sharp and angular—like someone who doesn’t write things down unless it’s detention-worthy.

Because he watched you mop a gym for an hour and said nothing, then vanished. Because you know. You just know. Your fingers tighten around the note.

The banana milk feels like it’s pulsing with meaning. Like this silly, stupid can is the heaviest thing in the world.

You glance around the hallway—but it’s empty. Silent. Like the world is holding its breath.

Somewhere outside, the wind picks up. A door creaks. The universe winks and for a moment, you’re not a Cupid on assignment.

You’re not “Park Yu Na.” You’re just a girl in a hallway with a fluttering chest and the tiniest, quietest smile. You tuck the note into your skirt pocket.

Hold the banana milk like it’s sacred. And walk back to your dorm room in a daze, head full of nothing but echoes of a smirk, a voice like honey and knives, and three handwritten words that shouldn’t mean anything but somehow already do. You’re supposed to be making a match. Instead, it feels like you’re the one being hunted, by a boy who doesn’t believe in rules. A boy with a lighter in his pocket and danger in his smile. A boy who just left a piece of your heart in your locker.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The Next Morning. You wake up still clutching the banana milk like it’s your emotional support potion. The note’s under your pillow. Your dreams were a weird montage of gym floors, smirking gang leaders, and mop handles turning into bows.

You try to play it cool at breakfast. Try not to replay the moment he looked at you like you were a puzzle wrapped in glitter and defiance. Try not to think about the way the note still smells faintly like cigarette smoke and bubblegum.

Try not to feel anything. You successfully failed in it.

By the time second period rolls around, you’re fully zoning out, doodling tiny bows in the margins of your literature notebook when Sun Hee (your mortal friend) slides into the seat beside you like she’s carrying government secrets.

She leans in, eyes wide. “You will not BELIEVE what I just heard.”

You blink, brain definitely already malfunctioning. “Is it about me? Wait, is it about Seong Je? Wait—no. Don’t tell me.” You told yourself.

She tells you anyway. Because best friends are built for betrayal. “So apparently one of the girls from Class 3-A saw this dude sneak into the school yesterday after class. Tall. Wearing a glasses. Definitely not regulation uniform. She said he climbed over the west wall and bribed the janitor with a carton of Marlboros and a packet of Choco Pies.” You drop your pen on your desk after Sun Hee stopped talking.

Sun Hee’s eyes narrow. “Why do you look like someone just slapped you with destiny?”

You stare at your desk, brain buffering.

Because of course. Of course Seong Je didn’t walk through the front gates like a normal person. Of course he scaled a wall like a delinquent Spider-Man and bribed the janitor like it was nothing.

Your mind flashes back to last night: the casual way he leaned in the doorway. The perfect timing. He didn’t stumble across you.

He planned it. He knew where to find you.

That’s when it hits you—harder than any arrow you’ve ever fired, he asked around. He probably knew exactly what room you’d be cleaning. Probably watched the sunset from some rooftop just waiting for everyone else to leave. Probably dropped the banana milk into your locker after you went to shower.

And now? Now your heart is a war zone and your face is 90% blush.

Sun Hee pokes your cheek. “Are you okay? You look like you're having a slow-motion anime realization.”

You shove your notebook into your bag, whispering under your breath, “I think I’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Because this was supposed to be an assignment. A mission. No interference. No EMOTIONS.

And yet somewhere in between missed shots and banana milk, Seong Je has gone from target to threat level swoon.

And worst of all? You only have two arrows left and you can’t waste those two for now. You can’t fail.

Classes had just ended, and while some students headed back to their dorms, others left campus to take a walk or do their own thing. You gave a wave to Sun Hee and Mi Rae as they made their way to their dormitory, while you stepped off campus, planning to visit that bookstore you had discovered during a stroll through the neighborhood.

A few minutes ago, it started to rain when you got out of the book store. Not the gentle, romantic kind either—the full-blown "sky had a breakdown" kind. Sheets of water hammer the pavement as thunder rolls low, like the heavens are warning you that you're about to do something very stupid.

Which checks out. You duck into the nearest open place: a tiny, grimy convenience store with flickering lights and a faint smell of wet cardboard and boiled egg.

You're soaked, shivering, and very, very aware of the fact that your divine assignment is still very unfinished.

That’s when you see him, sitting at the back ramen bar, hood down, hair damp from the rain, sleeves pushed up. He’s slouched like the chair offended him, one knee bouncing. The steam from his instant noodles curls around him like smoke around a dragon.

You freeze in the aisle, half-hidden behind a rack of seaweed snacks. But it’s too late. He sees you.

His lips pull into a lazy smirk. “Sit. I don’t bite.”

You arch a brow. Your hair drips onto your collar. “Liar.”

Still, your legs betray you. You sit. Across from him. Because there are no other open seats.

He eyes your soaked sweater vest and plaid skirt like it’s some kind of comedy show. “Do you always show up looking like a drowned honor student?”

You look down at your soggy uniform, then deadpan, “Only on days when fate curses me with your presence.”

He laughs through his nose, takes another bite. then slurps the noodles.

You fold your arms, cold and snarky. He’s warm and smirking. It’s unfair.

“Why do you always glare like that?” he asks, mouth half-full. “You look like you’re about to report me to the principal.”

You rest your chin on your palm. “Only if the principal takes bribes in cigarette packs and misplaced rage.”

That does it. He chokes. Mid-slurp. Noodles halfway to his mouth. He coughs, actually startled, and you blink, watching him hack up his pride as he slams his chopsticks down and wheezes out, “You–what?”

You blink innocently. “Sorry, too much truth?”

And then he laughs, really laughs. Loud, full-body, real laugh. Not the smug chuckle. Not the polite scoff.

This one? This is real. Teeth. That gummy smile he has. Head tilting back slightly, like your words genuinely tripped him up.

And your heart? Your divine, professionally detached, this-is-just-an-assignment heart? Yeah, that bitch goes: oh no.

Because in that one laugh, you can see the boy behind the title. Not “Top Dog of Ganghak.” Not “Target 143-B.” Just a guy. Eating instant noodles at 11 P.M in a convenience store that smells like despair and bad life choices.

And the way he’s looking at you now? Like you caught him off guard.

He taps his chopsticks on the table, leaning forward just a bit. “Park Yu Na, huh? You’re not as soft as you look.”

You smirk, mimicking his posture. “And you’re not as scary as you act.”

He hums at that. His foot bumps yours under the table—definitely not by accident.

Lightning cracks outside.

But inside? There’s a strange kind of truce.

Steam rising between you. Warmth spreading slowly and beneath it all, that one last arrow still burns quietly against your spine—like it’s waiting. Like it knows: You’re in trouble.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

It’s a lazy Sunday, and the city is humming like a half-sung lullaby. Neon lights haven’t fully flickered on yet, and the sky is a soft, pale gray—clouds hanging low like the world’s keeping a secret.

You didn’t mean to run into him.

You were just grabbing mandu from that tiny shop by Hongdae Station with your friend Sun Hee, the one that smells like heaven and deep-fried regret.

Just walking. Minding your own divine business. Hoodie up, earphones in. Mortal camouflage at full power. That’s when you spotted him.

He’s dressed in that casual, slouchy way that still somehow screams danger—black cargo pants, black hoodie, chain peeking out. The kind of boy your mother would tell you to avoid but your heart writes poetry about anyway.

He’s not alone. A few other boys hover nearby—also in black, shoulders heavy with Union swagger. One’s laughing. Another’s passing a soda can. Someone’s talking to him. Every single one of them radiates that “we-run-this-side-of-Seoul” energy.

And yet—he stands out, out of all men in this country. Even when he’s silent. Even when he’s doing nothing at all.

Leaning against a railing like it’s a throne. Cigarette in one hand, loose and forgotten. Expression unreadable. Hair ruffled—ahh fuck. Eyes sharp beneath those glasses.

You panic. Not because you’re scared. But because something in your stomach flips the second you see him. So you do what any undercover magical agent would do: You pretend not to see him. Head down. Hoodie up.

You cross the street like he’s just any random boy, you would stumble upon to. Just anyone. Like your heart didn’t do the cha-cha the last time he called you “weird.”

You’re walking through an alley shortcut behind a fried chicken place when Sun Hee stops to check her phone. You didn't even look up to take a glance at him, just kept your head down.

But he’s not listening on the others. Because his eyes are on you. The second you look up, he sees you and for a breathless, shattering second, the whole street slows.

When Sun Hee stops checking her phone, she drags you along with her. Your feet keep walking—barely. You force your expression to stay blank. Pretend you don’t see him. Pretend your heart didn’t just short-circuit. Pretend you didn’t replay that banana milk note seventeen times last night.

Just turns his head slowly and tracks your steps like he’s memorizing your path. Like you’re the only thing in his line of sight. Like everything else around him—the noise, the gang, the world—has gone fuzzy. And even though you’re not looking straight at him, you feel it.

The weight of his gaze. The invisible string pulling taut between you in that crowded street.

The fluorescent lights above the little shop buzz faintly, casting a sleepy warmth on the steaming trays of odeng and the rows of bottled drinks lined up like soldiers.

You and Sun Hee squeeze into the corner booth with barely enough space for your trays and elbows. She’s halfway through a sweet potato hotdog and mid-rant about your group project partners being “criminally unserious.”

You mostly nod, trying to focus, but your mind’s already drifting again—thinking about arrows and assignments and a certain boy with bed eyes—help and that annoying smirk that lingers in your thoughts way too long.

Sun Hee finally leans back with a sigh, tapping her chopsticks against her empty bowl. “You sure you’ll be okay getting home by yourself?”

“It’s fine,” you say with a weak smile. “Just need to catch a cab. I’ll text you when I’m back.”

She zips up her pink hoodie and gives you one last suspicious squint, then pulls you into a hug that smells like tteokbokki and vanilla shampoo. “You’ve been acting weird lately. Like… staring into space, sighing dramatically, blinking slow.”

“I blink at a totally normal speed.”

“Liar.”

“Text me, or I’m calling the cops. I mean it.”

You laugh, squeezing her tighter before she jogs off into the crowd, waving with both hands like you’re shipping off to war. Her voice echoes faintly, “BYE, YUNA!! DON’T GET KIDNAPPED!!”

The shop quiets after she’s gone. The crowd thins. The warmth fades.

You step out into the street, pulling your jacket tighter around you. The night has turned cold, the rain thinning into mist. Your phone refuses to load the taxi app.

You’re standing alone beneath a flickering streetlamp, phone held high like it’s a prayer to the cab gods. But it’s late, and the Seoul sky is dark and sulky. Every car zooms past without slowing. The cold has started to creep under your cardigan, and your patience is two seconds from cracking.

You sigh, stepping closer to the curb. That’s when the growl of an engine pulls up beside you. Your breath catches before you even see him.

And there he is. Seong Je, in a black windbreaker and helmet slung on his wrist. His eyes meet yours beneath the glow of the streetlight, unreadable—but curious. Annoyed. Maybe a little amused. “What, you just gonna stand here ‘til sunrise?”

You stiffen, trying for dignity despite the shivers in your knees. “I’m waiting for a cab.”

He glances up the street. Empty. Predictable. “No cabs come here this late. You’ll freeze your wings off.”

Your stomach tightens at wings. You almost ask if he knows—but his tone is still casual. Teasing. “Romantic,” you say, voice dry. “I was hoping a rich vampire would adopt me.”

He swings a leg off the bike, kicks the stand down.

He jerks his chin toward the alley. “Come on. I’ll give you a ride.”

You have self-respect, training, immortality, and standards. “You’re insane if you think I’m getting on that death trap.”

He shrugs like the universe bores him. “Then walk.”

And he’s already straddling the bike again like he knows you’re going to fold. He starts strapping on his helmet like this is already decided. Like he’s giving you a choice that isn’t one. Like he already won.

You look at the empty road stretching behind you. Then at him. The way his hair curls slightly at his temple. The glint of mischief in his eyes. The open space on the bike.

You curse your dignity and climb on. The leather of the seat is cool beneath you. Your legs tremble as you swing them over—either from the cold or the fact that you’re now effectively hugging a delinquent with a smile that ruins lives.

You don’t look at him when he holds out the spare helmet, and he doesn’t comment when your hands hover—just slightly—before they land on his waist.

You hesitated at first. His voice, low and unbothered, “You’ll fall off if you don’t hold on.”

You grumble under your breath. “Cocky much?” Still, your arms move. Wrap slowly around his waist, and that’s when your heart decides to do parkour. Full flips. Vaulting emotional hurdles.

Landing in full chaos mode.

Because his back is warm. His breath visible in the cold night. And with this closeness, you can feel his laughter when he mutters, “Thought so.”

His windbreaker is warm. His body is even warmer. “This is a mistake.” You think. But your fingers curl around him anyway.

The engine growls to life like a living thing, loud and unapologetic, and your heart immediately launches into a parkour routine you did not authorize.

Wind screams past your ears. Your hair lashes wildly, and the city becomes a blur of neon and shadows. You hold tighter. You have to. For safety.

The city streaks by in blurs of gold and blue. Your hands fist in the fabric of his jacket.

For a moment you forgot just for a second, that you’re a Cupid with rules. With boundaries. With two last arrows that absolutely should not end up in your own ribcage.

Because right now, you're just a girl on a bike, heart loud in her ribs, flying through a night that feels like the beginning of something you were never meant to have.

And maybe that’s why it feels so good.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Just two nights later, you were just trying to clear your head.

The mission’s falling apart. Your bow’s been glitching and the feelings you’re not supposed to have? Yeah, they’re starting to tangle around your ribs like ivy you can’t rip off.

So you took the long way back to the dorms, past the neon signs and fried food carts, blending into the hum of Seoul’s nightlife. Hoodie up, head down, pretending that everything’s fine.

You pause outside a bookstore, pretending to check your phone, when you hear it, footsteps. Then a hand wraps gently, just barely, around your wrist. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to stop you.

You turn, and he’s there. Seong Je. Backlit by a flickering streetlamp. His shadow stretching long across the pavement. One hand shoved into the pocket of his jacket, the other still holding you—loose, like he’s giving you a choice to pull away.

But you don’t.

He leans in, close enough that you can smell the ghost of smoke on his collar, that soft scent of citrus and street asphalt and something unplaceable—something him.

His eyes catch yours, and they are so, so dark. He says it. “You trying to disappear on me, Yu Na?”

Soft enough that it feels more dangerous than if he’d yelled. It’s not a question, not really. It’s a dare wrapped in velvet.

Your throat tightens. Your heartbeat goes sprinting somewhere north of logic. “I wasn’t–” you start, but your voice catches like a record scratch. “I wasn’t disappearing. I just…”

He quirks an eyebrow. Just a little. The tiniest smirk threatening the corner of his mouth.

“You saw me that day on the street,” he says, voice calm, eyes unreadable. “I was with people,” he adds, tone casual, but there's a flicker of something raw in his eyes. “Didn’t think I had to call your name just to get you to look at me.”

You feel your cheeks heat, the shame crawling up like fire under your skin. “I was in a hurry–”

“Bullshit.”

Your breath hitches. He steps just a little closer, his shoulder brushing yours. You’re cornered now—physically, emotionally, celestially. There’s a wall at your back, him at your front, and nowhere to run that won’t take your heart with it.

“You looked scared,” he says quieter now. Like it costs him something to say it. “Not like... scared of me. Just scared. Like you were running from something.”

He pauses. His jaw flexes once. “I don’t like when people run.”

For a second, his expression cracks. You see it: the flicker of something real. Concern, maybe. Interest, also maybe. Something soft that has no business living behind a gaze like his.

Your lips part to answer, but the words don’t come. Because he’s still watching. Because the world is holding its breath around you.

And then he lets go of your wrist. Slowly. Like he didn’t really want to. Like it meant something.

He glances down the alley once, then back at you. “You shouldn’t walk alone at night,” he mutters. “Especially not in this part of town.”

He starts to turn, pulling up his hood. Then stops. Looks back at you one last time. “If you’re gonna run, Yu Na… run toward me next time.”

And then he’s gone. Just like that. Into the night like a whisper you’ll replay a thousand times. You’re left staring at empty space, heart pounding, hands shaking, soul spiraling and suddenly, nothing about this mission feels simple anymore.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The school bell rings like it’s mocking you. Clear, loud, and entirely too cheerful for someone who just had a borderline soul-shaking encounter with Seoul’s most beautiful delinquent boy in a back alley under questionable lighting conditions.

You sit down at your desk. You pull out your notebook. You take a deep breath. “It’s not a crush,” you whisper to yourself like a girl possessed.

Sun Hee glances over from her seat beside you and squints. “You okay?”

“Fine. Totally fine, like super fine.”

Sun Hee raises an eyebrow. You are absolutely not fine. Because every time you blink, you can still see him. The way his voice wrapped around your name like some wish. The way he said, “Run toward me.” The nerve of that line. The audacity. The drama.

Your pencil snaps in half. You try to refocus. You write in your notebook:

• Match 143-B

• Geum Seong Je

• Objective: Perfect Match (not with self. OBVIOUSLY.)

You underline it aggressively. Then underline it again.

Because this is your Final Field Exam. This is your divine responsibility. You are not just a girl. You are not “Park Yu Na.” You are a Cupid. A professional. A winged, sparkly, arrow-wielding being of sacred romantic efficiency. You are not falling for your target.

Except. Your fingers drift to the pocket of your blazer where the banana milk note still sits, slightly crumpled. You haven’t thrown it away. You should. You know you should. But you don’t.

Instead, you stare out the window as the teacher drones on about equations, and your brain replays the way his voice dropped half a register when he said your name. The way he looked at you like he could see straight through the mortal illusion, like he knew you were lying.

You clench your jaw. “Nope,” you whisper. “Not a crush. Just an obstacle. A very... annoyingly symmetrical obstacle with cheekbones carved by petty gods.”

You look down at your notebook again. You’ve accidentally doodled little hearts around his name. You slam it shut.

“Girl,” Mi Rae whispers from the row behind you, leaning forward. “Are you okay? You look like you're losing a mental battle with your own hormones.” You forced a laugh, then shook your head in response.

The bell rings. Class ends—finally. You pack your books like they’ve personally betrayed you, slam your locker shut, and stomp down the hallway with the focused fury of someone definitely not in love.

You don’t see him that day and it shouldn’t bother you.

But it does. And that bothers you even more.

You are not catching feelings. This is not a crush. You are going to finish this mission, shoot your arrows, match him with some nice emotionally available human, and be done.

You are a Cupid, and Cupids do not fall in love. Right?

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re yanked without a single warning right out of your mortal hallway, mid-snack. Your banana milk explodes mid-air, freezing in space as you're teleported through a glittery wormhole of pink smoke and passive-aggressive harp music.

You blink and suddenly you're standing in a giant heart-shaped chamber, glowing with gold filigree and dangerous levels of scented candle energy.

Columns made of rose quartz. Floors of cloud marble. The ceiling? A living mural of every successful match in history, currently judging you.

At the far end of the chamber, lounging sideways on a throne upholstered in actual sunset? Aphrodite.

Wearing a white silk dress and ten feet of attitude. Perfect hair. Glass of wine. Eyeliner is sharp enough to end wars. “Yu Na,” she says, not looking up from her enchanted scroll, “darling… let’s talk.”

You smiled nervously. You are sweating. Celestially. “Hey, boss! You’re looking radiant as always. Like, wow. Is that a new aura or–”

“Save it.” She sips in her glass wine. “We need to discuss Match 143-B.”

Your soul flinches. “Oh! Yeah. Totally. I mean, everything is going great. Super smooth. No feelings involved.”

She finally looks up. One arched brow. A long pause. The room goes quiet. Even the portrait of Helen of Troy in the corner slowly turns her head like, “Girl, really?”

Aphrodite raises her scroll and begins reading out loud, “Excessive proximity to target. Unnecessary rooftop contact. Improper bow usage. Incomplete emotional barrier. Possible romantic attachment. Underlined. Twice.”

She lowers the scroll, folds her hands, and gives you that look, that divine, slow-burn, that mom-knows-you-screwed-up-but-wants-you-to-say-it gaze. “Yu Na. Sweetheart. Do you remember the number one rule?”

You wilt slightly. “Don’t… fall in love with the target.”

“Mmhm, and what do we not do?”

“…Catch feelings for the top dog of a high school gang while wearing a mortal disguise during our final exam?”

“Exactly! We do not do that.”

She sighs and leans back like you’ve aged her 300 years. “Do you know what happened the last time a Cupid fell for a mortal? We got Romeo and Juliet. Do you want Romeo and Juliet again? Because I don’t have the emotional bandwidth for that mess.”

“I-it’s not a crush! I’m just… emotionally confused because of his–! Nevermind.”

She narrows her eyes. “Yu Na, your arrows literally curled away from him mid-shot. You’re the only one in the department whose magic has romantic stage fright.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. You are toast. Celestial toast.

“You have 72 Earth hours to complete this assignment,” Aphrodite says, rising from her throne, heels clicking like judgment. “Or I pull you out and reassign the case. To Eros.”

You gasp. “Eros?? He once matched a squirrel with a lamppost!”

“And yet he doesn’t fall for his assignments.”

She waves a sparkly red finger. The scroll vanishes. The throne starts to fade. “Fix it. Or I will.”

“But what if–”

“Nope. Shhh.”

“But–”

“Shhh.”

The air swirls. Your vision goes blurry.

And just before you’re pulled back into the mortal world, you hear her final words echo through the golden mist, “And stop daydreaming about his stupid face. It’s unbecoming of a goddess.”

You wake up in class. Face down on your desk. Covered in a thin layer of glitter.

Mi Rae pokes you with her pen at the back. “You good?”

You turn your head to her, “No. Aphrodite’s gonna kill me.”

“Dude, what?”

The trees are in full bloom. Petals rain down like confetti for a wedding that hasn’t happened yet. Sun Hee and Mi Rae went to the ladies restroom for awhile leaving you alone in the corridor.

The air is warm, soft. It smells like sunshine, powdered chalk, and the lingering scent of sakura tea from the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge.

You’re watching from the second floor window. Your hand rests on the cool glass, but your heart? It’s burning.

Below, Seong Je stands by the main courtyard fountain, surrounded by a few students from another class. He’s still in uniform, half-unbuttoned shirt, his blazer thrown over his shoulder like he’s in a drama and knows it.

You see it.

The way the girls laugh a little too loud when he talks. The way one of them, Ji Hae, you think, with the long braids and overly shiny lip gloss—leans a bit too close, twirls her hair around her finger like it’s a spell.

And the worst part? He’s letting her. He’s not smirking. Not brushing her off. He’s listening. You can tell. He’s asking about you. Your pulse spikes. The Cupid in you wants to leap for joy. Target is showing interest. Receptive. Progress achieved. Initiate pairing sequence.

But the girl—the you you’re pretending not to be?She wants to curl up and disappear.

Because this should be a win. It should be a perfect step toward the match. You should be pulling out your last arrow, taking aim, and finalizing the assignment.

Instead…You feel like you’re choking on flower petals.

Each laugh from the girl beside him is a tiny dagger. Each glance he gives her, no matter how casual, feels like a betrayal your heart has no right to feel.

You shouldn’t care. You can’t care.

But you do. Because you know what his laugh sounds like up close now. You know how his voice drops when he’s being serious, how his shoulders tense when he’s trying not to show concern, how he calls you "Yu Na" like it means something.

And watching him, down there, in this picture-perfect postcard moment? Hurts.

A petal floats past your cheek. You swipe at it, too fast—angry at how delicate it all is.

Behind you, the empty classroom feels too quiet, too heavy. The world outside is all color and warmth. But you? You're stuck in grayscale.

You press your forehead against the window, whispering to yourself like it might make it true. “This is the job. That’s all. That’s all this is.”

Your fingers twitch near your bag. The bow's in there. So are the two arrows.

You could shoot her. Right now. Make them a perfect match. Seal the deal. End the mission.

But your hands won’t move. Instead, you just watch. As she laughs again, steps closer. As Seong Je finally lets out a small, tired smile—not the one he gives his gang boys, not the dangerous one from the alley, but something softer. Something rare.

And your heart breaks. Quietly. Completely. Like a blossom falling with no one to catch it.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You clutch the bow tight, your fingers trembling just enough that you pretend it’s from the breeze.

The arrow glows faintly in your other hand, pale pink light pulsing like it knows what you're trying to do and isn’t happy about it.

Below, through the open roof gate, you can see the courtyard. Cherry blossoms still hang like a spell. Seong Je is standing near the vending machine, arms folded, head tilted as Ji Hae chats beside him again—bright, beaming, hopeful. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear like it’s rehearsed. Like she wants this to go somewhere.

It should work. It has to.

You take a shaky breath, nock the arrow, and draw the bowstring back. It hums under your grip. “This is the right choice,” you whisper. “This isn’t about me.”

Ji Hae is sweet. Smart. She’s the type who organizes classroom cleanup even when it’s not her turn. She’d be good for him. Ground him. Love him the way a mortal can.

And most importantly—she isn’t you. You close one eye, steady your aim, and took a deep breath. Jihae’s laugh rings out, warm and close.

You let go of the string. The arrow flies and then—it stops. Wait what—It fucking stopped mid-air. Like it slammed into an invisible wall.

The glow flickers then snaps back like a rubber band, missing both of them entirely and slamming into the side of the vending machine, where it fizzles out in a puff of smoke and divine sass.

You stare, breath caught in your throat. “No. No, no, no.”

You grab your bow tighter, scanning for anything that could’ve blocked the magic, but nothing’s there. Nothing logical, anyway.

The magic didn’t bounce because it was blocked. It bounced… because his heart wouldn’t open to her. He’s immune. Not to love. Just to everyone else. Even her. Even now.

You sag against the roof railing, heart pounding so hard it might break your ribs. “He’s not supposed to be immune. He’s human. He’s supposed to fall for someone.”

You look down again—and that’s when it happens. He looks up. Eyes sharp beneath those glasses, face unreadable. But you see the flicker of something like he felt the magic shift. Like he knows someone was watching. He sees you. Not clearly. You duck back too fast. But still. For a heartbeat, a flicker, a spark—you were connected.

And suddenly the weight of the two remaining arrows in your satchel feels unbearably heavy.

You have one last try. One last shot to finish this assignment.

But what if… the only one he could ever fall for is you?

And worse—what if you're already too far gone to stop it?

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You materialize inside Aphrodite’s private suite of chaos and charm: a place where silk drapes ripple with no wind, and heart-shaped clouds hover like bored interns.

The air smells like roses, vanilla lip gloss, and ancient power. Everything here glows. Even the floor is radiant, like walking on crushed starlight.

But nothing shines brighter or more threateningly than the goddess seated before you on a velvet fainting couch that she’s never once fainted on.

Aphrodite doesn’t look up immediately. She’s painting her nails with some divine shimmering lacquer that changes color depending on your emotional damage level.

When she finally speaks, her voice is smooth and dangerous, like velvet hiding a knife. “So…You used one of your last two arrows… and it failed.”

You wince. “It bounced off him. Like he rejected it before it even reached his heart.”

She raises a brow, now fully looking at you. Her gaze is sharp. Regal and a little smug. “And you tried to match him with someone else?”

You nodded fast. “Jihae. She’s sweet. Pretty. Human. A good match. He should’ve liked her.”

Aphrodite’s smile is small and lethal. The kind that says, oh honey, you sweet naïve disaster.

She leans forward, elbow on her knee, chin in her palm, eyes sparkling with something that makes your stomach twist. “Then you already know what the match is.”

You blink. “No,” you say too fast. “That’s–he can’t–it’s not me. I’m Cupid. I’m just supposed to guide them. I don’t–”

She cuts you off with one perfectly manicured finger raised. “The arrow doesn’t lie, sweetheart. It never has. And if his heart won’t open to anyone else…”

“Well.” She shrugs, lips curling. “Maybe it’s because it already has.”

You take a step back like her words physically hit you. Your bow shifts on your shoulder. You feel the weight of the last arrow against your spine.

Only one. One more shot.

And suddenly it doesn’t feel like a tool of love—it feels like a choice, a test, or a trap. “This isn’t allowed,” you whisper, your voice smaller than you want it to be. “We’re not supposed to–”

Aphrodite rolls her eyes, dramatic. “Please. As if any great love ever followed rules.”

She gets up, walking toward you in heels that click like divine thunder. “You think I built this entire department to push paperwork and throw random teens together at prom? No, darling. I built it to make stories worth writing down.”

“And yours?” She taps your chest, just over your heart. “Might be the most human one I’ve seen in centuries.”

You want to argue. To say you’re not in love. To say this is just magic and proximity and the fact that he smirks like sin and listens like he means it. But you don’t. Because deep down, you know.

He was never just a target. He was always the risk.

And you? You were never ready for what loving a mortal would feel like.

“You have one arrow left, little archer,” she says, her voice like velvet and finality. “Choose wisely.”

And just like that, you’re alone again. Only now, your heart’s louder than ever, and the final arrow in your quiver feels warm—like it knows where it wants to go.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The crowd buzzes with soft laughter and the pop of soda cans. Strings of paper lanterns flicker overhead, casting warm glows on the rows of booths, cotton candy stands, and prize-filled claw machines. It smells like roasted sweet potatoes, sugar syrup, and something heartbreak-shaped.

You stand at the edge of the square—hidden in the soft halo of a cherry tree, one hand tight around your bow.

He’s here. Leaning against a pillar near the game booths, bored and gorgeous, his school uniform rumpled like he fought three boys in it earlier and probably did.

He’s alone. Vulnerable. For once, not surrounded by the other Union boys. His usual wall of noise and swagger is… quieter tonight. Like even he can feel the hum of something bigger, something fated.

Your fingers slide up to your final arrow. It glows faintly in the evening light, the pulse of it syncing—traitorously—with your heartbeat.

You breathe in. Lift the bow.

The arrow floats into place, drawn like it already knows its target. His name echoes in your head like a prayer. “Seong Je.”

One clean shot. One perfect hit, and his heart will open—just as the laws of magic decree.

You stare down the line of the bow. Your aim is steady. But your soul isn’t. “If I use this,” you whisper, the words trembling from your lips like smoke, “I’ll never know if it was real.”

Because the arrow chooses for them. But you? You wanted him to choose you.

Your breath hitches. Your hand shakes. And just as you're about to lower the bow—she appears in the moment, Jihae.

Her smile is radiant, nervous in that way mortals get when they hope too hard. She says something you can’t hear. Seong Je raises a brow, vaguely polite.

Then she leans in. She was about to kiss him. So sudden, it is too fast and too forced.

You inhale sharply. The bow drops a little, the arrow’s glow pulsing like it’s holding its breath.

But he turns his face away. Steps back, hand gently catching her wrist before she makes contact. Not cruel, not cold. Just distant.

His eyes are already searching. Past Jihae. Past the booths. Across the crowd. Like he’s looking for someone else.

Your fingers loosen on the string, heart hammering so hard it hurts.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing. But his gaze skips over every student, every light, every sound—until it lands in your direction.

You duck behind the tree fast—too fast, you almost slipped on the grass.

The arrow dims slightly in your hand. Like it, too, isn’t sure anymore and neither are you. You slide it back into your quiver.

Because if he’s already searching for you… What if the match was never magic? What if it was always… real?

You’re still behind the cherry tree, hand pressed to your chest where your heart is playing whack-a-mole with your ribs. The arrow hums faintly in its quiver, as if it, too, is stunned by what almost happened.

Then a cloud of glitter suddenly appears beside you. The scent of ancient roses and bad decisions. “You’re prolonging this for drama and I LOVE IT.”

Aphrodite appears at your side like she never left, draped in a silk suit that looks too expensive for Earth and too fabulous for a reason. Her heels don't even touch the ground—she floats, all smugness and starshine.

“Really, darling. The tortured hesitation. The Forbidden love. The half-lowered bow under the cherry blossoms? Iconic.” She sips something pink and bubbly from a champagne flute that absolutely did not exist a second ago. “But unfortunately, we’re moving on to the finale now.”

You blink. “What?”

She claps once and then he appears. Another Cupid. Tall, cold-eyed, his wings sleek and too perfect. No warmth. No humor. No hesitation. He doesn’t even acknowledge you—just steps past with mechanical grace.

“You’re compromised,” he says flatly, not bothering to look your way. “You’re being replaced.”

Your gut twists. You grab your bow instinctively. “Wait, no–You can’t just–!”

But he already has his own. It was already being pulled. The first arrow was fired straight into Jihae’s heart. She flinches as it hits, eyes going wide with wonder and awe, pupils dilating with the sweet, unnatural rush of magic. “Wha…?” she whispers, voice dreamy. “Seong Je…”

You take a step forward from the Cupid trying to stop him. “Stop–don’t–!”

The second arrow was released. It hits Seong Je square in the chest. He jerks like it knocked the wind out of him. Blinks rapidly. Breath stalling. He looks up, across the crowd, at Jihae.

Not at you. Never at you.

Aphrodite hums a little tune as if none of this is soul-shattering, as if she didn’t just throw your heart into a blender with strawberries and a broken contract.

She finally turns to you, sipping the last of her celestial drink. “Now your assignment is done,” she says, voice bright, decisive, cruel in its gentleness. “You can collect your diploma. Come along, sweetheart.”

She gestures toward the glowing portal behind her—already swirling open like a beckoning goodbye.

But you—you can’t even move. It’s like you're paralyzed in there. You just stand there, mouth dry, heart sinking like a stone through the sea. Watching Seong Je.

He looks at Jihae, a smile begins to form, it was slow—soft in a way that isn’t his. It’s Cupid-soft, artificial, borrowed, and most importantly it was forced.

“But that’s not real,” you say, barely above a whisper. “That’s not him.”

Aphrodite gives a tiny shrug, eyes sparkling. “No, darling. But it’s what the file wanted, isn’t it? You were supposed to match him. Now he’s matched. This is the clean ending.”

But nothing about it feels clean. Nothing about this feels like love. It feels like theater.

Seong Je’s hand brushes Jihae’s. He’s smiling—but you know him better than that. That smile is wrong. It doesn't reach his eyes. He doesn’t even know why he’s smiling.

You’re just standing in a garden of blossoms, with a full heart and an empty hand, staring at the boy who no longer sees you.

The last arrow in your quiver hums softly, unused, undeniably yours. You could still shoot it. You could ruin everything, or you could follow the goddess. Get your diploma. Graduate. That’s all.

But one truth now roots itself deep inside you like the petals beneath your shoes:

You never wanted to pass.

You wanted to matter.

You turn your head to the portal and start making your way there.

Aphrodite walks ahead of you in heels too loud for the quiet in your chest. Her perfume leaves a trail—roses, smoke, and the bitter scent of endings.

You trail behind her, stiff, eyes glassy. The crowd fades behind you. The festival sounds dim like someone turned the world’s volume knob down.

Seong Je is gone now. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s still there. Standing beside Jihae under strings of golden lights, smiling with someone else’s heart.

You don’t dare look back.

“You did well,” Aphrodite says, not looking at you. “You didn’t let your feelings interfere. You were right to walk away.”

You say nothing. Because if you open your mouth, your voice might break. And gods forbid a Cupid cries before graduation.

The portal pulses gently. The colors shift—gold, lilac, then soft rose. It hums with magic. With home.

And yet, you paused right in front of it. Right on the threshold of eternity and closure.

Your diploma floats gently in the air beside you. Sealed in pink. Gilded with divine calligraphy. Sparkling like it’s proud of you.

“You’re free now,” Aphrodite says. “No more assignments. No more temptation.”

You nod once. But something deep in your ribs is screaming. Quietly, but insistently.

“That wasn’t love.”

“That wasn’t real.”

“I wasn’t done.”

And somehow you wonder, If he ever turns around tonight… If he ever asks where you went…If he ever remembers the weird girl with wings in her eyes and a bow she never fired… Will he know it was almost fate?

Aphrodite offers her hand and you take it.Step through the portal. Now everything… blurs.

Back in the Divine Realm, The hallway isn’t glowing gold this time.

It’s quiet. Dim. The clouds beneath your feet are soft but cold. The Department of Matchmaking Magic feels too polished. Too clean. Like nothing in it ever hurt.

You hold your diploma like it’s heavier than your bow ever was.

Around you, Cupids celebrate. Wings flutter. Laughter fills the space. Someone just got their perfect match approved and they’re crying happy tears.

But you? You sit on a bench made of mist and memory. Bow across your lap. Arrow untouched. One name still echoing in your heart.

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

You’re dragging your tired, emotionally compromised self past filing cabinets that file themselves, still in your post-diploma haze. Hair unbrushed. Wings tucked in like they’ve given up on believing in miracles.

You’re in the admin wing of the Divine Realm, sipping an ambrosia latte. You’ve been assigned light clerical duty while they "process your graduation paperwork" Which means in divine-speak for "we're giving you busywork so you stop brooding in front of the mortal observation mirrors."

You’re sorting scrolls. Matching files. Y’know, doing the grunt work you thought you’d never go back to now that you're officially Cupid-certified.

That is, until one scroll starts glowing violently pink. Spins in a full dramatic circle and then smacks itself against your forehead.

You catch it before it hits the cloud-floor. It glows hot—not hot pink like usual. Not gold either. But red. Urgent Transfer Request.

You blink. The scroll unravels by itself like it’s got nothing better to do but ruin your peace.

The ribbon unfurls by itself and hovers midair with a flare of gold script.

REQUEST FOR INTERREALM TRANSFER

Name: Seong Je (성제)

Mortal ID: [REDACTED]

Requested Department: Matchmaking Magic

Reason for Transfer: "Unfinished Business/Unresolved Emotional Link."

Priority Level: Urgent.

Divine Approval: Pending.

Additional Notes: “If she’s not going to tell me the truth, I’ll find it myself.”

You just stand there—freeze. Your heart slams against your ribs so hard you swear the file cabinets pause in their floating routine like, “Girl, WHAT??” Your coffee hits the floor. “No,” you whisper. “No no no no—how did he even find this place?”

The room falls away—because how? HOW?

You didn’t leave a trace. No charms. No enchantments. The last arrow was never fired. You didn’t say goodbye. You weren’t even real to him.

So why? Why is his name here? Why is he asking for you?

“Holy Olympus,” you whisper, heart leapfrogging into your throat. “He remembers.”

Just then, a cherub courier floats past with a lollipop in one hand and a clipboard in the other.

“Yo, you’re being summoned again. Aphrodite’s office. Something about an ‘unresolved situation’? She sounds way too excited.”

You stagger to your feet, the scroll still hovering like it's waiting for your soul to catch up.

Because it’s happening. He's looking for you. Not the fake name. Not the Cupid. Not the mission.

You.

And across realms, timelines, rules, and magic—he sent for you. The last arrow on your back shimmers softly. Maybe fate wasn’t finished after all.

You drag yourself up the spiral of love-infused cloudsteps toward her office, your steps a mix between “I just got hit by a truck” and “I will throw hands with a literal goddess.” The scroll is still hovering beside you like a nosy bird, pulsing red like it’s counting down to something.

The doors open themselves and you immediately squint from the sight in front of you.

Because her “office” has somehow transformed into a beach cabana. There’s a sky that bleeds sunset gold into lavender waves. Seagulls caw overhead (you’re pretty sure they’re enchanted and probably trained to harmonize). Pink tropical drinks with curly straws float midair. It smells like sun-warmed salt and forbidden romance.

Aphrodite lounges under a parasol in a silk robe, her heart-shaped sunglasses glittering. She takes one look at your face and beams. “Aww, look who got emotionally wrecked by their own target!”

She claps like you just won a reality show. “Cupid of the Year, baby.”

You stare at her. You are vibrating with twelve different emotions and three unresolved heartbreaks. “Why is his name in here?” you ask. “How is he even able to be here?”

Aphrodite shrugs lazily, flicking her nails and summoning a file out of thin air. It lands on the cocktail tray next to her. Big gold lettering, all caps:

MATCH 143-B

STATUS: COMPLICATED

She sips her champagne like she’s watching the best drama on divine television. “He filed an Interrealm Request. Personally. Used an artifact that hasn’t worked since the Trojan War. We didn’t even know mortals could get those anymore. He broke four laws of emotional containment and walked straight through a temporary rift near Mount Halla.”

You blink, how the hell did he end up on a Mountain. Mount Halla? That’s in Jeju. That means… “He crossed a whole country for me?”

Aphrodite sips on her champagne, “And two realms. Don’t forget the realms, darling.” she added, while making a piece sign of her hand, symbolizing the word “two”.

Your head spins. You clutch the back of a floating heart-lounger like it’s a life preserver. “Why now?” you whisper. “I never fired the arrow. I never said anything. He shouldn’t even remember me.”

Aphrodite stands now, her face softening—just a little. She taps the file. It flutters open, glowing with rows of shifting fate-threads. “Because you may not have shot the arrow, sweetheart… But you aimed it. And sometimes? That’s worse.”

You freeze. Because deep down, you know what she means. You felt it. Every time his gaze found you in a crowd. Every time your name almost slipped from his mouth. Every time you almost let yourself believe…

Aphrodite sighs and then, like she’s bored of being sentimental, “Now. Due to this messy, delicious twist, we’re activating a Cupid Clause. Technically, he’s requesting closure. Which means we have to respond.”

Your eyes widen. “Closure?”

She grins. “You get to see him again, darling.”

You lift your eyebrows, “Wait, what?”

She waves her hand, and another scroll appears—this one gold and sealed with something that feels like fate humming through your bones.

“One last assignment. This time? No bow. No arrows. No lies. Just you and him. And a question.” Aphrodite said, while smiling softly.

You whisper, “What question?”

She smirks over the rim of her drink. “Do you still love him?”

˚₊ ꒰ა ᡣ𐭩 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

The sky over Jeju is painted in soft pastels, the kind of pink and orange that only happens right before the sun sinks into the sea. Wind rustles through blooming cherry blossom trees that stretch like a dream across the temple courtyard where you land—barefoot, breathless.

Your wings are gone. Your bow? Left behind.

All you have is your uniform, a satchel slung over your shoulder, and the name he whispered when he looked up at the sky like he was begging the gods for one more try.

The air is thick with sakura petals, brushing against your cheeks as if even the wind wants to soften this moment. You’re not sure what you’re walking toward—closure? Consequence? Catastrophe?

But you walk anyway and then you see him.

He’s standing alone under the largest cherry tree, back to you, hood pulled low. Jeans. Scuffed sneakers. A silver ring glinting on his finger.

But when he hears your steps crunch on the stone path, he turns, slow, eyes wide, lips parting, and the second his eyes lock onto yours, everything around you… stops.

No petals, no breeze, no sound. Just you and him suspended in whatever this is. This unspoken thing that crossed dimensions and beat time and rewrote rules.

His voice is rough when he finally says it, “So you’re real.”

You try to smile. It breaks halfway. “More or less.”

“You lied to me.”

You flinch. “I know.”

“You disappeared.”

“I had to.”

He walks toward you slowly. Step by step, like each one hurts. Like he’s scared if he moves too fast, you’ll vanish again. “But I remembered. Everyone else forgot you, but I couldn’t. I didn’t. Even when I tried.”

You’re shaking, but not from fear. “Why?” you whisper.

He stops a breath away. You can see the shadows under his eyes. The cracks in his armor.

But also the way his hand twitches, like he wants to reach out but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

“Because you ruined me,” he says, voice low.

“Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw you. Because when I kissed other girls and I looked for your reaction, and.. Because I caught myself smiling at the sky like a fool. Like maybe you were still watching.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to rewind to that day on the rooftop and do it all differently. But you can’t. So instead you say, “I was supposed to match you. That was the mission. That was all it was supposed to be. But then you smiled and made some dumb jokes. And looked at me like I mattered. And still, I never used the last arrow.”

He blinks. “You didn’t?”

You shake your head. “Because I wanted to know if you’d fall in love with me without it.”

He stares. Then he exhales—like he’s been holding that breath for eternity. “I did.”

And then he steps closer.

The cherry blossoms swirl around you like confetti from the gods, and his hand comes up to brush a petal from your hair, fingers lingering like they’ve been waiting for this exact moment.

His eyes are soft—too soft. “So what now?” he whispers.

Your heart aches. But this time, you smile through it. “Now we see what love really is... without magic.”

The sea roars beside you, wild and untamed, crashing against the jagged rocks with the kind of rage only heartbreak understands. The salty wind tangles your hair. Your cardigan flaps through the wind, and parked right in front of you, leaning—His matte black motorcycle.

Seong Je straddles it like he owns the night. Helmet hanging off the handlebars. Hair a mess. Leather jacket thrown over his uniform like rules were never part of his vocabulary. His rings glint against the throttle like danger has jewelry taste now.

“You getting on or what?” he says, like it's nothing. But his voice is lower, rougher. The wind can’t even carry it right.

You hesitate. “I’ve never been on one before.”

He raises a brow. “Guess there’s a first time for everything.” Then that smirk carves across his lips like it was forged in rebellion. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you safe.”

You climb on to the motorbike. You shouldn’t still be wanting to memorize how his shoulders feel under your palms, how the space between you feels like magnetic static, like lightning waiting to happen.

But you do—you always do, you hold onto his shoulders.

He revs the engine. It purrs like a beast.

And when he takes off, it’s not chaos. It’s flight.

Wheels eating up the coastal road, wind peeling laughter from your chest, cliffs and cherry blossoms whirling by in a pastel blur. The ocean to your right, Seong Je in front of you, and the sky above bleeding every color it knows how to feel.

Then he pulls over, right at the edge of the world.

You’re both breathless, just by the scene in front you. He pulls off his gloves with slow fingers. Leans back against the bike. Looks at you like he’s figuring out the ending of a poem he never meant to write.

“I didn’t think I’d get to see you again,” he murmurs.

“I didn’t think you’d remember me,” you whisper back.

His eyes flicker—dark, golden, deep. “Can’t forget what rewired my whole heart.”

And then he pulls you in. Gently. His hand finds your jaw, thumb brushing the corner of your lip like he’s memorizing it. Like he’s measuring the distance between craving and kissing. And then finally he leans in.

The kiss is slow at first. Careful. Like he doesn’t want to scare you away. But then something snaps—the kind of hunger that builds after months of almosts, after watching, waiting, hurting. His hand slides into your hair. His lips press firmer, warmer, like he’s trying to anchor you to this moment.

You kiss him back and it’s not magic—not the divine kind.

Because it’s real. It’s every mortal emotion tangled in heat and saltwater and the sound of the sea waves.

When he finally pulls away, he rests his forehead against yours. “Still think this was all a mission?” he asks.

You smiled at him. Eyes were glossy. “No. I think this was fate with attitude.”

It was a typical Earth morning, sun slanting lazily through the windows of a mortal high school chemistry lab. You were halfway through Match 45-Z, stationed in the mortal realm, disguised as an honors student with a fake transcript and a stupidly tight blazer.

Your targets were textbook material, A quiet, introverted science prodigy named Ji Soo and a punkish artist girl named Yu Ra, with eyeliner so sharp it could’ve sliced Olympus.

They sat beside each other in chemistry. It was easy, predictable, and meant-to-be vibes radiating like passive diffusion. You just had to make the shot.

So, you lined up from the lab’s ventilation duct, silent and cloaked, arrow drawn. The air shimmered faintly as you whispered the incantation. “From one heart to another, may this spark kindle love.”

The string sang as you let go. The arrow flew.

The arrow hit the back of a rolling lab chair. Ricocheted off a steel tabletop. Bounced off the fume hood, and slammed directly into your own shoulder.

“OH SHI—” You felt it instantly. The magic. The slow blooming ache behind your ribs. The sudden sharp gravity, like the world had tilted slightly toward—him.

Right at that moment, he turned the corner outside the window.

Leaning against the wall on some alleyway like some typical gangsta do.

Maroon uniform, a slight bruise on his lip, glasses slightly cracked from a fight, smoking like violence was just foreplay. The kind of boy who didn’t belong near a school but made it look like the school belonged near him.

Your heart skipped, like actually really skipped. You thought you were dying for a second. The arrow’s magic surged in your veins.

"No no no no no no—" You ducked. You covered your face. You tried to pull the arrow out—but it vanished already. Of course it did. Classic god-tier disaster.

You slowly lift your head to look at him, only to see him staring at the window, at you. Just a glimpse. A flick of his eyes. But it stuck. Branded into your memory.

He looked like chaos wrapped in cool, and you—little rookie Cupid—had just become the one person in Olympus dumb enough to fall for an off-limits mortal.

From that day forward, you were ruined. You started seeing him around the neighborhood. You didn’t mean to. (You totally meant to.) The way he smoked behind corner shops. The way he fought with other students, then still has the nerve to laugh.

You melted, and you hated it at the sometime. You feel so stupid for failing your Match 45-Z, this is the first time in the history of Cupids, someone’s arrow ricocheted off and the one who shot it? got shot on it instead.

And Aphrodite? Oh well, she knew. She always knows. “Match 45-Z?” she’d said with a raised brow. “Darling, next time try not to catch feelings with your own arrow.”

And now, years later, on another mission, he’s back in your life.

And you wonder…

Was that accident really a mistake?

Or was it your first real match?

˚₊ ꒰ა 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐒𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 ໒꒱ ‧₊˚

Being Na Baek Jin’s sister was a full-time job, one you never applied for and couldn’t quit. Not with the gang ties. Not with the eyes always watching.

So when the bowling club got too loud, too crowded, too much, you slipped out the backdoor with barely a sound, traded the crash of pins for the hush of evening air, and walked until you hit the park near the edge of the district.

It was quiet here. Just cicadas singing into the dark and the rustle of leaves whispering secrets. You let yourself breathe—really breathe—for the first time that day.

“There you are!”

You didn’t jump—but your breath stalled. A figure stepped out from behind the vending machines, hands tucked into the pockets of a faded orange windbreaker, his walk all casual indifference.

His clubmaster glasses caught the dim glow of a streetlamp as he approached, pushing them up with a finger like he was too tired to care. His dark, unkempt hair looked like he hadn’t brushed it all day, and his eyes—sharp, quiet, and slightly annoyed—settled on you like you were the third mess he’d been sent to clean up.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, standing a few feet away, not sitting yet. “Baek Jin noticed you disappeared.”

You stayed seated, arms resting loosely over your knees, posture relaxed. “So he sent his errand boy?”

Seong Je snorted. “I volunteered. Unfortunately.”

You arched a brow. “Didn’t peg you as the volunteering type.”

“I’m not,” he said, finally sitting down beside you with a sigh. “But he asked. And when Baek Jin asks, it’s not in a way you say no to.”

There was no threat in that. Just a simple truth.

You tilted your head toward him. “I just needed some space. The bowling club was too loud. Too crowded.”

Seong Je scoffed softly, tapping his foot against the gravel with a lazy rhythm. “Yeah, well, next time try texting before you ghost. Baek Jin noticed you were gone in, like, two seconds. Thought someone snatched his precious little sister.”

You rolled your eyes, the weight of guilt and something less nameable catching in your throat. “It wasn’t like that. I just needed… air. A second. You know how it gets.”

He narrowed his eyes at you—not angry, not even annoyed, just searching, like he was holding your words up to the light to see if they were counterfeit.

Suddenly he stretched his arms, groaning like this little errand had physically aged him. Then he pulled out his phone.

“What are you doing?” you asked suspiciously, eyeing the screen.

“Making sure your brother doesn’t summon a search party or go full detective mode,” he said casually.

Before you could stop him, click—he snapped a photo of you sitting on the bench, framed by the soft blur of streetlights and shadows.

“You did not just take a picture of me.”

He grinned, checking the photo like he was proud of his composition. “Relax. It’s for proof of life. You can glare in it all you want, adds to the authenticity.” He laughed at the picture he took awhile ago. “Perfect.”

You rolled your eyes, pulling your knees up onto the bench. “You done now?”

“For now.” He stood, brushing invisible dust from his jacket like the moment had scuffed his cool. “I’ll go tell Baek Jin you’re still breathing and exactly as stubborn as he remembers.”

You didn’t say anything, just watched him adjust his glasses, a smirk still lingering like it had nowhere better to be. He started to turn away, then paused.

The breeze toyed with the hem of his jacket, and for a moment, he just stood there—half in shadow, half in the soft spill of afternoon sun. He glanced over his shoulder, the phone still in his hand.

“I’m not sending this if you hate it,” he said, thumb hovering over the screen. “But Baek Jin’s about three seconds away from filing a missing person report using nothing but your baby photo and bad handwriting.”

You looked up from the bench, raising a brow. “Let me see.”

He glanced down at the screen, then tilted it slightly, like he might show you—then thought better of it.

“Nah,” he muttered, almost to himself, sliding the phone into his pocket. “You’d probably yell.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Did you just—”

“Nothing incriminating,” he cut in smoothly, holding up both hands like the most suspicious innocent person alive. “Just, you know, visual proof for your overprotective brother that you haven’t been abducted by aliens or joined a cult.”

“You better not—”

“I won’t show him the picture.” The smirk twitched. “Not today, anyway.”

You groaned, flopping back against the bench with theatrical despair. “I hate you.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, already walking backwards toward the path. “You hate me, but I still have the evidence.”

Then he turned, whistling that same offbeat tune, one hand already texting Baek Jin with an update—minus, thankfully, any attachments.

The wind rustled through the trees again, and you stared at the spot he’d just vacated, suspiciously lighter in mood than before.

YOW GUYS SORRY FOR GHOSTING 😩😩 IT’S JUST THAT SCHOOL IS OFFICIALLY STARTING NEXT WEEK AND I'M NOT READY 😭😔 BROOO I MIGHT NOT POST FOR AWHILE BUT I'M STILL ALIVE Y'ALL THIS COMING MONTHS I WILL BE IN HELL HOLE 🥀💔🔥 This has been sitting on my draft for like a month lol i forgot to post, i was debating on whether to post or not anyways XOXO 💋

she stared at the timestamp like it meant something. Like it meant everything. 2:47 a.m. It wasn’t just a call. It was a reminder.

she sat up straighter in Hu-Min’s bed, the blanket falling away, the silence pressing down harder now—thicker. Like the air had decided it didn’t want to be breathed anymore.

there was nothing in the room to be afraid of and yet.

she slid off the bed, bare feet hitting the cold floor. The wood creaked slightly beneath her weight, a sharp, fragile sound that felt like a scream in the quiet.

Hu-Min’s door was cracked open. Somewhere down the hallway, a kettle clicked. The kind of click that only happened when it finished boiling. But no one had turned it on.

she didn’t call for him. Didn’t move.

her hand tightened around the phone, screen still lit. The fingerprint—that single, meaningless mark of contact—burned into her mind. She hadn't imagined it. She never picked up that call, never even heard it ring.

but it rang. And whoever made it… didn’t need to leave a message. They just needed her to know.

she turned the screen off. Locked it. Put it face down on the table beside the bed. Her heart hadn’t stopped racing.

and when Hu-Min’s voice called softly from the kitchen, “Hey. You awake?” she flinched. Not because it startled her. But because, for just a second, she wondered if it was really him.

a few seconds passed. Then his steps padded closer. Gentle. Careful.

Hu-Min leaned against the doorframe, eyes half-shadowed under messy hair. He was still wearing the hoodie from last night—the sleeves pushed up to his elbows like he’d been pacing or doing something with his hands just to stay busy.

When he spoke, it was quiet. Like he was afraid even the words might hurt her. “Did you sleep okay?”

her mouth opened, but nothing came out at first. She blinked slowly. Nodded, once.

“That’s a lie,” he said softly, like he already knew. He always knew.

she didn’t argue. Just shrugged, eyes trained on the blank wall like it might explain the way her chest still felt too tight to breathe.

Hu-Min stepped into the room fully, crossing to her. He sat beside her on the bed without saying anything else, knees almost touching hers. His hands were clasped in his lap, fidgeting. Twisting his ring. He didn’t look at her, not yet.

“You’re safe now,” he said. It sounded like he needed to hear it out loud as much as she did.

“Did the call wake you?” he asked. “I heard your alarm… then I saw your light.”

she hesitated. Then nodded. “It rang at 2:47 a.m. It was an unknown number.”

he finally looked at her. His jaw tensed. Just slightly. But his voice stayed calm. “...Did they say anything?”

she shook her head. “Nothing. Just the call. Like—like they wanted me to know they could.”

Hu-Min’s mouth pressed into a thin line. The kind of expression that meant his brain was already ten steps ahead, thinking of lock codes and burner phones and new escape plans.

but then he looked at her again—and suddenly he was just Hu-Min. The same boy who used to race her to the swings and bring her strawberry milk when she was sick.

his voice dropped even lower. Barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.” She looked up at him.

“I shouldn’t’ve left you alone last night,” he said, eyes glassy. “I should’ve been there sooner. You should’ve never been in this mess. I—”

she touched his hand. Light. Barely-there. But grounding. “You came,” she said. “That’s all that matters.”

his breath shook. For a second, he didn’t speak. Just sat there, head bowed, her hand still over his. And when he finally looked up again, there were tears in his eyes he didn’t bother to hide.

“Yeah,” he said, voice cracking. “And I’m not leaving again.”

on the way to Seong-an High — 7:56 a.m

the streets hadn’t changed.

same old cracks in the pavement. Same old rusting signs. The scent of soy broth from the breakfast cart on the corner still hung in the air like muscle memory. But everything felt different.

Y/n tugged Hu-Min’s hoodie tighter around her. Her hair was still damp, skin still a little raw from scrubbing too hard in the shower at her apartment. Like she could wash last night off. Like she could erase the blood in her lungs and the sound of her heartbeat echoing in an alleyway where it almost stopped.

Hu-Min was beside her, hands shoved deep into his pockets. Silent, like always. Like he knew words wouldn’t fix it. Like his presence was the only bandage he could offer now.

they walked the rest of the block to the campus gate.

she caught her reflection in the glass of the convenience store window. Same face. Different girl.

and just for a second, she thought she saw something move behind her in the reflection.

but when she turned—Nothing. Just Hu-Min, waiting. “You sure you wanna go in?” he asked quietly.

Y/n hesitated. Her fingers curled tighter around the strap of her backpack. “If I don’t... I think I’ll fall apart.”

he nodded. And then, in a rare moment, his hand brushed against hers. Not holding. Just—touching. Grounding. “You don’t have to pretend in front of me, you know.”

“I’m not pretending,” she whispered. “I’m surviving.” She then turned to the gate and bid goodbye to Hu-min.

the school bell rang. Sharp. Cold. Too loud for a Monday.

Y/n flinched—but just a little. Just enough for her lashes to flutter and her breath to hitch for half a second. No one noticed. The classroom buzzed with half-slept conversations and the rustle of notebooks and snack wrappers.

she slid into her seat like muscle memory. Smiled when someone said “hey.” Opened her textbook. Nodded at the right time when the teacher droned on about postwar industrial growth. Laughed—actually laughed—when Soo-min passed her a note doodled with a cat wielding a bazooka.

on the outside, she was fine. But her hand trembled when she took notes. Just a little.

and she jumped when a chair scraped too loudly against the floor.

“Y/n,” Soo-min whispered, nudging her during break. “You good?”

Y/n turned to her. That same practiced smile. “Yeah. I just didn’t sleep much.”

Soo-min’s eyes narrowed slightly, reading something deeper—but she didn’t push. She just handed Y/n a milk carton and opened her chips like it was just another day.

that was all Y/n needed to keep going. That one little gesture—quiet. Unshaking. Constant.

period after period blurred by. She nailed the quiz. Answered a question with ease. Laughed again, for real this time, when someone in the back row got caught texting and blamed it on “ghost possession.”

by the time dismissal rolled around, she almost believed she was okay.

until she opened her locker and found it empty. Her spare notebook was gone. The one she always kept there.

instead, a slip of paper sat in the middle. Neatly folded. Tucked like a secret. Her fingers hesitated, hovering over it.

Soo-min popped up beside her, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go? I’m starving.”

Y/n nodded quickly, palm closing around the note. “Yeah. Just... forgot something.” Soo-min headed down the hall, humming.

Y/n waited until the hallway thinned out. Unfolded the paper. Just a smiley face, “:)” Y/n didn't think much of it and toss the paper into the trash bin. “Must be some kind of joke.” Y/n said, before turning back to where Soo-Min was headed.

Seong-an High — 4:00 p.m

the school bell rang like it always did—flat, mechanical, unaware.

students spilled out in waves, heads down, earbuds in, backpacks heavy with papers and sleep. The chatter was loud, the kind that masked everything important. The kind that made you forget monsters could wear skin like anyone else.

but he remembered.

Seong Je stood across the street, half-hidden behind the tinted glass of a black sedan that didn’t belong here. Didn’t belong anywhere, really. Parked too clean, too silent. Like it wasn’t a car but a coffin waiting with wheels.

he didn’t move. Didn’t blink. He just watched.

one hand rested on the wheel. Gloved. The same gloves he hadn’t taken off. His coat was still sharp at the shoulders, black like ink that never dried. His eyes didn’t scan the crowd—they focused on one point. Her.

she stepped out of the side door. Not the main gate—he knew she wouldn’t. Y/n always hated crowds, even before all this. She looked tired. Like she hadn't quite made it back into her own skin. Hu-Min’s hoodie swallowed her frame. His jaw clenched.

she didn’t see him. Of course not. She wouldn’t.

but he saw her. He always did.

for a moment—just a flicker—his expression broke. Something longing. Something hungry. But it was gone before it could settle.

he tapped once on the steering wheel. Not impatient. Just… precise. Then he reached for something in the passenger seat. A paper bag. Simple. Innocent. Inside: her favorite bread from the bakery three blocks from her old apartment. He remembered.

he remembered everything. And then, the softest whisper under his breath. “I’ll take you somewhere safe now. Where they can’t touch you. Where he can’t touch you.”

the light turned green. Cars moved. But his didn’t.

he just sat there, waiting. Because storms don’t rush. They build.

the air outside still carried that late-afternoon warmth, the kind that clung to your sleeves and made the shadows stretch longer than they should.

Y/n tugged Hu-Min’s hoodie tighter around her. It still smelled like him—cedar and laundry softener. Familiar. A small comfort stitched into cotton. Her footsteps were light, almost lazy, like she was trying to pretend this was just any other day. Normal. Boring. Blissfully uneventful.

beside her, Soo-min was talking about something—probably something dumb or dramatic or both. She always talked a little too loud and with her hands, especially when she was trying to cheer Y/n up without making it obvious.

“So I told him, ‘If you’re gonna cheat, at least be smart enough not to get caught on Live!’” she said, rolling her eyes like a champ. “Seriously. If brains were currency, that boy’s walking around in debt.”

Y/n laughed. Genuinely. It cracked through the haze of dread like a sunbeam through smoke.

“Thanks, Soo-min,” she said, voice soft but steady.

“For what?”

“For just… being.”

Soo-min blinked. Then shrugged with a grin. “Pfft. I exist fabulously.”

they turned the corner. And that’s when it happened.

that feeling. The sudden stillness in the pit of her stomach. Like the air had gone stale. Like something was watching. No—not something. Someone.

Y/n paused mid-step. “Yo?” Soo-min turned, concern flashing across her face.

Y/n shook it off. “Nothing. Just thought I saw—”

but she didn’t finish the sentence. Because there was no car there anymore. No black sedan. No tinted windows. Nothing.

just the usual street and the usual breeze. Just the echo of tires long gone.

Soo-min tilted her head. “Girl, you look like you saw a ghost.”

Y/n forced a smile. “Yeah… probably just tired.”

she didn’t say that her heart was racing. Didn’t say that the back of her neck still felt cold. Didn’t say that, for a second, she could’ve sworn she smelled warm bread and winter air.

because that would mean he was still close. And she couldn’t afford to believe that. Not yet.

Y/n’s Apartment — 4:29 p.m

the key turned in the lock with a soft click, but Y/n hesitated before pushing the door open. Her hand hovered on the knob a moment too long. She wasn’t sure why. The hallway behind her was empty. The air was still. But something in her bones felt—off.

inside, her apartment greeted her with a familiar hush. Clean. Tidy. Too tidy.

she stepped in slowly, locking the door behind her and twisting the latch twice. A habit. Maybe a superstition.

the hoodie slipped off her shoulders, landing on the couch as she walked past it. Her fingers lingered on the fabric for just a second—Hu-Min’s warmth, still faintly there. But now, it felt far away. Like a memory cooling in her hands.

she went to the bathroom and turned the faucet on. Splashed her face. Looked up into the mirror.

and blinked. Not because of what she saw. But because of what she didn’t see in her own eyes. Emotion. Presence. Something vital that used to live there.

Meanwhile, outside of Y/n’s Apartment — 4:50 p.m

he should’ve left. He always left. But tonight—he didn’t.

the city breathed behind him, neon lights smeared across wet pavement like bruises. His car sat two buildings away, engine off, windows tinted dark like a coffin’s lid. He had parked it in shadow, like everything else he touched.

in the passenger seat sat a paper bag. Warm, still. Barely.

her favorite bread. Same bakery. Same brand. He even asked if they’d changed the recipe. They hadn’t.

it wasn’t about the bread. It was about her. Always her.

he got out, the coat heavy around his shoulders. Not from weight—from memory. The hallway up to her apartment was dim, worn down by years of footsteps she used to run down, back when life didn’t feel like a trap.

he knew the hallway. He knew the crack in the tile three steps in. He knew the way her apartment door stuck slightly if you pulled instead of pushed.

he knew everything. And now… he stood just outside it.

she was inside. He could feel her—moving, existing, breathing behind the thin, cheap wood that separated them. It made his blood simmer. Not with rage. But with possession.

he’d seen her that morning. Hu-Min’s hoodie. Her damp hair. The tired way her shoulders slouched like she hadn’t been sleeping well.

that should’ve been him. Not Hu-Min. Not anyone else.

he crouched—precisely, reverently—and placed the paper bag in front of her door. Centered it. Fixed the fold. Tucked a small, handwritten note under the edge. One sentence, careful and sharp:

“You're mine to protect. Even if you don't know it yet.”

he stared at the door for a long time. Breathing slow. Steady. Controlled. But inside his chest, it was wildfire.

his hand brushed the knob. Not enough to twist it. Just enough to feel her on the other side. The distance between them—it burned. And that burn? It didn’t hurt. It fueled him.

his jaw flexed. No one else would take her. No one else would understand her fears. No one else would know how to shield her from what’s coming. And if they tried? He’d erase them.

then, as softly as he came, he turned. Walked away. One step at a time. No sound. No goodbye.

just the quiet hum of obsession clinging to the hallway walls. And the warm scent of bread turning cold.

Inside of Y/n’s Apartment — 4:50 p.m

the hum of the hallway light was the only sound.

Y/n had just finished drying her hair from the shower, towel now abandoned on the back of a chair, hoodie falling loosely off one shoulder. The warmth of the apartment did little to ease the cold that had settled in her bones since the moment she stepped back into normalcy—school, class, laughter that wasn’t quite real.

she sat on the edge of the bed. Let her shoulders sag. Let herself breathe, finally, in the fragile stillness of her space.

then—thud. A soft sound. Barely there. Like something had been placed carefully on the ground.

she froze. Her eyes lifted to the front door. No creaks, no footsteps, no shadow underneath. Just stillness. But something primal in her chest tightened. A thread pulled taut.

she stood slowly. Quietly. Crossed the room on bare feet, the carpet muffling each step. Her hand hesitated over the doorknob. No peephole. No warning. Just… instinct.

she turned the lock. Opened the door a crack. Peeked—And stopped breathing.

a paper bag sat right in front of her door. Centered. Perfectly placed. Intentional.

she opened the door wider. Looked down the hallway—empty. Like no one had ever been there.

but she knew someone had. Her stomach twisted.

she crouched slowly, fingers trembling slightly as she reached for the bag. It was warm. Not freshly made warm—just recently placed warm. That was worse.

inside was bread. Her favorite. From a bakery she hadn’t visited in what felt like lifetimes. No one should remember this. No one should know. But someone did.

then she saw the note. Folded, slipped beneath the paper liner like it belonged there. She unfolded it with hesitant fingers. One sentence.

"You're mine to protect. Even if you don't know it yet."

everything inside her dropped. The voice behind those words was too familiar. It echoed like an old song she never wanted to hear again. Written in pen she recognized—sharp and calculated. It’s him.

her throat tightened. A cocktail of emotions surged at once—rage, fear, guilt, grief. Not because she missed him. Because she never escaped him.

he hadn’t knocked. He hadn’t spoken. He hadn’t tried to see her. He’d simply left his presence behind like a ghost marking territory. Possessive. Cold. Controlled.

she stood. Slowly. Eyes darting around the hallway again, suddenly paranoid. Her breath hitched at every shadow. But there was nothing. And that was the most terrifying part.

he’d been here. Close enough to breathe the same air. To know she’d be home. To know when to leave the bag. Like he’d studied her pattern. Like this wasn’t a message—it was a claim.

she stepped back inside. Locked the door. Double. Then triple.

she set the bag down like it might explode.

and stood in the middle of her apartment, arms crossed over her chest, hoodie sleeves swallowing her hands. Her heartbeat was in her ears. Her skin itched like she was being watched. Like the walls weren’t hers anymore.

and when she looked down at the note again… Her hands were shaking. But not just from fear. From the terrifying, undeniable truth buried in the pit of her stomach.

part of her had expected this. Part of her knew he’d never really left. And part of her, the part she hated the most…wasn’t sure if she wanted him to.

the bread sat on the counter. Still warm, somehow. Like it had just been placed there. Like someone had timed it perfectly. Like someone knew exactly when she’d come home.

she stared at it for a long time. The bag was simple—no logo, no receipt, nothing. Just that note. “You always liked this one.”

she should’ve thrown it away. Should’ve locked every window. Should’ve called someone. Anyone. But instead… Her stomach growled. She hadn’t eaten since noon. And it smelled… right.

a familiar kind of comfort. Sweet. But not too sweet. The kind of bread that used to make her feel safe. So she broke off a piece. Small. Careful.

Then she took it into her mouth, chewing it slowly then swallowed. It was good. Too good.

and then—like a switch flipped—her vision stuttered. The lights blurred. Her knees wobbled.

she tried to reach for the counter but missed—almost hitting her head on the barstool.

her body felt wrong. Like her bones were made of smoke. Like she was floating—but not in a nice way. Vertigo. Dizzy. Slow-motion dread. Everything feels like riding on a roller coaster.

“What the hell…” she whispered, voice slurred—holding her head as if it could stop the dizziness.

then—click. Her eyes snapped toward the door. The doorknob was turning. Someone is trying to get in. Her eyes widened. It was locked. She’d locked it—she was sure.

then—clickclickclickclick. It was twisting faster now. Jamming. Wrenching. A beat of silence and then—BANG.

the door slammed open with a violent crack, kicked clean off its bottom hinge. Wood splintered. Air sucked out of the room.

a tall, black figure stepped inside. Sharp coat. Gloved hands. Shadows clinging to his outline like they worshipped him.

Y/n backed away—but her legs weren’t working right. She tried to crawl away from the figure as much as she could but her body felt numb.

the figure didn’t speak. It didn’t need to. His steps were slow. Certain. Like he’d done this a thousand times before.

she tried to reached for something—anything. But her limbs betrayed her.

the room tipped sideways. Her vision flickered—her floor twisted into liquid. She could barely make out his silhouette as it knelt beside her.

gloved fingers brushed the hair from her forehead.

a whisper, like silk over knives, “Shh. I told you. I’d take you somewhere safe.”

her breath hitched. But she couldn’t scream.

the last thing she saw was his eyes. It’s not sharp with malice or dripping with disdain. Just steady. Quiet. A kind of peace that doesn’t bloom with joy, but doesn’t bite either.

as if this had always been the ending. Until she finally lost her consciousness.

the apartment door hung on its broken hinges, swaying gently in the ghost-breath of a night gone wrong. Wood splintered where his boot had landed—a quiet declaration of intent. No alarm. Just silence, and the low, ominous hum of the ceiling light that buzzed like a trapped fly.

inside, the air was thick. Not with fear—yet—but with the aftermath of it.

she lay there. Y/n. Still. Folded like a question that had never been answered. Her limbs slack, her breath shallow, barely stirring the air. But she was alive. Just enough to matter.

he stood in the doorway, more shadow than man. A figure dressed in black—coat, boots, gloves, resolve. The overhead light didn’t touch him so much as hesitate near him, its flicker swallowed whole by the dark of his presence.

his fingers twitched. Not out of nerves, but the need—raw and compulsive—to touch her. To prove she was here. That this was happening. That she hadn’t disappeared like all the others.

he crouched. The black coat folded around his knees like wings.

his eyes memorized her in pieces: the rise and fall of her chest, the way her lashes trembled against pale skin, the slight curl of her fingers as if caught mid-reach—reaching not for something, but someone.

this time, he took off the glove. Just one. His bare hand brushed her cheek—slowly, reverently. The contact sent a shiver through his spine, like plugging into something sacred. Her cheek was warm. Human. Real. And it hit him like a drug. Like absolution.

he leaned close—not to kiss. To listen. To make sure. To feel the rhythm of her breath against his skin. Still there. Still his.

from his coat, he pulled her phone. Unlocked it with ease. Her world laid bare.

he scrolled like a surgeon. Each name—Hu-Min. Soo-Min. The ex. The friend. Deleted. Deleted. Deleted. No hesitation. No remorse. And then, at the top was a single contact.

Unknown Number:

"Let me take care of you now."

he didn't delete it, instead he placed the phone beside her, the screen still glowing like an open wound.

then the glove slid back onto his hand, sealing away the warmth he’d stolen.

before he stood, he bent low, lips nearly grazing her ear. "When you wake up, don’t fight it. You’ve always belonged with me."

he stood over her for a moment longer, like he was memorizing the silence one last time. Then he slid his arms beneath her—one behind her knees, the other under her shoulders—and lifted.

he carried her in a bridal style. As if she were something precious. As if she hadn’t been drugged. As if this was a ceremony and not a crime.

she fit against him perfectly. Head tilted toward his chest. Breath warm against the hollow of his collarbone. Her weight was real, grounding. And he held her like gravity itself had chosen sides.

the black coat swirled around them both, catching rain as he stepped into the night.

the city didn’t look. The city never looked.

down the stairwell, boots echoing soft thunder. Out the front entrance, where streetlights flickered like they couldn’t quite believe what they were seeing.

his car waited at the curb. Black. Sleek. Tinted windows. No plates.

he opened the door with a press of his elbow and set her gently in the back seat, like laying down a secret.

the leather seats whispered beneath her, adjusting to her form.

he lingered, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. Tucking her in—not with a blanket, but with his gaze.

“You’re safe now,” he murmured. “No one else gets to lose you again.”

and then—click, it was a seatbelt. Fastened with reverence.

he closed the door. The sound was too soft for what it meant. Sliding into the driver’s seat, he exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in hours. Hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road.

rain tapped the windshield, and somewhere a distant siren wailed.

but in his car? Silence. Perfect. She was his now. Not in theory. Not in hope. In practice.

and as the engine purred to life, headlights carving through the dark like blades, he whispered once more to the sleeping girl in the backseat, “You don’t need to pretend anymore. I’ll do the hurting for both of us.”

then the car pulled away, swallowed by rain and red lights. A ghost story in motion. A love letter written in crimes.

Somewhere, away from the city — ?:??

the first thing she felt was softness. Not the floor. Not the threadbare carpet of her apartment. This was something else—plush. Heavy. Like sinking into a memory you don’t remember making.

then came the scent. Cedarwood. Clean linen. A hint of smoke, like someone had burned sage—or something darker—hours ago.

her fingers twitched against the fabric. Not hers. Not familiar. Expensive. High-thread-count expensive.

the sheets whispered when she moved, and the whisper said, this is not home.

her eyes blinked open slowly, and everything was too quiet. No buzzing light. No city hum. Just the subtle groan of wood settling around her.

a ceiling of exposed beams. A lamp on a nightstand. A fireplace flickering low across the room.

not her room. Not her apartment. Not safe.

she sat up too fast. The world lurched sideways. Dizzy. Dull pain behind her eyes. Something in her veins still sluggish—traces of whatever he’d used.

the first thing she did was to find her phone, she looked at the nightstand—there it was—her phone was there, next to the lamp. She quickly grabbed it and turned it on, she went to the messages.

Unknown Number

"Let me take care of you now."

her stomach dropped. Her breath caught halfway to her throat. She threw the blanket off. Her shoes were gone. Clothes changed. A long shirt—hers? Maybe. Maybe not.

the hardwood was cold beneath her bare feet as she moved, adrenaline doing battle with vertigo.

the door creaked when she opened it, revealing a long hallway. Dim. Minimal. Windows framed by black curtains.

no sounds, except—music. Somewhere down the hall. Soft. Vinyl static. A slow jazz track that felt too calm for what was happening.

she followed it. Each step a question. Each breath a countdown. She turned the corner. And there he was.

by the fireplace. Sitting in an old armchair like he’d been carved into it. A mug in his hand. Black sweater, sleeves pushed up, glove-free now.

he didn’t look surprised. He looked like he’d been waiting. For her.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice warm like melted wax. “That’s good. I didn’t want you to miss the sunrise.”

there were windows behind him, but they were dark, covered. She couldn’t see where they were.

“Where am I?” she asked, the words rasping from her dry throat.

he tilted his head, just slightly. The same way people do when they hear a question, but already know the answer they’ll give. “Safe,” he said simply.

she took a step back. He didn’t move. “You drugged me. You broke into my apartment. You—”

“—brought you home,” he interrupted, not cruelly. Not kindly either. Just... sure.

“This isn’t my home.”

“It will be.”

he rose, fluid, controlled. A predator with manners. “I know you’re scared. I expected that. But I need you to understand something, Y/n.”

he walked toward her slowly. Not closing the space aggressively. Almost gently.

“No one out there gets to own you the way I do. They never saw you. Not like I did. Not like I do.”

she backed up until her shoulders hit the wall. He stopped a few feet away. Respecting her space. For now. “You don’t remember it yet, but you’ve always been mine. Even when you ran. Even when you forgot.” His voice dropped lower. Dangerous and soft. “That ends now.”

she looked past him—to the door. The hallway. The fireplace poker maybe. He noticed. He smiled. Not wide. Just enough. “You can try to run, Y/n. But I promise, you’ll just end up back here. With me. Where you’ve always belonged.”

she didn’t run that first night. She thought about it. Every second. Every breath. Every time her lashes fluttered open to the still unfamiliar ceiling above her, her mind raced through doors and windows, counted steps and exits, measured shadows.

but her body? Her traitorous body stayed curled under the heavy blanket, limbs weighed down by exhaustion—or something gentler, slinkier—something that told her to wait.

the house had a pulse. It creaked and whispered in the corners, floorboards sighing like old lungs. The fire in the hearth crackled low, golden and comforting, like a lullaby with fangs.

and him? He didn’t lock the door. Not once. He left it open just enough to let possibility in. Let her wonder if she could reach the threshold without him noticing.

but he always noticed. He moved like gravity—quiet, constant, inevitable.

he wanted her to try. He craved it, that delicious moment where choice flickered behind her eyes. Not because he feared escape—because he relished it. The push and pull. The proof that she was beginning to bend.

but she didn’t run. Not yet.

because the way he looked at her? Not like a possession. Like a pilgrimage. Like she was holy ground he’d broken into just to kneel. Like violence could be sacred, if you bled for love.

that confusion—the ache, the echo of maybe—he saw it. And he fed it.

he cooked breakfast the next morning. Like it was a Sunday morning and not a crime scene with curtains.

she woke to the smell of cinnamon sugar melting over heat, dark roast coffee steeping into the walls.

she padded into the kitchen, the floor cold beneath her bare feet, and found him there: sleeves rolled, calm as a priest at the altar. Two mugs waited on the counter like a peace treaty.

he handed her one, smooth as silk. Unflinching. “You still like two sugars, right?”

the porcelain was warm against her fingers. The question burned hotter.

she didn’t remember telling him that. She didn’t remember a lot of things.

not when the world began to blur. Not when her knees had buckled. Not when he caught her, like a man rescuing—not stealing. Not when he said, “You’ve always belonged with me.”

and the worst part? A part of her didn’t scream.

there were no clocks in the house. No mirrors. No phone reception. Time didn’t pass—it sank.

she asked, once, what town they were in. Where they were. Who might find her.

he didn’t look up from his book—wuthering heights, like a joke only he was allowed to tell. “Does it matter?” he said.

and she hated—hated—that the silence that followed felt like an answer.

the manipulation didn’t come like a storm. It crept. Like fog on bare skin. Soft. Seductive. Patient.

he didn’t shout. He listened. He remembered little things she didn’t know she’d said. He made her tea the way she liked. Folded the blanket at the foot of the bed. Set her worn notebook on the coffee table like an offering.

he made her laugh. Once. Just once. But it echoed. And in that moment—just a breath—he smiled like he’d won.

then came the reassurances. Gentle. Poisoned honey.

“No one ever listened like I did.”

“They only wanted pieces of you.”

“But I want all of you.”

he painted the house as a sanctuary. The world as the prison. Himself as the key. “You don’t have to act anymore,” he whispered, when her eyes shimmered with the pressure of too many unspoken things. “I see the ache in you. I always have.”

and the scariest part? He wasn’t wrong.

she started wondering. In the quiet moments—when her heartbeat slowed, when the fire hummed and the air tasted like stillness—she started asking herself the kind of questions that had answers shaped like knives.

has anyone ever truly seen her?

had she ever actually left him? Or had she been circling back this whole time, like a moth too tired to fear the flame anymore?

one night, she found her old notebook. On the nightstand. Pages curled at the edges. Ink smeared where old tears had fallen.

she knew it. Recognized the cracks in the spine. Her own handwriting. But inside, something new.

a letter. Folded. Tucked neatly between two confessions she’d forgotten she'd written.

“You came back. Even if you didn’t mean to. And I’ll keep you safe this time. From them. From the noise. From yourself.”

her heart twisted. Her fingers trembled. She should’ve burned it. Shredded it. Screamed.

but instead? She folded it smaller and tucked it under her pillow.

that night, she dreamed of him holding her hand. Not pulling. Not gripping. Just… there. Solid. Warm. The way things feel before they become dangerous.

she dreamed of a world outside that didn’t exist. Of silence with no threat beneath it. Of his voice saying her name like scripture.

he touched her less now. Spoke quieter. Looked at her like the war had ended—and she was the flag he refused to lower.

and she began to think—maybe... Maybe she had been pretending. Smiling when she wanted to break. Running when she only wanted to be caught.

maybe this was peace. Not prison. Maybe he knew her—not just the version she posted or performed, but the underneath of her.

he never said I love you. He didn’t have to. Because every time she looked into his eyes, she saw a mirror she didn’t remember building.

and in the darkest corners of herself—the ones she used to be afraid to look at.

she started to believe she’d always belonged. Even if it meant forgetting who she was before. Even if it meant she had to stay.

note: y’all it finally ended ✊🏻 AHHHHH HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOY THIS WHOLE SERIES BOOMSHAKAHQKQKAJSH!!!

The way down wasn’t marked. There was no glowing sign. No trail of breadcrumbs. Just a maintenance stairwell behind a locked door, tucked between the west wing labs and a vending machine that hadn’t worked since midterms. Seong Je jimmied the lock with a flat hairpin—didn’t ask where you thought he learned how to do that. You didn’t want to know.

He pushed the door open. Suddenly, it was cold again. Like the hallway you just left didn’t exist anymore. Like the air shifted planes. Time knotted. Light slowed.

The stairwell wound downward—tight, concrete, windowless. The walls had a dampness to them that suggested they were either sweating or weeping. And with every step, your breath felt louder. Sharper. The only sound besides the faintest hum from something mechanical far, far below.

You reached the bottom. A heavy steel door waited. It was covered in dust—but not evenly. Like someone had wiped it clean once with their sleeve. Recently. The kind of clean that says someone came here trying not to leave fingerprints.

Seong Je glanced at you. You nodded. He opened it. And there it was. The Archive. Not a library. Not a basement. A vault.

Rows upon rows of dark filing cabinets stretched into the dim distance—lit only by old industrial lights flickering in and out of life. Some shelves were toppled. Others marked with peeling red wax seals. There were boxes stacked like coffins. Locked drawers. Burned folders. Fragments of forgotten time stacked too high.

Then you started to feel it again—that feeling. Like someone or something is watching. Like the room remembered being alive.

“This is where they kept it,” Seong Je said, voice barely above a whisper. “Before they decided it was safer to forget.”

You took a step forward. Your shoes echoed on the metal flooring. The air smelled like rust, old books, and the ghost of electricity. “What are we looking for?” you asked.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he knelt beside one of the cabinets, pulling a ring of keys from his pocket—ones that definitely weren’t university-issued.

“MJ left me a trail. Not obvious. But she knew someone would come after her. She told me… lesson three comes at dawn.”

You both looked at each other. Then at your watch—it’s 5:03. It is dawn now.

And deep inside the archive, something shifted. A drawer slid open on its own. No breeze. No mechanism. Just the soft scrape of metal against metal. Like a secret giving itself up.

And from somewhere deeper inside, barely audible, a voice recorder clicked on. “If you’re hearing this… it means it’s starting again.” Her voice was soft. Calm. A little crackly around the edges, like it had been recorded on cheap tape in a quiet room where something terrible waited just outside the door.

You froze. Not because of the words. But because of the tone.

You’d never met Myeong Joo. Not really. You’d seen her name. Her files. A photo once—faded and clipped to a report with too much red ink on it. But this… this was her alive. Breathing. Speaking. Leaving a breadcrumb trail through time like she knew you’d be here. Like she knew you.

Seong Je didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stared toward the source of the sound like it might break him open.

His hand brushed against yours on instinct. A flicker. Not romantic—not yet. Just human. Anchoring. As if he needed to know you were still solid beside him.

Myeong Joo continued, “This is Myeong Joo. If you're listening, you’ve made it inside the archive. That means... it’s already started. Again.”

He inhaled sharply, but didn’t let it out. You took a glance at him. His jaw was clenched, and something in his expression cracked—not wide enough to fall through, but enough for the hurt to show. Enough to say: he wasn’t ready to hear her voice again. Not like this.

“I used to think it was random…” Then she went on. The mimicry. The rhythm. The dates. The solstice.

And all the while, you felt like the light in the room had gone colder. Not darker—colder. Like the air didn’t want to be here anymore. Like it was curling away from her words.

Seong Je dropped into a crouch beside the shelf, head bowed, hands braced against his knees. Like the truth was pressing down on him physically now.

“If you’re hearing this,” Myeong Joo said, “it already knows your name.”

Your name. It struck different out loud. Like it wasn’t just about you anymore. Like it had already begun curling around you, wrapping tendrils of awareness around your memories.

You whispered, “She sounds like she knew what she was walking into.”

“No,” Seong Je murmured. “She didn’t. She only thought she did.” You stared at the recorder. “She knew,” you said. “She left this on purpose. For someone.”

Seong Je looked up at you then. And something in his eyes was shattered glass—cutting, sharp, still reflecting light. He said nothing. He didn’t have to.

You understood it now. This wasn’t just a breadcrumb trail. It was a warning.

Both of you were in silence. But not emptiness. The kind of silence that fills the room like fog. That lingers where voices just were. That clings.

Neither of you moved. Until, finally, Seong Je stood—slowly. Like he’d aged five years during those few minutes. He turned toward a sealed drawer at the back of the archive. One hand hovered over the handle.

“She left more,” he said quietly. And when he looked at you again. It wasn’t just fear anymore. It was grief. It was resolve.

It was something deep and loyal and quietly terrified to lose you. “Ready to see what she couldn’t say out loud?”

Seong Je’s fingers hovered above the drawer handle for a beat too long. Like touching it might mean something permanent. Then, in one smooth motion—click.

The drawer slid open. The air inside was colder. Like something had been sealed in there that didn’t belong to this century—or this world.

You leaned over his shoulder as he pulled the folder free. Thick. Cream-colored. Old, but not dusty. Handled, read, closed—again and again. And on the front—your initials. Not your full name. Just the initials. Like a case file. Like you were a code.

Your breath caught. “That’s not…” You reached out and flipped it open before you could talk yourself out of it.

Inside were photos of you. Sitting on campus steps. Exiting a classroom..Sleeping at your desk.

Some of them… were from angles that couldn’t have existed. High up. Obscured. Like a camera had been watching you from somewhere it shouldn’t have been.

Notes in the margins. Scribbled in tight, neat handwriting: “Doesn’t react to hallway distortion.” “No mimic event recorded—yet.” “Dream logs incomplete.” “Name keeps changing in system registry. Not just spelling—structure.”

And then… drawings. Dozens of them. Sketched in graphite. Your face. Over and over. Slightly off each time. Eyes just a little too wide. Mouth too still. Like someone had been trying to remember you from memory and failing. Or like someone was trying to match you to something else.

Your hand trembled as you turned the last page.

And there scrawled in quick, frantic black ink, MJ’s handwriting: You were never supposed to be real.

The words struck like thunder inside your skull.

You backed up, as if the folder had burned you. “What the hell does that mean?”

Seong Je stared at the page for a long time. Didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. His lips parted like he wanted to say something but the words wouldn’t come.

“Seong Je—”

He looked at you. Slowly. Like your face was suddenly a question. A riddle he hadn’t realized was unsolvable. Like he was seeing you for the first time.

“…She wasn’t talking to herself,” he whispered. “She was talking to them. About you.”

You shook your head. “But I’m not—what? Not real?”

And just then—Thump. A sound above you. From the ceiling. Then again. Thump. Thump. Like footsteps. Walking upside down. You both froze.

The folder still open between you. Your photos watching you. Then the last piece of paper in the file slipped out—

A map of the campus. But drawn in red ink. With three words circled, over and over: “Lesson Four. Rooftop.”

You stared at the folder. Then at him. The air between you had gone too quiet again. That weird static hush, like the archive itself was holding its breath.

“You knew something,” you said, voice low, barely more than a tremble. “Didn’t you?”

Seong Je didn’t answer right away. Just clenched his jaw and shut the drawer like it might bite.

You stepped in front of him, heart pounding. “How long have you known?”

His eyes flicked to yours. Torn. Sharp. Full of shadows he’d been trying not to look at.

“I didn’t know this,” he said finally. “I didn’t know about you.”

“But you knew something,” you pressed. “About the archive. About Myeong Joo. About me.”

He looked away. His hands curled into fists at his sides, knuckles pale. “I knew they were watching someone. I just didn’t think it was you.”

You threw your hands up, pacing backward. “Bullshit, thanks. Comforting.”

“I didn’t mean—” He stopped himself. Ran a hand through his hair. “This place doesn’t just study patterns. It creates them. Echoes. Recursions. You show up in the data before you existed. Files on you written before enrollment. I thought it was an error, until now.”

“You should’ve told me,” you whispered.

“I wanted to.”

“So why didn’t you?”

And then he looked at you. Really looked. With that same shattering, silent storm in his eyes from earlier. Like he was afraid of you, but not in the way people fear monsters. Like he was afraid of breaking something delicate.

“Because the second I started thinking you might be part of it…” he said, voice hoarse, “I realized I’d never let them take you.”

You blinked. Whatever tension had been holding your ribs like a cage wobbled a little.

But before you could respond—THUMP. Above you again. But this time it’s louder. Then a scrape like something dragging nails across concrete. Slow. Wet.

You both looked up. And the ceiling tiles breathed. You saw them shift. Swell, like lungs. And then—crack—one of them split. A black shape unfolded. Boneless. Wrong. Hanging like a marionette that forgot gravity existed.

And in a voice that wasn’t quite a voice—like Myeong Joo’s, distorted, too high at the edges—it spoke, “You were never supposed to be real.”

Before you could say anything, Seong Je quickly grabbed your arm and ran.

Back through the archive shelves, twisting between cabinets, dodging falling papers as the lights above flickered and popped.

He didn’t stop until you hit a side door—unmarked, rusted, but unlocked—and shoved you through it.

You both we're breathless. Pressed to the wall like it might hold you up better than gravity ever could. You stared at him.

Your voice came out like something cracked. “I need to know what I am.” You hadn’t meant for it to sound so broken. So small.

But you were tired of the whispers. The files. The folder with your face, your initials, your timeline scribbled over in someone else's hand. You were tired of not knowing if you were a person or a pattern. And somehow, that truth was heavier than fear.

Seong Je didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. His eyes, storm-dark and unblinking, held you like a lifeline. There was heat in them but not the wild kind. It was steadier. Fierce. A flame that chose to burn instead of explode.

He reached out—hesitant, then sure—and touched your hand. Just the edge of his fingers brushing yours.

“Then we go to the Rooftop,” he said. “No more hiding. No more rules.”

His voice was steady. But his hand was shaking. And neither of you looked back as you left the archive behind.

You and Seong Je didn’t speak for a while after escaping the archive.

The stairwell should’ve been five turns away. Three, if you cut through the language department. But every hallway looked… the same. A stretch of linoleum, flickering lights overhead, bulletin boards warped with time and weather they never saw.

It should’ve been sunrise. But outside the windows? Night. Thick and endless. No moon. No stars. Just static black pressed against the glass like it wanted in.

You glanced at Seong Je. “Wasn’t it morning?”

“It was.” He sounded too sure. And then less sure.

You passed another door. Same as the last one. Same chipped nameplate. Same buzzing exit sign. “I think we already—” you began.

“I know.” He slowed. Turned. “We’re stuck.”

Your skin prickled. “What do you mean stuck?”

He didn’t answer. Just dug into his coat pocket and pulled out a black Sharpie. Crossed to the wall and made a quick, clean mark: X.

You both stepped past it. And walked. Two turns. Four. Seven.

And then you both stumble upon the mark again. The same mark. Same spot. Except now… it was gone.

You felt your stomach drop. “It erased it.”

“No,” he said. “It rewrote it. This place is cycling.”

The hum of the overhead lights grew louder. The kind of sound that starts as background but now felt like it was crawling under your skin. Like it was trying to nest there. You kept walking.

And then there's footsteps. Soft. Behind you. You stopped. They stopped. You turned. Nothing.

The hall was empty. The lights buzzed. And somewhere, a door clicked shut—quiet, but far too close.

Then you spun again. No one. Seong Je stepped in front of you, posture tense, listening. Another step. Behind you. Again.

This time, not in sync. At first, the footsteps had matched yours, same pace, same weight.

But now? They were catching up. Tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Your breath hitched. “It’s following us.”

“No,” he said, pulling you close. “It’s learning.”

You backed toward a classroom door, hand finding the knob. Locked.

Another step. Closer. Then a second pair. Not one set of footsteps anymore. Two.

Different weights. One light. One heavy. One… like yours. One like Myeong Joo’s..?

Seong Je tried another door. This one creaked open.nHe grabbed your wrist. “Inside. Now.” You both ducked in. Shut it behind you. Dark. Dusty.

Rows of desks stacked like bones. A projector in the corner blinked to life. The door clicked shut behind you with the soft finality of a coffin lid. The inside was dark. Not shadowed—dark. A dark that felt intentional, like it had been laid over the room in thick strokes. Dust floated in the single, thin beam of the projector light. That was the only thing glowing now. Pale and shaking like it was breathing.

You were in a classroom. But not one you recognized. The desks were wrong. Too narrow. Too many. Packed too tight. Some stacked, some overturned. Like something had panicked in here. Or tried to escape. Your breath fogged. The air was cold.

Seong Je didn’t move at first. Just scanned the walls with his body angled slightly in front of yours, the way someone might shield someone else from a car crash they saw coming too late.

Then a click. The projector whirred louder, coughing static into its lens. An image flickered into place on the wall, A hallway. This hallway. Only—not quite.

It was off. A few feet longer. A few lights missing. Like someone had tried to redraw it from memory and got the angles just wrong.

In the grainy footage, two figures appeared. You and Seong Je walking on loop.

You watched yourselves move past the same door again and again. You watched Seong Je make the mark.

Then you watched the mark disappear. Your stomach twisted as the footage kept going.

Behind your figures, something moved. Slow. Fluid. Like it hadn’t learned how to walk properly—but was doing its best impression.

At first it was a smear. A blur in the static. Then—closer. Clearer. A shape. Your height. Wearing your face. But not your face.

It was… close. But the smile was too wide. The eyes didn’t blink. The arms hung too low. And it didn’t walk like you. It copied you. Right down to the tilt of your head. The nervous shift in your weight. And then it stopped copying. And watched you. In the recording, your figure kept moving.

But the mimic? Turned to look straight at the camera. Straight at you. Even though this wasn’t live. Couldn’t be. The real you took a step back. Felt the desk behind your knees.

Your pulse was so loud in your ears you almost didn’t hear Seong Je whisper, “…That’s not playback. That’s surveillance.”

You turned to him. “How do you know?”

He didn’t blink. “Because it’s still happening.”

And sure enough, In the recording, the mimic raised one hand. And waved. Right at you.

The lights overhead buzzed like hornets. Then BOOM. The hallway door rattled like something slammed into it from the other side. Once. Twice. Then silence.

A long, unbearable silence where even the projector stopped.

And then a click. From the closet in the corner. You both turned. The handle began to twist. Slow. Deliberate.

The closet handle twisted again, this time with intent. The soft kind of sound that makes your spine stiffen, like someone dragging their nail across a violin string.

Seong Je’s hand snapped to yours. “Get down,” he breathed.

You both moved at once—low, fast, and silent. The desks offered no real shelter, just thin metal legs and battered particleboard, but your eyes caught a small gap beneath the teacher’s desk near the corner. It was half-swallowed in shadow.

You dove first, crawling, elbow scraping the floor, heart in your mouth. Seong Je followed, his shoulder brushing yours as he squeezed in beside you—barely enough room for both of you, so close you could hear the shape of his breathing.

You couldn’t see the closet now. But you could hear it. The click became a creak. Slow. Measured. Like someone opening the door for effect. Then silence. Your breath caught. So did his.

You felt it—his shoulder trembling just once, his jaw clenched so tight you thought it might snap. His hand found your knee in the dark and held it—not to calm you, but to ground himself.

Something stepped out. You didn’t see it. But the air shifted. Heavier. Thicker. Like the pressure dropped, like the room sank. You bit the inside of your cheek. You weren’t going to be the one who breathed first.

Then a step. Something touched the floor. A bare foot? A hand? It was too soft to tell. But the sound came closer. Tap. Tap. Tap. Then it stopped. Right next to the desk. Silence again. That awful, crushing silence.

“Y/n…” Your name. No—it used his voice. Perfectly. So soft. So sad. “Are you scared?” You could feel Seong Je go stone still. He didn’t respond. Didn’t breathe. The mimic knelt. You could feel the floor shift. Something moving just outside your hiding space.

And then its face. Upside down. Peering under the desk. Your face. But the eyes were black. Like ink. Like holes in a painting. And the mouth was a little too wide. A little too knowing. It smiled. And said, with your voice, “I found you.”

You would’ve screamed but Seong Je moved first.

His eyes didn’t even flinch. Just locked on the mimic’s upside-down grin with a look that said not today, you pale little nightmare.

And then—crash. He kicked the desk. Hard. It didn’t just slide—it flew.

The old metal frame screeched against the floor for a breathless second—then slammed right into the mimic’s head with a bone-jarring crunch.

The thing let out a howl—a warped burst of static, like a dying speaker blown too loud. Its smile split wider, twitching, cracking at the corners.

But Seong Je wasn’t done. He lunged, shoving the desk again, this time pinning it against the mimic’s body. You could hear it squirming underneath, bones that weren’t quite human bending wrong, limbs jerking like puppet strings pulled too tight.

He turned to you, breath ragged, voice sharp, “NOW RUN!”

He didn’t wait for you to move. Grabbed your hand and dragged you, feet slipping across the cold linoleum, out the classroom door.

The mimic screeched behind you. But it wasn’t alone anymore. Because when you hit the hallway, the mirrors on the windows were full of versions of you. And not just you. Him, too.

Broken reflections. Mouths open. Hands pressed to the glass, begging to be let out. Or let in.

One of them reached up and cracked the glass from the inside.

The hallway twisted again. The red light deepened to blood-warm maroon. The end of the corridor seemed to breathe.

And the walls began to whisper.

“Lesson three…

…Lesson three…

…ready for it?

Are you ready?

Are you ready?”

The hallway bent behind you—warping, flexing, like it was made of breath and memory. The reflections slammed their palms to the glass again, now screaming without sound. You ran past one window and your own face turned to look at you but didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. Didn’t stop smiling.

And that was it. Seong Je stopped. Dead in his tracks. His grip on your wrist pulled you short, breath catching. “Enough.” His voice was low. Flat. The kind of quiet rage that comes after grief, after fear—when you’ve got nothing left but teeth and willpower.

You turned, stunned, as he let go of you. Took one step forward. The hallway shuddered. The reflections moved.

One mimic stepped out of the glass—perfectly mirroring Seong Je’s body, but wrong. Too tall. Movements too smooth. Smiling like it had just picked its favorite meal.

Seong Je didn’t wait. Didn’t hesitate. He charged. No weapons. Just fury and training and a low, wordless roar pulled from the gut.

The mimic lunged to meet him, but Seong Je dropped low, twisted, and drove his shoulder into its middle, sending it slamming into a wall with a sound like metal snapping in half.

You barely had time to breathe before another mimic stepped from the other side of the hall—your face this time, twitching like a frame skipping.

It rushed you. You ducked—just barely—its nails grazing your cheek. You grabbed a fire extinguisher from the wall without thinking, raised it and smashed it making the canister hit its skull with a dull, sickening thunk. It staggered. Didn’t fall. Just laughed—your own laugh, warped and glitching.

Then Seong Je from behind you. His hand caught the mimic’s head and slammed it into the ground, once, twice, until the voice cut off. He looked at you. Face flushed. Lip split. Eyes full of fire.

“You good?” he panted. You nodded, chest heaving. But the hallway was still full of echoes.

The other mimics didn’t retreat. They started to surround. One by one, stepping from the glass, the lockers, the shadows. “You can’t fight us all,” they whispered in chorus.

Seong Je lifted his chin. Wiped blood from his mouth with his fingers. “I don’t need to.” He turned to you. “You still got that lighter?”

You yanked the lighter from your pocket. Still warm. Still a little cracked from the last fall—but it flicked to life like it knew what was coming.

Seong Je held out his hand. You slapped it into his palm.

And then he smiled. Not cocky. Not charming. But raw. Wild. That sharp, split-second smirk of a man who knows he’s about to burn down a haunted hallway with his bare hands and one lighter.

He turned to the nearest mimic—your face, bleeding static—and tossed the lighter high.

You didn’t understand until his other hand reached behind his back—The broken glass bottle. Still half-full of that weird, slick oil.

He caught the lighter mid-air with one hand and in the same breath—Ignited it. The mimic took a step back. Too late. The hallway erupted in flame.

Not normal flame—blue, almost holy, licking up the lockers and sprinting down the tile like it was alive.

The mimics screamed. Not human sounds. Digital distortion. Warped metal. Howls that echoed through bone.

One dove at him—he sidestepped and slammed a heel into its back, sending it face-first into the flames.

Another rushed you—too fast, too angry. You grabbed the extinguisher again—not to put it out but to wield it. You drove it into the mimic’s stomach, then cracked it across its jaw.

It hit the floor, shrieking, writhing in sparks as the blue flame crawled over its body like recognition.

Seong Je moved like water and wrath—sweeping kicks, elbow strikes, crushing anything that came near him. Blood down his arm. Smoke rising off his sleeve.

But then silence. The hallway went still. Only fire crackled. You looked up. And saw them.

The last mimics. Only two of them. You and His. Side by side. Watching. Smiling. Then, in unison, “Lesson three… ends at dawn.” And they melted into the smoke. Gone.

You turned to him, heart still hammering. He was breathing hard. Sweat and blood and soot and something alive in his eyes.

He looked at you like you were the only real thing left in this entire building. “Still good?” he asked, voice low.

You nodded. Then smiled and whispered, “Let’s finish this.”

Avemhall East Tower — ?:??

The stairs to the rooftop felt endless. Not because they were long—but because every step felt like a countdown.

The school was silent behind you, save for the low hum that lived in the walls now. The kind of silence that followed too much screaming. Seong Je led the way, one hand pressed against the stair rail, the other still smeared with ash and dried blood. He didn’t speak. He hadn’t, not since you’d left the hallway.

The rooftop door loomed above like a gate to another realm.

When you pushed it open, it was dawn. The sky split in soft oranges and bruised pinks, the clouds slow-dancing along the horizon. Light spilled across the roof in long, golden ribbons. It should’ve felt like peace. Should’ve been beautiful. But the air was wrong. Taut. Humming beneath your skin.

You stepped onto the rooftop and saw it. The pattern. Not painted. Not carved. But grown. The tiles beneath your feet were laced with fine cracks, veins of some dark substance forming a near-perfect circle around the center of the roof. It shimmered faintly—as if reflecting a fire not yet lit.

Seong Je stared at it, eyes storm-dark. "Myeong Joo drew this,” he said quietly. “In her notes. She said this is where it ends. Or begins again.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but the wind shifted. And with it came a voice. "Je...?”

Your blood ran cold. It was Myeong Joo’s voice. Soft. Familiar. Too real. Too warm.

You turned—and there she was. Standing just outside the circle. Hair falling over one eye. A flicker of a smile.

"You don’t have to finish it,” she said. "Come with me. We can go back. Pretend it never happened."

Seong Je didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His jaw clenched, but his voice was steady, “You don’t get to wear her voice.”

The mimic’s smile faltered, and then its form twitched. Shifted. The skin cracked. The eyes flickered with static.

Seong Je stepped in front of you. "I got you. No matter what this thing turns into."

The wind howled suddenly, as if the sky itself screamed. The circle began to glow—faint, then blinding. The entity dropped the Myeong Joo illusion and became… everything. Her. You. Him. All at once. All wrong. A mosaic of stolen skin and shattered voices.

It stepped forward and you stepped with him—into the circle. "Lesson Three," you whispered. "Let’s end it."

The mimic screeched—a sound that didn’t belong in any world you knew. Like static run through grief. It surged forward again, this time with a new face: yours. But wrong. Empty.

“You’re not real,” it hissed in your voice. “You’re just a rewrite.”

Seong Je spun, slamming his heel down into the rooftop tiles, forcing a shockwave through the glowing circle. The mimic stumbled. Glitched. Began fracturing. “Neither are you,” he snapped. “So let’s finish this.”

You weren’t just connecting the chalk marks anymore—you were rewriting them. MJ’s markings had been desperate. Yours were deliberate. You dragged your hand across the tiles, your breath catching as the symbols rose—not from the floor, but from you. They responded to your pulse. To your name.

The mimic lunged and Seong Je caught it mid-air, tackling it back into the circle. “NOW!” he roared.

The air cracked open with sound. You screamed the word again—the one that had surfaced like instinct. The one MJ had left buried in her notes. “REVERTI!”

Light exploded from the runes, spiraling upward like fire caught in a cyclone. The mimic howled as its stolen voices unraveled—MJ’s laugh, your scream, his curses—all ripped back into silence.

Seong Je staggered back, singed, his arm shielding his face from the heat. You ran to him, catching him by the wrist. “Seong Je!”

But he looked up at you—bloodied, grinning. “Told you. I’ve got you.”

And just as the mimic collapsed into a heap of ash and memory. The sky opened. Not in horror. Not in doom. But morning. Real morning.

The circle was nothing now. Just ash. Lines scorched into tile like an old scar that no one will believe is real.

The sky, for the first time in what felt like forever, was clear. No glitch. No wrongness. Just a soft gold cracking over the horizon like a slow exhale. Like the world had been holding its breath all night, and finally—finally—let it go.

You dropped to your knees. Not from pain. Just—over. Everything in you folding. You hadn’t even realized how much your hands were shaking until you tried to press them to the ground and missed.

Seong Je was beside you a second later. Breathing hard. Blood trailing down his temple. His clothes were torn at the shoulder, scorched at the sleeve, and his knuckles were scraped raw.

But he looked at you like you were whole. Like he could finally look without fear. “You okay?” he asked, voice rough. Quiet.

You nodded. Or tried to. “I think I—yeah. Yeah.”

He didn’t say anything for a moment. Just stared at you. Eyes dark and unreadable—until they weren’t.

There was something else in them now. Not adrenaline. Not worry. Something gentler.

Softer than the sunrise behind him.

He reached out, slow, like asking permission even though you hadn’t said no. His hand brushed the back of yours—barely—but it grounded you like lightning to a rod. “You did it,” he murmured. “You rewrote the end.”

You looked at the sky. It didn’t flicker. Didn’t hum. Didn’t watch. For the first time in what felt like forever—you were the only ones here. “Do we win?” you asked.

Seong Je smiled. The real kind. Tired. Beautiful. “We’re still here, aren’t we?”

He leaned forward, forehead resting against yours for just a breath, just long enough to feel the heat of him and the fact that you were both still breathing.

The rooftop door groaned when Seong Je pushed it open, like even the school itself was tired. No mimic. No static. Just stairs. Real ones.

Your legs didn’t quite believe it yet. Each step down was cautious, half-expecting the loop to snap back. But the hallway didn’t repeat this time. The walls didn’t flicker. The lights just… stayed on.

Still dim. Still weirdly too-long. But they were real. Tangible. And the windows showed morning now—real morning. Sky bleeding soft blues and peaches like someone finally took the horror filter off the world.

You didn’t speak for a while. Just walked beside Seong Je, close enough to feel the warmth off his side like a tether.

He kept glancing your way. Like if he stopped checking, you’d vanish. Like that fear hadn’t quite let go of his ribs yet.

“You okay?” he asked again. Quieter this time. Like the words were afraid to echo.

You didn’t answer right away. Just nodded. Then, “Yeah. I just… I think I forgot what normal feels like.”

That pulled a laugh out of him—tired, low, but real.

He looked at you like he wanted to say something else, but didn’t. Just reached out, fingers brushing yours, then holding. You let him. Because here, in the early hush of daybreak and ash, that was enough.

Back at his room, he didn’t bother locking the door. Didn’t even check it twice.

He just kicked off his shoes, dropped the lighter on the desk, and collapsed onto the mattress like a puppet whose strings had finally snapped.

You stood there for a second—then followed.

No big drama. No words needed. Just the gravity of surviving something with someone who refused to let go.

When you curled next to him—clothes still rumpled, skin still warm from fire and fear—he didn’t move.

But his fingers found yours again. Tangled them. Held tight.

“Next time,” you mumbled, already slipping under, “we make it to lesson four.”

He smiled against your hair. Just a little. “No more lessons,” he whispered. “Just sleep.” And finally—finally—you did it.

Seong Je’s breath was steady but shallow against your skin. His fingers, still laced with yours, pressed gentle, grounding, like he was reminding you, reminding himself, that you were both still here. Still real.

You shifted closer, careful not to crush the fragile silence between you. The world outside felt miles away, like it was still caught in a nightmare you’d just escaped. “I thought…” you started, voice barely a thread, “I thought I’d never stop running.”

He tightened his grip, a whisper of a smile teasing the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said, “Me too.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moved — just the soft sound of your breathing, a quiet symphony that meant survival.

Then, slow and deliberate, he tucked a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering like he didn’t want to let go.

“You saved me,” he admitted, voice rough, honest. “More than I can say.”

You swallowed, warmth blooming behind your ribs. “We saved each other,” you whispered.

His eyes found yours—deep, steady pools that flickered with something fierce, something vulnerable. Without thinking, you leaned in.

The kiss was slow, tentative at first, like a question whispered in the dark. But it grew, fierce and fierce and full, like the promise of morning after endless night.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the fragile space between.

“No more lessons,” he repeated, this time with a fierce kind of hope. “Just us.”

You nodded, heart full, shadows behind you, sunrise before. And finally it ended.

FINAL PART HAHA 😩🫡🤌🏻 how are you guys feeling abt this series now that it finally ended???? mueheheee 🥀💔🙌🏻🤗🥺😁

“…Ready for lesson three?”

The words didn’t echo. They settled. Like ash falling in the aftermath of something burned too fast.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. It felt like if you even breathed wrong, the thing outside would know. Would hear it, like radar pinging off your fear.

You pressed yourself against the wall instinctively, eyes wide, the room suddenly smaller than it had ever been. The shadows in the corners had shape now—real or imagined, you didn’t know, and couldn’t afford to guess.

Seong Je hadn’t moved. Not a single muscle. But he was vibrating with tension. A storm packed into a frame too still. His grip on the lighter had gone white-knuckled. His face was unreadable—but not empty. It was loaded. Like a trigger pulled halfway. Like his brain was racing through every possibility and finding none of them survivable.

“Don’t speak,” he murmured, and his voice sounded like it’d been pulled through gravel. He wasn’t warning you. He was pleading.

From behind the door, there came a sound. Thump. Something leaned on it.

Not a bang. Not an impact. Just… weight. Then another sound. Breath. But not from lungs. It was wet. Ragged. Like something exhaling through teeth that weren’t meant for air.

Seong Je moved at last, gently pulling you behind him, positioning himself between you and the door. The warmth of his back against your chest was the only thing anchoring you. You clung to the fabric of his hoodie without thinking, fingertips digging in as if that could keep the thing outside at bay.

You whispered, barely audible: “It knows we’re in here.” He nodded once. “It’s known since before it knocked.”

The breath on the other side grew closer. More deliberate. Then suddenly it laughed. Short. Stuttering. Like a child pretending to understand humor. Like it had heard laughter once and tried to replicate it with a mouth that didn’t bend the right way.

“Lesson three…” it crooned, voice crackling now, distorted like a warped cassette tape being fed through a broken machine. “Time to listen.”

CRACK. The sound was sharp and sudden. The peephole—the one he’d covered with the charm—splintered from the other side.

The paper sizzled. Smoke began to curl from its edges.

Seong Je’s hand shot out. He clapped his palm over it like he could hold it in place by sheer will. The light from the lighter flickered erratically in his other hand, casting shadows that leapt across his face in strange, shivering patterns.

Then—something changed. The temperature in the room dropped so fast it made your teeth ache. The window behind you fogged. From the inside.

Every surface seemed to pull back, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Even the air stopped moving.

And the voice came again. Not from the door. From behind you.

“…Je?”

You whipped around, heart slamming into your ribs. But no one was there. Just the curtain. Billowing slightly. But the window was closed.

Your stomach turned. You knew the rules. You knew doors could be watched, could be sealed.

But windows? Not protected. Not covered.

Seong Je spun too, eyes landing on the curtain. His expression turned to ice. He ran. One second he was beside you, the next he had yanked the curtain wide—Nothing. Just glass.

But a handprint bloomed on the other side. Small. Pale. Wrong. Too many fingers. Palm stretched too wide. And slowly, impossibly—another handprint. Then another. Then a face. Pressed to the glass. Eyes too dark. Mouth not smiling—but too wide anyway. The skin rippling like it was wearing a face it hadn’t quite figured out.

You backed away, mouth open in a silent scream. Your legs hit the edge of the bed, and you almost collapsed.

Seong Je didn’t look away. He was muttering again. Not panicked. Precise. As if reciting from memory—like the words had been etched into him long ago.

Then, without warning—he snapped his fingers.

The salt ring on the floor ignited in a blaze of white light, flaring up like a line of fire across the boundary.

The glass shattered outward. And the thing—was gone. Not a trace.

Just the whine of wind curling through the open window and the smell of something burned. Sweet. Rotting.

Silence returned. Real silence this time. The kind with space to breathe. You stared at the window, shaking.

And Seong Je? He didn't look relieved. He looked worse.

Not pale—no. If anything, color had returned to his face, but not in a good way. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle twitch just beneath his cheekbone. A storm brewed behind his glasses, the lenses catching the moonlight that filtered in through the shattered window. The left side of his face was painted in silver—sharp angles and shadows made harsher by the glow, like he’d been carved from light and tension.

His eyes didn’t blink. Didn’t move. They were locked on the space where the thing had been—wasn’t—but somehow still lingered. Behind the glasses, his expression wasn’t just tense. It was haunted. Like someone who’d recognized the shape of a nightmare and realized it had a name after all.

And for the first time, he looked not just like someone who’d seen this before—but someone who’d barely survived it. “That wasn’t lesson three,” he said.

His voice shook now. “That was just the introduction.”

The room was still again for a minute. Not safe. But still.

Like the storm had passed—only to hunker down just beyond the treeline, waiting for you to open the door again.

You sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping beneath you like it was exhaling too. Your hands trembled in your lap, fingertips cold from the aftermath of that thing's visit. You could still feel the ghost of it on your skin. Like static clinging to your bones.

Across from you, Seong Je leaned against the wall. He’d dropped the lighter somewhere along the way. His eyes were half-lidded, not from calm, but from sheer exhaustion. His chest rose and fell in shallow, measured breaths. Like he was trying very hard not to lose control.

Silence stretched between you again, but now it was something you needed.

It felt… fragile. Like a soap bubble balancing on the moment. One wrong word, and it’d pop—and bring the thing back with it.

Finally, after what felt like hours—but might’ve been minutes—you whispered, “Is this normal?” Your voice barely made it past your lips.

He let out a sound. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. A sound that said: God, I wish I could lie to you right now.

“No,” he said. His voice was rough. Raw. “If this was normal, I’d be dead.”

That got your attention. He glanced at you, almost sheepishly. Like someone who knew he was about to say something insane, and hated that it was true.

“I’ve seen signs. Mimics. I’ve seen creatures slip through the cracks between places. I’ve even banished a few.”

He looked down at his hands. Flexed them once. Still shaking. “But I’ve never had one knock on my door. Say my name. That’s not hunting. That’s… intimacy.”

Your skin crawled. “Why you?”

“I don’t know.” He looked at you then.

And you saw it. Not bravado. Not mystery. Just a guy. Barely older than you. Terrified in all the same ways—but pretending he wasn’t so you didn’t fall apart. It made your chest ache in a strange way.

“You okay?” he asked suddenly, almost like he forgot to.

You blinked. The question felt unreal.

But somehow—oddly—you were. Not okay in the way that meant “good.” But in the way that meant still standing. Still here. “I think so,” you said softly.

He nodded once. “Good. We’ll need that.”

Then he stood. Walked to the shattered window. Looked out into the night. It was quiet again. City lights twinkled like stars below. Nothing moved.

But you both knew the thing wasn’t gone. Just waiting.

And when he turned back to you, his expression had changed. Resolved. “We rest now,” he said, voice low. “Lesson three comes at dawn.”

Seong Je’s Dorm — 3:03 a.m

The broken window had been covered, hastily—an old sheet tacked over it with thumbtacks and prayer. It fluttered gently with every breeze, and every time it moved, you both glanced up like a conditioned reflex. A mutual, unspoken rhythm of wariness.

The room still felt heavy. Like the walls remembered. Like the air hadn’t forgotten what had touched it.

You were curled on the side of the bed now, blanket clutched high, watching the shadows flicker across the ceiling. Not moving. Barely blinking. Just existing, in the rawest sense of the word.

Seong Je sat on the floor across from you, back against the closet, knees drawn up, head tilted toward the door like he could hear something beyond it.

Neither of you said it out loud—but you were both too scared to sleep alone.

He hadn’t lit another cigarette. He just held the lighter. Turning it in his fingers, absently. Like a charm. Like something familiar. His thumb hovered near the spark wheel, but never flicked it. It was just movement—something to do. Something to keep the hands from trembling too much.

You watched him for a long time. The tension in his jaw. The way his shoulders refused to relax, even now. He wasn’t resting. He was waiting.

“…You don’t have to stay awake all night,” you murmured.

He glanced at you—eyes dark, but softer now. Still cautious. But not cold. “I know.” He took a deep breath. “But I will.”

You didn’t thank him. You just nodded. That kind of loyalty didn’t need gratitude. It just needed presence.

After a while, the room settled. The cold didn’t bite as sharply. The silence started to feel like yours again.

And somehow, without realizing when, your body began to let go. Piece by piece. Your breath evened. Your thoughts stopped racing.

Sleep came like fog—quiet, creeping, uninvited. But not unwelcome.

Seong Je’s Dorm | Avemhall Hallway — 4:03 a.m

The night passed in fragments. You didn’t sleep—not really. You drifted.

Floated in and out of consciousness like a paper boat on black water, every sound dragging you back up from the deep. The creak of wood. The occasional wind curling through the broken window. Once, you swore you heard your own name whispered from inside the walls.

But Seong Je had stayed awake. You saw him in the dim firelight more than once, sitting by the window, a knife on one knee, scribbled notes and strange symbols open in a battered leather journal beside him. He was muttering to himself. Repeating certain words like they were passwords. Some were in Korean. Some… weren’t in any language you knew.

When your eyes opened again—the sky outside still dark.The kind that doesn’t promise safety. Just change.

Seong Je turned to you. His face was shadowed, but something in his expression had shifted. Not softer. Not harder. It was ready.

“Get dressed,” he said. “We don’t stay here once the light hits the floor.”

You blinked. “Why?”

He reached over to tap a long, thin crack in the salt ring. “Salt’s only protection as long as the veil’s thin. And dawn…” He nodded toward the window. “Dawn thickens it. Closes things. Makes the hidden things move.”

You didn’t question it. Just grabbed your jacket, still draped over the desk chair, and moved like your body was remembering how to be useful again.

Seong Je slung a messenger bag over one shoulder—its contents clinking softly with glass and metal—and tossed something to you.

A charm. A coin with a hole in the center. Threaded on a red string.

“For your pocket,” he said. “Don’t hang it. Hide it. It works better if it feels forgotten.”

You slipped it into your jeans as he pulled the journal from the floor and flipped it open to a page marked with a fingerprint that wasn’t ink. It looked burned into the parchment.

“Lesson three,” he murmured. “We begin with names.” You frowned. “You mean mine?”

“No.” He looked at you, serious. “Its.”

The air went still. Again. But different this time. Like the world was bracing.

“Why do we need its name?” you asked, voice small but steady.

He walked to the door. Pressed one hand to it. Closed his eyes. “Because names bind. Names break. Names banish.” he continued, “And because that thing already knows yours.”

You inhaled sharply—but he opened the door before you could speak.

The hallway beyond was empty. Daylight creeping in through the high windows. Peaceful.

But something felt off. Like walking through a house you’d only ever seen in dreams. Familiar, and yet… waiting.

Seong Je glanced back at you. “Ready?”

You squared your shoulders. Heart pounding. Voice dry. “Nope.”

Seong Je didn’t wait for a real answer. He stepped out, hoodie sleeve brushing yours as he passed—warm, grounding. Too fast. Too fleeting. You followed. Had to.

The corridor stretched ahead—quiet, doused in late sunrise that barely reached the scuffed floors. The linoleum gleamed in places where too many shoes had scuffed it, where bleach and old blood might’ve kissed in the past and left no trace but shine. You and Seong Je stood in the middle of it, side by side, like two characters in a dream right before it turns into a nightmare.

The silence wasn't empty. It watched. Every window up above filtered in light like stained glass—burning gold on your skin, but cold where it hit the walls. The air held weight, like it remembered things too ancient to name.

You glanced at him. He hadn’t spoken again since the door. His jaw was tight. Focused. Like his brain was running ahead of the conversation, already five moves deeper into the problem or the danger.

“Hey,” you said, just to break the quiet. “When you said… it knows my name. You mean my real name, right?”

He stopped walking. You almost bumped into him. He turned, finally meeting your eyes, hands in his pockets. His expression—half-hard, half-haunted—shifted when he met your eyes. “That file you found,” he said. “MJ’s.” You nodded slowly, “What about it?”

His jaw tensed. Not like he was angry—like he was trying to decide how much truth you were ready to hear.

He took his hands out of his pockets. Ran one through his hair. The other hung by his side, flexing once, then stilling. “You didn’t open all of it,” he said quietly.

You frowned. “I looked through every page.”

He shook his head. “Not the real part. Not the sealed file in the back.”

Your blood ran cold. You remembered it now—thick paper, clipped shut with a strip of red wax. You hadn’t dared break it. It felt… wrong to. Like touching something sacred. Or cursed.

Seong Je’s gaze dropped to the floor for a second, and when he looked back up at you, there was something raw in his eyes. “They kept names in there. Real names. The ones you weren’t born with, but were given when you were marked.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Your mouth had gone dry.

He watched you, carefully. Gently. “Those names… they’re anchors. They tie a person to a place. A memory. A curse. Sometimes a thing. If it knows yours, it doesn’t need permission anymore. It doesn’t need to knock.”

You swallowed hard. The hallway you stood in felt narrower suddenly. As if the walls had been listening too. “So someone read mine aloud?”

“No,” he said, and there was something sharp in his voice now. “Worse.”

“What?”

He hesitated. Then answered in one word, flat and final, “Someone wrote it down.”

The silence after that felt loud. You wanted to deny it, wanted to laugh, scream, anything—but the sick feeling curling in your gut said it was true. All of it. Your voice shook. “But… who would’ve—”

“MJ,” he said. No hesitation now. Just steel. “I think she found it. I think she opened the file and read it. Wrote it down. And then—” He stopped.

“And then what?”

He looked away. You took a step forward. “And then what, Seong Je?”

“She vanished.”

The words hit you like a slap. You froze. You barely remembered her. A face in passing. Always quiet, always scribbling things into notebooks no one else got to see. A whisper of a girl. And now, maybe—not even that. “You think she—” you started, but couldn’t finish the sentence.

“I think,” he said softly, “whatever’s outside the door that time… it doesn’t want to take you. Not yet.”

“Then what does it want?”

He looked back at you, expression dark. Unflinching. “It wants you to listen.” he continued, “To learn.”

Your pulse pounded in your ears. “And if I don’t?”

He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. Because suddenly you could feel it again—somewhere far off, behind the walls, below the floorboards, in the invisible places. Waiting. Smiling. Practicing your name like a mantra.

You stared at him, the hallway stretching out long and empty ahead of you. The air felt thick again—like the world had started listening too closely.

Your voice came out quieter this time, barely a breath, but sharp enough to pierce, “So… Myeong Joo was the one calling you from behind the door that night?”

The moment snapped. Like time stepped back. Like the walls held their breath.

Seong Je didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. His eyes flicked toward you, but they didn’t really see you for a second. They were far away. Back there again—back in his dorm, with the flickering lighter and the cold that crept in under the door.

He swallowed, hard. His throat worked around the words before he said them. “She used to sound like that.”

Just six words. But his voice cracked somewhere in the middle, like it wasn’t sure if it wanted to say them out loud.

“At first… I thought maybe—” He stopped. Ran a hand through his hair. Turned slightly, not to look at you, but to look away. “But it wasn’t her anymore.”

The hallway, once dim, now glowed with the pale hush of sunrise—soft gold bleeding in through the towering windows that lined one side of the corridor. They stretched from floor to ceiling, glass fogged slightly from the cool night still clinging to the edges of dawn.

Light slanted through in long, uneven streaks. Not warm. Not yet. Just bright enough to show you everything you maybe didn’t want to see.

The shadows cast weren’t comforting. They were too tall. Too thin. Twisted just wrong. Yours. His. But distorted—like they were being remembered by something that hadn’t quite forgotten the dark. Dust floated in the beams like ash in still water.

Everything felt... hushed. Not quiet in a peaceful way, but in the way you’d expect a church to be quiet after something sacred has broken.

The world hadn’t quite woken up. And neither had whatever was watching.

Your pulse echoed in your ears like footsteps that weren’t yours. “Then what was it?” you asked.

He finally looked at you. And when he did—it wasn’t fear in his eyes. It was grief. Fierce. Quiet. Bone-deep.

“It was something wearing her voice. Something that remembered how she sounded when she laughed. When she got mad at me for taking the last can of coffee. When she snuck out to the roof and made me promise not to tell anyone.”

You watched his face shift—moment by moment—as memory gave way to mourning.

“She was still in there,” he said softly. “At least, at first. But it wasn’t her anymore.”

The silence pressed in like water from all sides.

You wanted to reach out, say something, but the words stayed stuck. Heavy in your mouth. “She was your friend,” you said at last.

“No.” His voice dropped. “She was my partner.”

That word landed with weight. Like it mattered more than a friend. More than anything.

“We were supposed to watch each other’s backs,” he said. “She told me she found something. Said she was getting closer. Said it had to do with the names. With...” He paused. Looked at you again. “With you.”

You froze. Your chest went tight. “Me?”

“She didn’t say your name. Just called you ‘the one with the echo.’ Said something was following you—said it had marked you. I told her to wait. I told her not to dig. And then the line went dead.”

There it was. The cold again. Flooding your chest. Crawling up your spine like frostbite.

“But if it was her voice,” you whispered, “why knock?”

Seong Je’s jaw tensed. He looked away, but not like he was hiding. More like he was trying to keep himself from shattering. “Because part of her still remembers the rules.”

You stared at him. And finally, finally you understood. That voice behind the door hadn’t been threatening. It had been… familiar. Sweet. Gentle. Soft. It had sounded like home. Because that’s how it gets you. Not with claws. But with comfort. It waits for your trust. It waits for recognition.

And you suddenly realized—that’s why Seong Je hadn’t spoken that night. Because the moment he did…It might’ve stepped inside.

The silence between you held for a long, long moment.

Then he exhaled. Shook himself once, like shedding something. “We have to move.”

You swallowed, voice barely above a whisper. “Where are we going?”

Seong Je’s gaze flicked toward the window—toward the growing light that still looked too sharp to be safe. He didn’t answer right away. Instead, Seong Je turned—slowly—back to face you.

The light from the rising sun caught him sideways, tracing soft lines down the edge of his face. And for a heartbeat, he didn’t look like the boy who smirked at danger or shrugged off ghosts. He looked tired. Raw. Human.

But something in his eyes had changed. There was a weight there. Not fear—not anymore. Something steadier. Fiercer. Like a vow had just settled into his bones.

When he spoke, his voice was quiet. But it carried like a promise. “To the archive,” he said. Then he paused. Just a breath.

And when he met your eyes again—really met them—it was like he was trying to memorize you. Like if he looked long enough, he could hold you here. In this hallway. In this moment. Safe.

That look—It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It was something unspoken. Gentle. Protective. Heavy with everything he hadn’t said and maybe didn’t know how to. Then, softer—but firmer, “Together this time.”

And that was it. The moment cracked open. Like light through a locked door. Like maybe—just maybe—if the world was falling apart, at least you wouldn't be doing it alone.

And for the first time since all of this started—you realized: He was afraid. But he wasn’t going to let you go in alone. Not anymore. Not ever again.

You followed him, steps echoing too loud in the corridor. But underneath? Something was awake. And it knew your name.

5 parts ain't enough, I guess 😩. Should I publish this Series on Wattpad?? Also the Bite The Blade?? ✊🏻😔 P.S i'm not good at making book covers 🥀🥀

the van rolled to a stop with a low growl outside Daesung Warehouse, tires grinding against the wet gravel. The sky hung low, choked with clouds like the heavens themselves were holding their breath. Rain threatened, but hadn't yet fallen—just that eerie stillness before a storm.

Dong-Ha stepped out first. Seong-Mok followed, his cigarette trembling between two fingers he pretended were steady. Neither of them spoke. Not at first.

Baek-Jin’s message had been short. “Check the warehouse. Now.”

but something felt off. It was too quiet. No sentries outside. No flickering warehouse lights spilling under the doors like usual. Just dark. Silent.

Seong-Mok sighed sharply and pulled the door open. The metal shrieked.

and the stench hit them. Blood. Oil. Rust. And something wrong.

their footsteps echoed hollow across the concrete floor as they stepped inside—and then stopped.

three of their men lay sprawled across the ground like discarded dolls. One of them was slumped against the wall, a crowbar still in his hand, his eyes open and glassy, staring at nothing. Another had his throat slashed clean—like someone had painted a smile across it with a blade. The third? Crumpled near a broken camera stand, blood pooled thick beneath his ribs.

the place looked like it had been turned inside out. Crates knocked over. A tripod shattered. The metal chair in the center sat empty now, with zip-tie remnants still clinging to the arms, soaked red.

Seong-Mok swore under his breath. “What the hell happened here?”

Dong-Ha didn’t answer. He walked in slowly, each step measured, eyes scanning every inch of the room. He crouched beside one of the corpses—Twitchy. Young. Dumb. Loyal.

Dong-Ha stood, jaw tight. He didn’t say anything for a beat, just stared at the blood pooling beneath the kid’s shoulder. “We need to go. Now.”

Seong-Mok blinked. “Go where?”

“To Baek-Jin.”

“What, now? We don’t even know—"

Dong-Ha was already halfway to the exit, boots echoing across the concrete floor. “We don’t need to know. He will.”

Seong-Mok hesitated, glancing once more at the bodies. The silence in the warehouse was thick—like the walls were holding their breath. He swallowed hard, then followed.

Dong-Ha slammed the van door shut. Seong-Mok didn’t speak—just stared dead ahead, jaw tight, the warehouse still burning in his mind like a nightmare he hadn’t quite woken up from.

“Go,” Dong-Ha muttered. “Floor it.”

one of their men didn’t need to be told twice. Tires screeched as the van peeled out into the night, gravel spitting behind them like a warning.

neither of them spoke for the next six minutes. The rain finally came, lashing at the windshield as if the sky itself was trying to wash away what they’d just seen.

Bowling Alley — 12:00 a.m

the bowling alley sat in the shadow of the city, neon signs flickering half-alive. In the back, behind the staff-only door and down a dim hallway, was a room that smelled like old smoke, whiskey, and secrets.

the metal door slammed shut behind Dong-Ha and Seong-Mok as they stormed into the dimly lit room. Baek-Jin sat alone at the desk, low jazz spinning lazily from a turntable. The calm in here was offensive. They didn’t speak right away.

Baek-Jin looked up, one brow raised. “Well?” he said coolly. “Where are my men?”

Dong-Ha’s voice cracked like gravel underfoot. “They’re dead.”

Baek-Jin didn’t react. He simply tapped a finger on the armrest. “All of them?”

“Yes. Three of them. No struggle. Just… executed.” Dong-Ha continued, his eyes wide with something worse than fear.

something flickered behind Baek-Jin’s eyes. A twitch. A breath held too long. This wasn’t war—it was surgical.

Seong-Mok stepped forward, fists clenched. “You think it’s Eunjang?”

Dong-Ha scoffed. “Or maybe one of the new crews trying to climb.”

the idea should’ve made Baek-Jin angry. Instead, it made him bored. Amateurs don’t leave scenes that clean. “No,” he said. “Not Eunjang. They don’t move like this.”

“…Then who?” Dong-Ha asked.

Baek-Jin stood slowly, walking toward the old filing cabinet in the corner. “We’ll find out. Burn what’s left. Pull every camera from the block and go dark for the week.”

Dong-Ha looked confused. “You’re not gonna send a message?”

Baek-Jin’s back was to them now, but his voice was ice. “This was the message.”

he didn’t say the name running laps in his mind. Didn’t need to. Because if he was right—he wasn’t dealing with a rival crew. He was dealing with something he helped build. And now? It was back.

Baek-Jin didn’t look surprised. He sat in silence, elbow resting against the desk, eyes half-lidded as if he’d already seen the aftermath in his mind long before they stepped into that warehouse.

Dong-Ha leaned forward, voice low and edged with disbelief. “It wasn’t Union work. Wasn’t Eunjang either.” His eyes locked on Baek-Jin. “So who the hell has the balls to wipe out one of our sites like that?”

Baek-Jin’s fingers drummed once against the desk. A hollow sound. Like a ticking clock. Then he said, quiet and cryptic, “Only one person I know would do something that cruel. Sloppy hands, but clean intent.”

Seong-Mok frowned, trying to catch up. “What do you mean? You’re saying that someone already knows about your plan that time?”

Dong-Ha’s mouth twitched. Something ice-cold slithered down his spine. “You don’t mean—”

Baek-Jin said nothing. Just looked at him.

and suddenly, the air in the room turned colder. Not from fear—but from recognition.

Dong-Ha exhaled sharply. A dry, bitter laugh escaped him like air from a punctured lung. “It’s Seong Je, isn’t it?”

he laughed again—but this time it sounded like disbelief crashing into dread. “You said he left the Union.”

Baek-Jin’s voice barely rose above a whisper. “I did.” He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t defend it. Just stared.

first at Dong-Ha. Then Seong-Mok. Eyes unmoving. Unblinking. Like a man who’d buried something years ago, only to see it clawing out of the dirt again.

there was a weight in his gaze. Something old. Regret, maybe. Or guilt.

his expression didn’t crack. But something in his stillness screamed louder than any words ever could.

it was as if Baek-Jin had made a deal long ago—a quiet pact in the shadows—and now the cost was coming due.

Seong-Mok shifted uncomfortably, the silence pressing into his chest like water filling lungs. Dong-Ha didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

because in that stillness, in Baek-Jin’s haunted stare, the truth was already echoing.

Seong Je’s Apartment — 12:00 a.m

it was quiet. Too quiet for a man like him.

the kind of quiet that presses in on your ears, not from peace—but from a suffocating, unnatural stillness.

the blinds were only half-drawn, letting the city spill through in fractured lines—white and blue slashes across the sterile apartment walls, like the aftermath of police lights or a fading dream. Cold, clinical. Too clean. Wrongly clean. The air held the faint sting of antiseptic and steel, like a hospital that had seen things it wasn’t meant to.

Seong Je sat on the edge of the couch, spine rigid, elbows resting on his knees. His black coat hadn’t come off. His gloves—thin leather, almost elegant—were still on. They creaked softly as he flexed his fingers, over and over, like he was counting something that didn’t quite add up.

on the coffee table in front of him, his phone’s screen glowed faintly, illuminating his face from below. Just one name. No new messages. The screen dimmed. Then darkened. He didn’t move.

his jaw ticked. Then again. And again. Not frustration. Not regret. Just the slow churn of a mind that never truly shut off.

the faucet dripped from the kitchen. It sounded louder than it should’ve. Everything did.

he leaned back, slowly, like something heavy was unspooling from his ribs. His breath came out in a long exhale, sharp and bitter. As if he were purging something—but it never quite left.

he tilted his head up, eyes tracing the ceiling like it held answers. Or maybe ghosts. The shadows cut strange shapes across his face. His expression was unreadable—stoic at first glance, but underneath, a tension clawed its way through his features. Like a man who’d already accepted the things he’d done, and was now simply biding his time for what comes next.

there was no guilt. No grief. Only calculation. And underneath it—desire. He wasn’t haunted by the massacre. He was bored. He didn’t do it for the thrill. Or the message. Or the blood.

he did it for her. And this was just the start. She didn’t know it yet—but she was already his. Every move he made... was to claim her.

and until then? He’d wait. In silence. In stillness. In the kind of darkness that doesn’t hide monsters—it raises them.

the leather of the couch groaned beneath him as he shifted slightly—subtle, controlled. Seong Je didn’t fidget. He recalibrated. Like a blade resting in its sheath, waiting for the moment it would be drawn again.

the apartment around him was too pristine. Not a single photo on the walls. No books. No clutter. Nothing to suggest a man lived here, except the faint scent of gun oil and something colder—like iron and smoke. The fridge hummed quietly in the background, the only thing alive in the place.

but even that sound seemed wary of him. The light from the phone dimmed. It went dark. He didn’t move.

his gloves creaked again—just a whisper of sound—as his thumb traced the edge of his palm. The same motion he always made when something stirred beneath his ribs. Hunger. Anticipation. A sickness that wore the mask of patience.

he thought of her. Not with warmth. But with possession. Not a soft obsession—but something ritualistic, compulsive. Inevitable. He didn’t care if she ran. He didn’t care if she fought.

in his mind, she was already his. Carved into the blueprint of his path, as unavoidable as blood on his knuckles or the silence that always followed him home. Every move he made was a step closer to her. Every life taken was one less in the way.

there had been no hesitation in that warehouse. Just clarity. Precision. The kind that comes when you believe—truly believe—you’re owed something the world tried to withhold.

and now… There was nothing left to clean up. Nothing left to bury. Just the wait. And still—he didn’t move.

not until the phone buzzed once, a soft tremor across the table. He looked at it. No new message. Just the screen lighting up from a calendar reminder. “Soon.”

a slow smile touched the corners of his mouth. It wasn’t warm. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man who already knew the ending—and was simply flipping through the pages until he got there.

the light from the phone dimmed again. And in the darkness, Seong Je waited. Not like a predator. Not like a man. But like a storm that had already decided which city it would bury next.

Hu-min’s Place — 12:05 a.m

the night had folded in on itself by the time they reached Hu-min’s place—a modest apartment tucked behind a flower shop, two floors above the noise of Seoul but miles away from the blood and fear they’d just escaped. It was warm inside. Lived-in. Safe.

Y/n sat on the edge of the couch, her hands resting in her lap, still trembling faintly. Her clothes were torn in places, skin bruised, a cut blooming across her shoulder like a warning. Hu-min knelt in front of her, a small first-aid kit open between them, his brows knitted in quiet concentration. “This might sting,” he said softly.

Y/n scoffed, a shaky smirk twitching at her lips. “After tonight? Go ahead, patch me up, Dr. Hu.”

he glanced up at her, mouth twitching like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite manage it. Instead, he poured antiseptic onto a cotton pad, gently pressing it to her skin. She flinched, just barely.

he paused. “Sorry.”

“No,” she murmured. “It’s fine.”

silence settled between them, thick but not awkward. It felt like it always had—like they were kids again, sneaking band-aids after falling off bikes, whispering secrets under stairwells when the world felt too loud.

but now… everything was heavier. The weight of near-death clung to their clothes, clung to the air between them.

when he finished taping the gauze, Hu-min stood, disappearing into the hallway for a second. He came back with a soft black hoodie and some sweatpants, neatly folded. “Here,” he said. “They’ll be big, but warm.”

she looked up at him. “You still fold clothes like your dad’s watching.”

“He’d haunt me if I didn’t.”

Y/n took the clothes, brushing her fingers against his as she did. He didn’t pull away.

“I’ll—uh, get you a towel,” he said quickly, spinning around before she could see the way his ears turned pink.

in the bathroom, the sound of the shower running filled the space like rain on a rooftop. Steam curled beneath the door. Hu-min sat on the floor of the living room, head tipped back against the couch, exhaling slowly.

she was safe. That should’ve been enough. But the memory of her in that place still echoed in his skull. And worse—he’d been almost too late.

the bathroom door creaked open. Y/n stood there in his clothes, the hoodie swallowing her whole, sleeves draping over her hands. Her hair was damp, clinging to her cheeks, skin scrubbed pink from the water. She looked smaller somehow—but not fragile. “Feel better?” he asked.

“Warmer,” she replied, pulling her knees up onto the couch, curling into herself.

he joined her, careful not to get too close, but close enough to feel her there beside him. The distance they left between them wasn’t fear.

it was history. And something delicate forming in the silence.

she leaned her head on his shoulder—not quite looking at him, but not needing to. “Thank you, Baku” she whispered.

he closed his eyes for a second. “I’ll always come for you.” And in that small apartment above the city, where no one knew their names and nothing hunted them for now, the night finally… softened.

the warmth from her head on his shoulder was steady, but Hu-min felt like he was breaking apart inside. He didn’t say anything at first.

he just stared ahead at the dim apartment—at the quiet kitchen light humming above the sink, the shadows flickering from the passing streetcars below. His throat burned. His hands twitched in his lap. “I’m sorry.”

Y/n didn’t move. Not at first. Just let the words hang in the air between them, like smoke from something still smoldering.

“I should’ve—" Hu-min’s voice cracked. He clenched his jaw, breathing through his nose, hard. "I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve kept you out of it. I told myself you’d never get touched by this life, that I’d keep it all away from you. But I didn’t. I dragged you right into it.”

she slowly lifted her head, looking at him. “Ba—”

“No.” He shook his head, tears finally spilling down his cheeks, one after another, unchecked and silent. “You almost died tonight, Y/n. And I… I almost lost you.”

his hand reached up, trembling fingers brushing over the bandage on her shoulder like he was trying to undo what had already happened.

“I swore I’d protect you,” he whispered. “Since we were kids, remember? I made you that dumb paper sword out of math homework and told you I’d fight anyone who made you cry.”

a breathless laugh escaped her—watery, broken. “It was a really ugly sword.”

“I know,” he sniffled, smiling weakly through the tears. “But I meant it. Every bit of it.”

she reached out and took his hand, their fingers knotting together automatically, like they’d always known how.

“You didn’t drag me into this, Baku,” she said gently. “I walked in. Because it’s you. I’d do it again.”

he shook his head, more tears spilling. “You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I did.” She leaned in, forehead resting gently against his. “And I’m still here.”

he squeezed his eyes shut, shoulders shaking as the weight he’d been carrying finally caved in. All the late nights, the fights, the secrets—none of it ever made him cry. But this?

this wrecked him. Because it was her. Because it could’ve ended.

and because even after all of it—she still held his hand.

Hu-min’s Place — 2:47 a.m

the moonlight spilled across Hu-Min’s bedroom like a secret—soft, silver, and unwelcome.

it crept in through the blinds like it didn’t belong there, washing everything in a faint glow that made shadows stretch in strange, crooked angles. The kind of light that made the familiar look foreign. Unsettling.

Y/N stirred in her sleep, brows knitting as a thin line of sweat formed along her hairline. Her breath hitched, shallow and fast.

the covers twisted around her legs like they were trying to hold her down.

in the dream, the walls pulsed. Not metaphorically—literally. They were alive. Inhaling. Exhaling. Massive, invisible lungs made of concrete and plaster and fear. With every breath they took, the space closed in tighter.

whispers bled through the cracks. Thin. Venomous. Some were jagged with anger. Some smooth with familiarity. Some wore the voices of people she thought were dead. Or worse—trusted.

All of them knew her name. Y/N. Y/N. Run.

she bolted upright, like surfacing from black water with lungs full of fire.

a harsh gasp tore from her throat—wet, ragged, like it had been held in too long. Her chest rose and fell in sharp jolts. Her hoodie clung to her back, damp with sweat. Every nerve buzzed like she’d been shocked awake.

the room was still. But not peaceful. The kind of still that feels like it’s watching.

she blinked hard, willing her eyes to adjust. There—Hu-Min’s bookshelves. The faint outline of his worn jacket hanging on the door. The desk lamp unplugged, exactly where they’d left it. Everything in place.

but the warmth that had once wrapped around this room was gone.

it felt hollow now. Like something had slipped through the cracks while she slept and stolen all the softness.

she sat in the silence, chest still hitching, trying not to cry or scream or breathe too loudly.

she didn’t know what she’d seen in the dream—but part of her wasn’t sure it had ended.

then out of nowhere the phone on the nightstand vibrated violently, a sudden, jarring noise in the dead quiet.

Y/N flinched like she’d been struck. Her hand flew to her chest instinctively, eyes snapping toward the screen. The sound had sliced through the silence like a blade, sharp and wrong. She snatched it up with shaking fingers. The glow of the screen was blinding.

her pupils shrank. Her breath caught. It’s an Unknown Number. Again. Two words. Plain. Chilling.

her thumb hovered just above the screen. Her pulse pounded behind her ears now—no longer from the dream, but from something more immediate. More real.

she didn’t know whether to answer or throw the phone across the room. Her body screamed for stillness, but her mind screamed move.

she reached down. Lowered the volume. A small, useless act of control.

and Y/N suddenly wasn’t sure if she was awake at all.

the screen still glowed in her hand. Pale light, too cold for comfort. Unknown Number.

the words sat there like a threat. Like they were watching her back through the glass.

her thumb hovered. Her pulse throbbed in her ears. The silence around her was dense, like she’d slipped underwater and hadn’t noticed until now.

a sudden vibration jolted through her hand, sharp and electric, like a whip cracking against bare skin.

she flinched, startled—but the buzz didn’t stop. It swelled, rising in volume and intensity, twisting from a distant hum into a piercing shriek that clawed at her ears.

her breath caught, stuck halfway in her chest, as if the noise had slammed a fist down on her windpipe.

the air around her thickened. Colors dulled, edges blurred.

then—without warning—the room fractured. Walls rippled like cracked glass. The shadows twisted, splintering apart into shards of darkness.

the floor beneath her seemed to quake, warping as if the whole world had become a fragile, tumbling globe.

and in a moment that felt like falling through time itself, the space shattered like that globe dropped from a dizzying height—splintering into a thousand silent fragments suspended in a frozen instant before everything collapsed into nothing.

the darkness peeled back. The moonlight blinked out like a dying bulb. The screen in her hand vanished.

she was falling. Tumbling through layers of shadow and light, the air thick and heavy around her like syrup.

or rising, slowly, as if pulled upward by invisible hands, drifting through a fog that blurred the edges of everything she thought she knew.

or maybe waking. But not the gentle waking of morning sun filtering through curtains.

this was raw, abrupt—like being yanked from sleep by a scream inside her own mind.

her senses scrambled—the softness of sheets turned to cold hardness. The whisper of silence became a pounding roar.

she hung there between two worlds, neither fully asleep nor fully awake—suspended in that fragile, terrifying moment where dreams bleed into reality.

Y/N gasped, lungs flaring, real this time. Her whole body jerked upright like she’d been yanked by invisible strings.

the sound was blaring again—BZZZZ. BZZZZ. BZZZZ.

her alarm. The cheap digital one she always meant to replace but never did. That awful little bird trill, loud and chirpy and hideously alive.

the phone vibrated on the nightstand, rattling next to an empty water glass.

she blinked. Disoriented. Shaking.

the light filtering through the curtains was gray, early, indifferent. Real morning light—the kind that didn’t dramatize. It just was.

Hu-Min’s room was quiet. Still. The jacket was still on the door. The books still piled too high on the shelf. A sock crumpled half under the desk where it had been for days. Normal. But she didn’t feel normal.

her hands were still trembling. Her heart still punched like it was in a fight her body hadn’t caught up to yet. There was no sweat this time. No whispering walls. But the unease lingered. Sticky. Crawling.

she grabbed the phone. Turned off the alarm. The screen blinked to life. No new messages. No glowing Unknown Number. No calls.

except—She checked her call log. And there it was. Missed call. 2:47 a.m. Unknown Number.

no voicemail. No text. Just the timestamp, like a fingerprint.

her stomach dropped. She hadn’t dreamed all of it. Not this part.

note: heyooo!! this series is coming to an end—finally !! what a journey this is—making my first fanfic series !! 🙂‍↕️🫡🙌🏻 almost took a whole month making this ig 😭😤

Morning bled in slow and golden. It crept past the curtains like it knew it wasn’t supposed to be here yet, touching everything in Seong Je’s dorm with quiet hands—his desk, the folders on the floor, the half-finished cup of tea that neither of you remembered setting down.

And the two of you were still there. Still curled near the wall, your shoulder pressed against his like it belonged there.

You blinked first, brain fuzzy with sleep and the low, humming ache of too much tension stored overnight in your bones.

For a second, it didn’t hit. Then suddenly the awareness crashed down in full cinematic clarity: Seong Je. Right beside you. His head tilted slightly toward yours. His hoodie rumpled. The faintest furrow between his brows, even in sleep.

Like he’d laid down every sharp word and sarcastic jab for just a moment and let himself rest. Like this was the only place in the world quiet enough for him to stop running.

You didn’t dare move. Didn’t even breathe too loud.

Not until he stirred. Eyelashes fluttering. Jaw flexing. The kind of wake-up that tried to play it cool and casual but was 100% staged in real time because he knew.

“Great,” he said, voice thick with mock horror, “so I’m officially the human embodiment of bad decisions. Don’t make this weird.”

You raised an eyebrow, “You’re the one who made it weird, bro. I woke up like this. You stayed.”

“Maybe I was worried you’d choke on your own mystery and die dramatically on my floor.”

Your lips twitched. “That’s so sweet. I should fall asleep next to you more often.” He shot you a look. “Don’t.” But it wasn’t sharp—not really—it landed soft. Cautious.

Then he stood up too fast, like he suddenly remembered the world existed outside this dorm.

“I’m gonna make tea, or coffee, or something to help me deal with my life choices. You want anything?”

You shook your head, watching him stalk to the kettle like it was the enemy.

And you thought, damn it. It's too late to pretend this didn’t happen.

The kettle clicked off, steam curling like breath in the stillness.

Seong Je poured the tea like it was a distraction, not a beverage—his movements sharp, calculated, the way someone moved when their thoughts were too loud and their mouth refused to say anything real.

You sat where he’d left you on the floor, arms looped around your knees, watching him like he might detonate if bumped too hard.

He handed you a mug without meeting your eyes. “I added honey,” he muttered. “So you can stop pretending you like the bitter crap.”

You blinked. “You… remembered that?” He finally looked at you. “I remember everything. Unfortunately.”

Your pulse did something traitorous. “Wow,” you said. “And here I thought you only retained insults and conspiracy theories.”

“Those are my top two categories,” he said dryly. “Third is obscure trivia. Fourth is… whatever this is.” He waved vaguely between you and him.

You both went quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just… charged.

The tea was too hot to drink, but neither of you made a move to cool it. The air buzzed between you, thick with unsaid things and leftover heat from last night’s almost-too-close nap. You glanced at him.

He was slouched in the desk chair now, legs sprawled out in front of him like he didn’t care, but his fingers were drumming a too-precise rhythm on the side of his mug. Nervous tell. You were learning him. “You almost said something,” you said, before you could talk yourself out of it. He stilled. “…When?”

“Before we passed out. On the floor.” You tried to make it light. Teasing. “You know. Peak romance vibes.” Seong Je didn’t answer at first.

His jaw flexed. His eyes flicked to the window like he could find a way out of this conversation in the sunlight bleeding in through the curtains.

And then, slowly, with a sigh like it hurt to pull out, “I was going to ask why you trust me.”

You blinked.

He didn’t look at you—just stared down at the tea in his lap like it had personally betrayed him.

“I’ve lied to you,” he said. “I’ve kept things. Important ones. Hell, I’ve literally dragged you out of places you weren’t supposed to survive—and you still…” He shook his head. “You still look at me like I’m not dangerous.”

The mug in your hands felt too warm. The air too thin. So—true to form—you deflected.

“Well,” you said, forcing a half-smile, “you’ve got a pretty face. That buys you at least three screw-ups.”

He didn’t laugh. Didn’t even smirk. Just looked up at you—really looked—and for a heartbeat, it was too much. Too honest.

And you hated yourself for it, but your smile slipped.

“…I trust you,” you said, quieter this time. “Because I’ve seen what you look like when no one’s watching.” His eyes flicked to yours.

Your chest ached. But instead of pressing, instead of asking the thousand questions burning behind your ribs—you offered him something instead.

Small. Not the big secret. Not yet. Just enough to tip the scale.

“When I was thirteen,” you said, “I used to sleep under my bed. Not because I was scared. Because it was the only place no one looked for me.” He blinked. You didn’t look at him. You stared at your tea. “You ever feel like that? Like the only way to be seen is to hide?”

Seong Je didn’t speak right away. But when he did, his voice was different. Lower. Rougher. “…Every day I’m here.”

The kettle clicked again behind you. A reminder. The tea had gone cold. But neither of you moved. And this time neither of you looked away.

Seong Je’s dorm — 9:00 p.m

It was nearly 9 p.m. when your eyes cracked open, bleary and unsure.

The dorm was steeped in twilight, a dusky veil draped over every corner like secrets half-whispered. Somewhere behind you, a desk lamp flickered—barely holding off the dark. The window was cracked open. The night crept in.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep again. You were on the floor, near the window, knees drawn to your chest—and the tea next to you from earlier—as you stared out at the moon like it might give you answers. The chill from the glass whispered against your skin. It felt more real than anything else.

Across the room, Seong Je sat in his desk chair, back to you, shoulders hunched slightly. He was flipping through a folder, pages rustling like dry leaves. His fingers moved with precision, like if he stayed focused enough, he could pretend nothing had happened. That you hadn’t woken up so close. The silence stretched. Taut as thread.

He didn’t turn. Didn’t look at you. Just said, quietly, like he already knew you were watching him.

“Didn’t mean to fall asleep?” He asked—voice was rough. Not quite tired. Not quite regretful. Just… tethered. Holding something in.

You let the pause linger before answering. “Yeah, I guess..”

He made a soft sound. Could’ve been a scoff. Could’ve been a sigh.

Then he reached into the top drawer and pulled out a half-crumpled cigarette pack like it was muscle memory. A habit, not a decision.

You watched him shake one loose, flick the lighter. The flame snapped to life, golden and sudden in the half-dark. “Seriously?” you said, arching a brow. “That’s your coping strategy now? Dramatic wall-brooding and cancer?”

He turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Please. I’m being subtle. My real rebellion phase ended sophomore year.”

He took a drag, exhaled slow. The smoke curled up toward the ceiling like a sigh that didn’t belong to him. Then, casually, he glanced at you. Really looked. “You ever tried it?”

The question landed like a pebble in still water. You blinked. “Uh. No.”

He nodded, like he’d expected that. Like he’d read it in you the moment you walked into his orbit.

Then—without ceremony—he walked up to you and held the cigarette out toward you. Between two fingers. An invitation wrapped in smoke and recklessness.

You hesitated at first, but your hand moved anyway. Your fingers brushed his. Just for a second. But it sparked. Your breath caught.

You brought it to your lips. Hesitated again. “Tilt up,” he said softly. “Inhale slow.” You tried. You really did.

You tried to mirror his ease, his cool confidence. Tried to act like you weren’t inhaling more nerves than smoke. Which is probably why you choked on the first drag like you were being exorcised.

Seong Je laughed. It was low and warm and absolutely insufferable. “That was tragic,” he said. “Truly. I’m moved.” You wheezed. “I hope your hoodie catches fire.”

“Oh no,” he drawled, taking the cigarette back and drawing another slow drag. “I’d be shirtless. Tragic.” You glared. He stepped closer. And without warning—leaned in. His mouth caught yours like it had been waiting all day. Warm. Open. Controlled. Just the press of his mouth against yours—warm, slow, deliberate. It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t rushed. It was intentional.

You gasped but didn’t pull away. Couldn’t. The kiss wasn’t rushed. It was slow. Intentional. A whispered confession against your lips. And when he exhaled the smoke into you—carefully, sinfully—you tasted fire and something far more dangerous.

And looking at you like you were the one thing that broke his rules.

Your hands found his chest, not to push him away but to ground yourself. Like if you didn’t hold on, you might drift out the window entirely.

When he finally pulled back, he didn’t go far. Just enough to breathe. A single thread of smoke lingered between you.

“Lesson two,” he murmured, thumb tracing the curve of your jaw. “Always inhale slow.”

Your voice barely made it out. “What’s lesson three?” Seong Je smirked—that damn smirk—then he slowly backed away, “I’ll show you,” he said, “when you’re ready.”

Just like that—he stepped back. Returned to the desk. As if the moment hadn’t just happened.

You just stand there, dazed. Moonlight on your face. Smoke still curling in the air. And deep in your chest—trouble brewing like a second heartbeat.

You were still staring at the floor when it happened. A sharp buzz. That same low, glitchy whine. Your heart dropped. You knew that sound. So did Seong Je.

He moved before you could say anything—crossed the room in three long strides and threw open his drawer. That same drawer he’d dropped the phone into earlier. The one you’d found together in the janitor’s closet. Long-dead, cracked screen, cursed with the kind of silence that didn’t feel natural.

Now it was ringing. Again. Like it had been waiting.

The same symbol flickered weakly on the screen: a black circle with a silver eye in the center. No caller ID. No service.

He was staring at the phone like it had personally betrayed him. Then the ringtone stopped. Dead silence. You both waited—one breath. Two.

Then the screen blinked once. A recording playback started.

It was yours together—from a few minutes ago.

“What’s lesson three?”

“I’ll show you when you’re ready.”

The very words spoken in this room. You both went still. No air. No movement. Just… dread. Then, cutting through the hush, came the other voice. Low. Measured. It carried a gravity that made the floor feel farther away. Not cruel, but absolute. The kind of voice that doesn’t need to raise itself to command silence.

“You’re not ready,”

A voice like an echo from deep underground or maybe from somewhere deeper still, behind your own thoughts. Static—sharp, like glass shattering in slow motion, crackled through the air, dissonant and cold. It clung to the walls, buzzed in their ears, then stilled.

The recording ended. Just like that.

Seong Je slammed the drawer shut with a curse, jaw clenched tight. His entire posture changed—coiled, sharp, guarded. You jumped at the sudden movement of him.

“That’s not a recording,” he said, voice tight. “That’s a message.” You swallowed. “From who?”

His answer came slower this time, heavier, “No one that wants you to survive this.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. Not quite still. Like the room was listening. Like the air had opinions.

Then Seong Je turned to you fully—slowly, deliberately—as if the act itself carried weight. His eyes, once merely intense, now seemed bottomless, like twin eclipses swallowing all light. Unreadable. A wall you couldn’t scale, couldn’t even begin to map. His mouth was set in a razor-thin line, carved in quiet resolve. “You’re not going back to your dorm,” he said.

His voice wasn’t loud, but it had force—a quiet, unyielding finality that made your stomach tighten. Like something had just shifted beneath your feet and hadn’t settled yet.

You blinked. “What? Why not?” Your voice cracked slightly, the question coming out too fast, too high. You tried to laugh it off, but the air between you had thickened—heavy with something unsaid. A chill prickled along your arms.

“Because this thing, whatever it is—it wants you alone. That phone turned itself on here. It played our voices. That means it’s close. Listening. Learning. And if you’re by yourself when it decides to do something worse than talk—”

He cut himself off mid-sentence, the words catching in his throat like they’d turned sharp on the way out. Frustration rippled across his face—barely contained, like waves slamming against a seawall.

He ran a hand through his hair, fingers tangling for a second before pulling free. It wasn’t a casual gesture; it was the kind you make when your thoughts are too loud to keep still. His eyes dropped to the floor, to the wall—anywhere but you.

“You’re staying here,” he said, voice low. Not a command, not quite. But there was no room in it for negotiation.

A long pause unspooled between you. It stretched out and breathed, and in it was something fragile and vast. The silence didn’t feel empty—it felt like it was waiting.

“…Just for tonight?” you asked, your voice small. Testing the edge of his meaning. Hoping it wasn’t what it sounded like.

He looked at you then. Really looked. And you saw it—beneath the cool exterior, the guarded tone—there was fear. Raw, honest, and pulsing just under the surface. Not fear of you, but for you. Like if he looked away too long, you’d disappear like smoke in sunlight.

“No,” he said, and the word landed like a stone dropped in deep water. “Until I figure out how to make sure you don’t vanish the second I blink.”

You didn’t respond—couldn’t. Something in his voice struck a chord so deep it hummed inside your ribs. He meant it. Every syllable. Like he'd already lost something before, and your presence was the thread he was holding on to, white-knuckled and trembling.

Then suddenly there's a knock on the door. Not loud. Not rushed. Three slow raps.

Your heads snapped toward the door like strings pulled tight. It didn’t sound threatening—but it didn’t have to. It was the kind of knock that knew exactly what it was doing. The kind that waits just long enough between taps to let your imagination fill in the silence. You both froze.

Seong Je was closest. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. For a moment, he didn’t even breathe. His expression carved into stone—eyes wide but not panicked, jaw tense, mouth parted just slightly like he’d been about to say something and swallowed it instead.

His gaze flicked toward the door, then away. Then back again. A muscle in his cheek twitched.

You felt your heartbeat spike behind your eyes. You reached for your voice like it was on a shelf too high to grab.“Is it one of them?” you whispered.

His jaw clenched harder. “No,” he said. The word was a blade, low and certain.“They don’t knock.”

That’s when the air changed. The kind of shift you can’t explain but feel in your spine. Like the room had exhaled and forgotten how to inhale again. The lights didn’t flicker, but somehow everything seemed dimmer. You could hear your pulse thudding in your ears like war drums.

Then there's a voice outside the door. “Je?” Muffled. Feminine. Sweet, almost sing-song. Like syrup over broken glass. “You in there?”

Your breath caught mid-chest. It sounded familiar. The kind of voice you could trust—soft, warm, the kind you’d answer without thinking. But your skin had already gone cold.

But Seong Je didn’t move. Didn’t soften. Didn’t even blink. His body was held taut, locked in place—like if he moved wrong, he’d set off a tripwire. He was halfway between fight and disappear. Every line in his face screamed restraint.

You turned to him, panic climbing your throat. “Who is that?” He just shook his head once, short and sharp.

“Je?” The voice continued, “Why’s your door locked?” Then came a sound so quiet it might’ve been imagined—a soft click. The handle. Testing. Turning. The doorknob shifted. Once. Then again.

Your whole body tensed. Like you were shrinking into your own shadow. Another knock came again—this one faster. Harder. Three raps in a row, no hesitation. Then silence again. Thick. Complete. Like the walls were listening.

Seong Je stepped toward you. Controlled. Precise. Every move measured like he was navigating a minefield. He lowered his voice to a thread of sound, barely a breath. “Stay quiet. Don’t speak unless I say.”

You nodded, throat dry, pulse a wildfire behind your eyes.

Another voice joined the first. This one was wrong in a way you couldn’t place—like it had been run through a filter that didn’t quite understand human. Too high. Too low. Just off. It even said the same thing.

“Je? You there?”

Then again, with an echo. A delay. Like playback from a scratched-up tape. “Je? You there?” Like something was trying to mimic concern and failing.

Your eyes flicked to the drawer where the phone was hidden. Still warm. Still glowing faintly through the slats in the wood.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Something sharper now. Fingernails—or claws—dragging across metal.

Then a click. The light under the door blinked out.

Seong Je moved fast, without panic. One hand caught your wrist—firm but not rough. His other hand reached past you, grabbing the lighter off the windowsill. The cigarette had burned to ash hours ago, but the flame was still his anchor.

He muttered something under his breath. Korean. Not a prayer, exactly—too raw. More like a spell pulled from memory, each syllable struck with conviction. You whispered, “What do we do?”

He turned to you, finally. And for a second, it was just you and him. No monsters. No door. No mimic voices on the other side.

No smirk. No sarcasm. Just eyes full of fire and a fear that didn’t make him small—it sharpened him into something ancient and unbreakable.

“We don’t open it.”

Outside was silence. But not the kind of silence that feels empty. No—this was the kind that listens.nThe kind that leans in. A silence with teeth.

It pressed in from all sides, thick and unnatural, like the air itself had been wrapped in gauze. No footsteps. No distant cars. Not even the soft hum of the building’s pipes. The world had gone still—too still. Even your breath felt like a violation of that hush.

You and Seong Je didn’t dare move. The tension in the room was a living thing now, breathing just behind your shoulder, invisible but there. Your heartbeat wasn’t just pounding—you could feel it in your fingertips, in your neck, behind your eyes. Every pulse was a countdown. To what, you didn’t know.

And then a scratch. It wasn’t loud. But it didn’t have to be. It was worse because it wasn’t. Something soft and sharp dragged down the wooden door. Slowly. Like it had all the time in the world. Like it wanted you to hear every second of it.

Your skin prickled. Not just from fear—but from the sick realization that it knew you were listening. That the sound was for you.

Your eyes locked with Seong Je’s. He was stone-still—but he wasn’t calm. You could see it in his throat, the way he swallowed hard. The way his shoulders hovered just a little too high.

The way his hand, still clenched around the lighter, trembled in that imperceptible way people try to hide. He wasn’t afraid of monsters. He was afraid of this one.

And then there's a voice—that voice. It slipped under the door like perfume laced with venom. Soft. Deceptively sweet. And wrong.

“…Ready for lesson three?”

The words landed like a secret you were never meant to hear. The voice didn’t shout or hiss. It smiled. You could hear it smile. It didn’t need volume. It had intimacy. Like it already knew your name. Like it already knew what your fear tasted like.

Your spine locked. Your mouth went dry. Somewhere in your body, muscles tensed that hadn’t moved in hours. A deep, animal instinct screamed behind your ribs—Don’t answer.

Because deep down, you knew—whatever that was… it wasn’t just talking. It was inviting.

It wanted to see what would happen when you said yes.

mueheheheh it’s getting creepier let’s goooo

It was late at night.

The apartment was dark, except for the small bedside lamp that flickered weakly in your bedroom.

You lay half-asleep under the blankets, your forehead burning with fever, your body aching.

The room felt stuffy, and every swallow made your throat sting painfully. You barely registered the soft creaked of the bedroom door being open.

Barely noticed the quiet thump of shoes on the floor. It wasn’t until you heard that low, familiar voice, "Hey, dumbass. Lock your damn door next time." Which made your eyes flutter open.

Standing there, looking thoroughly unimpressed and holding a plastic bag full of things... was Seong Je.

Still in his maroon uniform—blazer and pants—and a black sweatshirt underneath, hair—almost too messy—like he had rushed over.

"You’re seriously pathetic," he said, but his voice came out way softer than the words should've allowed. Way, way too soft.

You tried to say something smart—maybe tell him to get lost, that you were fine—but all that came out was a weak cough. You winced, forcing your dry voice out, “Wait—how did you know where I live?”

Seong Je raised an eyebrow like that’s what you were focused on right now, then scoffed. “You think I don’t know how to get info when I want it?” he said, cocking his head.

You stared at him, half-horrified, half-exhausted. “That’s creepy…”

Seong Je sighed dramatically—pushed his glasses back up—shaking his head. "You look like fucking hell."

Without waiting for permission, he dropped the plastic bag onto your nightstand. Medicine. Bottled water. A cold pack. Some weird rice porridge thing that he definitely got at a convenience store nearby.

Then, like he owned the place, he crouched beside your bed and pressed the back of his hand to your forehead. "Tch. You're burning up," he muttered, frowning hard.

But his touch lingered—cool, rough fingers brushing over your heated skin so carefully it made your chest tighten. You tried to squirm away, embarrassed.

Seong Je just snorted. "Stay still, idiot. Lemme take care of you."

He fixed your blanket properly. Helped you sit up just enough to sip some water. Mumbling curses under his breath like,

"This is what you get for not wearing a fucking jacket,"

"Next time you feel sick, fucking call me, dumbass."

But the whole time, he stayed. So gentle it made your heart ache worse than the fever.

When you finally drifted off to sleep again, you felt it—the soft weight of Seong Je’s hand resting lightly on your head, the low rumble of his voice as he muttered,

"…idiot. Don’t scare me like that again."

i know i'm not the only one who loves this side of him 😤😤