rikimbap

You wake up when the floorboards creak in the hallway. You wait in bed for five minutes, listening to the silence of the house, before you pull on a grey sweatshirt and walk downstairs.

In the kitchen, Jake is already sitting at the island, hunched over his laptop. His oversized black hoodie bunches around his neck, and his shoulders are rounded forward. When you step onto the tile, he flinches and quickly pushes his glasses up his nose.

"Oh. Hi," he says. His voice is quiet as he stumbles over the greeting. "Good morning."

"Morning," you say, walking to the counter. "Is there coffee?"

"Yeah. I made a pot." He points to the machine before he tucks his hands back into his sleeves. "It's still hot."

You pour yourself a mug. The ceramic is warm against your palms. You lean against the counter and look at him. "You have that midterm today?"

"Yeah, quantum maths. It's a pain in the ass." He types three keys and stops. "I've been awake since 5. My head hurts from looking at the formulas."

"Are you ready for it?"

"I think so. If I don't mess up the proofs." He looks up at you. His eyes blink rapidly behind his thick lenses and a faint red color spreads across his cheeks. "What about you? You have that group project presentation today, right? With the guy from your marketing class."

"Yeah, Damian. He hasn't sent me his half of the slides yet."

Jake's hands freeze on the keyboard. "He's a fucking idiot."

The sudden change in his tone makes you pause. His voice is flat and direct, without his usual wobble. When you look at him, he quickly slumps further into his hoodie, his eyes darting back to the screen.

"I mean," he mumbles, his voice rising back to its nervous pitch. "He just...he seems lazy. I see him sitting by the library sometimes, just talking on his phone."

"He is lazy," you say, taking a sip of the coffee. "I'll probably have to finish the presentation myself before noon."

Jake watches you drink. His head is turned toward you, his eyes fixed on your mouth, then your throat as you swallow. His face is completely still, devoid of the nervous twitching he usually does.

"You shouldn't have to do his work," Jake says.

You set your mug down on the granite. The sound makes him blink, and he immediately looks down at his keyboard again, his shoulders tensing.

"It's fine," you say. "I just want to get it over with."

"I could...I could look at your slides," he says, stammering slightly on the first word. "If you want. I can check the layout or make sure the alignment is correct."

"It's marketing, Jake. We just used a template."

"Right. Yeah. Of course." He nods quickly, his head bobbing four or five times. "Just...if you needed help."

He presses a key to lock his laptop before sliding it into his backpack. When he stands up, his actual height is obvious, he is clearly taller than you, but he immediately curves his spine, lowering his head as he zips the bag.

"I'm going to go to campus early," he says, his eyes focused on the floor near your feet. "I need to study more."

"Okay. Good luck on the test."

"Thanks." He walks past you, leaving a wide space between your bodies as he heads for the front door. "See you later."

The front door clicks shut and the kitchen is quiet again.

──────

You pull into the gravel driveway at the exact same time Jake’s car stops in the space next to yours. You both get out of your cars. Jake immediately ducks his head, grabbing his heavy backpack from the passenger seat and hoisting it over one slouched shoulder.

"Hey," he says, his voice quiet. He stands by his door, waiting for you to walk first.

"Hey," you say, walking toward the stone steps of the mansion. "How was the math midterm?"

"It was...hard. I think I got a B. Maybe a B-minus." He follows a few paces behind you, his sneakers squeaking on the stone.

Inside, the house is silent. Your mother is in Chicago for a week-long business conference, leaving just you, Jake, and his father.

Jake’s dad is already sitting at the long mahogany dining table when you walk into the dining room. A roasted chicken and some sides are laid out on silver platters.

"There they are," he says, looking up from his phone. "Sit down. How was it today?"

You both sit. Jake takes the chair directly across from you. He immediately pulls his plate close, keeping his eyes on his food as he serves himself.

"It was fine," you say. "Just a bit busy."

"That’s good. So, we need to talk about summer," his dad says while carving the chicken. "I’m booking a villa in Ibiza for July. You two are coming."

You set your fork down. "Oh, I don't think I can go. I wanted to take summer classes. I need to catch up on my biology credits."

Jake’s dad sighs, waving his hand. "You work too hard. Take a break."

You look at Jake. He is chewing slowly. He swallows and looks up, his glasses slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose. He clears his throat twice.

"You, um...you can take the classes online," Jake says. His voice is small and hesitant. "The villa has high-speed internet. I looked at your syllabus on the counter yesterday. It's mostly reading and quizzes. I can...I can help you study if you get stuck. It wouldn't be a big deal."

He looks at you through his eyelashes, his expression nervous as if he is waiting for you to shut him down.

"See?" His dad says. "Jake will help you. It's settled."

Under the table, your knee accidentally bumps into Jake's. He doesn't pull his leg away immediately. He holds the contact for three seconds, his leg completely still against yours before he slowly flinches back and looks down at his plate.

"Okay," you say, looking at him. "I'll go."

After dinner, his dad goes to his study to make business calls. You and Jake sit in the main living room. A reality TV show plays on the flat-screen, yet neither of you is really watching it. Jake sits on the far end of the leather sofa, his knees pulled together and his laptop open on his thighs.

The air conditioning is on but the room feels stuffy. You pull at the collar of your t-shirt.

"It's fucking hot in here," you say.

"The compressor downstairs is old," Jake says, his fingers hovering over his keyboard. "Dad refuses to replace it."

"Let's go swim," you say while standing up. "The pool is clean. It'll feel better than sitting in here."

Jake looks up from his screen. He blinks. "Now?"

"Yeah, now. Come on, don't be boring."

He hesitates, his eyes darting to the door and back to his laptop. "Okay. I'll go change."

Ten minutes later, you meet by the outdoor pool. The blue lights under the water are on, casting bright reflections across the concrete patio. You are wearing a simple black bikini. Jake comes out in dark swim trunks and a white t-shirt.

"You're wearing a shirt?" you ask, dipping your legs into the water.

Jake sits on the edge, a foot away from you, letting his feet dangle in the pool. He looks at the water, keeping his eyes away from your body. "I don't want to get sunburned."

"It's 9 o'clock at night, Jake. There is no sun."

"It's a habit," he mumbles, his shoulders curving inward.

You splash a bit of water at his feet.

"Seriously, though," you say, leaning back on your hands. "Do you ever do anything fun? Do you even like girls?"

Jake freezes. His feet stop moving in the water. "What?"

"I've lived here for two years, and you've never brought a girl home. Not even a friend who is a girl."

He keeps his eyes on the water. His voice is very quiet. "I don't have time for that. I'm focusing on my degree."

"Right. Sure."

There’s a silence settling in between you two. So you decide to eventually break it.

"I haven’t heard anything from Jay. What about him?" you ask, watching his profile. "He came over last week to drop off your textbooks. You should invite him over more often."

The nervous and slouched posture Jake has maintained all night vanishes in an instant. His spine straightens. He turns his head to look at you, and the movement is fast, completely lacking his usual hesitation. His jaw is clenched so hard a muscle twitches in his cheek.

"Jay is a fucking jerk," Jake says.

His voice isn't high or shaky anymore. It is dry and perfectly steady. You stare at him, surprised by the sudden bite in his tone. "He was nice to me though."

"He's a dumbass who fails half his classes and spends his weekends getting black-out drunk just because he has the money for it," Jake says, his eyes locking onto yours. "He isn't coming back to this house."

"Why are you saying things like that?" you ask, your heart beating a little faster against your ribs. "He's your friend."

Jake stares at you for another second. The expression on his face is cold, without any of his usual softness. He looks down at your collarbone and slowly back up to your eyes. He clears his throat and slumps his shoulders back down, his head dropping as he rubs the back of his neck. The nervous stutter returns but it sounds slightly forced.

"I just...I don't want him around anymore," Jake stammers, his voice rising back to its soft and shaky register. "He's...he's being annoying. He makes a mess. And he's loud."

He slides into the pool, letting the water come up to his chest, hiding his frame. But even underwater, his eyes stay on you, tracking your every move.

──────

The house was unnervingly quiet. One week before summer break, and the entire afternoon stretched before Jake, empty and ripe with opportunity. Not for studying nor packing, it’s actually for you.

His heart hammered against his ribs as he pushed open the door to your bedroom. The air was filled with the scent of your perfume and he loved it. He breathed it in deeply, his eyes scanning the room. Your bed was perfectly made. However it was the walk-in closet that called to him.

He stepped inside, the soft carpet muffling his footsteps. Your dressing room was a sanctuary of all his desires. Dresses hung on one side, blouses on the other. But his gaze fell to the dresser, its top neatly arranged with perfumes and jewelry. He pulled open the top drawer. There they were. Rows and rows of your panties. Lace, silk, cotton. Thongs, briefs, boyshorts.

His hands trembled as he reached in, his fingers brushing against the delicate material. He pulled out a black lace pair. He brought them to his face, inhaling your scent that made his cock twitch in his pants. He was sick, he knew he was. A depraved and obsessed freak, but he just couldn't stop. He snapped picture after picture with his phone, capturing the intimate details of your underwear drawer for his own personal collection.

Next, he moved to your desk, your laptop left open and sleeping. He shook the mouse, and the screen lit up. He was in. Your social media was already pulled up. He clicked on Instagram, his eyes scanning your feed. Pictures of you with your friends, selfies from class, a few with your mom and his dad. Then something immediately catched his eyes. A private message thread with Jay. ‘That motherfucker’ he thought.

He clicked on it, his stomach clenching. The conversation was ambiguous, full of inside jokes. Jay had sent a picture of himself, at the gym, probably to show you where he was and what he was doing. You'd like the picture and replied that he looked pretty good. After that, a message from Jay that made Jake's blood boil cold : "Can't wait for summer break. Maybe we can see each other."

A low growl rumbled in Jake's chest. "Are you fucking kidding me?" he muttered to the empty room. "Fucking asshole. You think you can have her just like that? You’re fucking dead." He slammed the laptop shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room. He had to see you. He had to watch you.

He retrieved the tiny camera he'd bought online, his hands shaking with a mixture of adrenaline and rage. He scanned the room, his eyes landing on the bookshelf across from your bed. Perfect. He climbed onto a chair, his fingers working quickly as he positioned the camera between two dusty hardcovers, the lens pointed directly at your bed. It was so small and almost invisible. He connected it to his phone, the live feed popping up instantly. He adjusted the angle, a sick sense of satisfaction settling in his gut. Now he could see you whenever he wanted, he could have you, in his own twisted way.

Hours later, he heard the front door open. You were home. He scrambled to his room, his heart pounding and locked the door. He grabbed his phone, opening the camera app, his eyes glued to the screen. He watched as you entered your bedroom, dropping your bag on the floor with a sigh. You looked tired, your hair slightly messy from a long day of classes. You stretched, your arms reaching for the ceiling, your shirt riding up to expose a sliver of skin on your stomach. Jake's breath hitched.

You turned your back to the camera, unbuttoning your jeans and shimmying out of them. His eyes were glued to the screen, his hand already palming his hardening cock through his pants. You stood there in your t-shirt and a simple pair of cotton panties, the ones he'd seen in your drawer that morning. You reached for the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head, revealing a plain white bra. You unhooked it, letting it fall to the floor, and Jake's cock sprang to life, straining against the fabric of his pajamas.

He freed himself, his hand wrapping around his thick shaft, his eyes still locked on the screen. You were just in your panties now, your body even more perfect than he'd imagined. He watched as you walked to your dresser, pulling out a silk nightgown, the fabric shimmering in the soft light of your room.

He started to stroke himself, his movements slow and sharp, his eyes never leaving the screen. He imagined it was his hands on your skin, his lips tracing the line of your collarbone. He imagined you looking up at him, with your beautiful eyes, whispering his name.

"Fuck, Y/N." he grunted, his strokes becoming faster, more urgent. He was so close. He watched as you slipped the nightgown over your head, the silk clinging to your body like a second skin. You climbed into bed, pulling the covers up to your chin, and switched off the lamp.

The screen went dark but it was too late. With a final groan, Jake came, his release spurting onto his stomach and chest. He lay there, panting, his phone still clutched in his hand. He was sick, twisted, obsessed. As he stared at the dark screen, a satisfied smile spread across his face. He had you now. He had a piece of you, a secret part of you, all to himself. And he would never, ever let you go.

──────

Finally, summer break. The villa in Ibiza is built from white stone that holds the heat long after the sun goes down. You are sitting at the glass table on the terrace, squinting at your laptop screen while the Mediterranean wind tosses the pages of your textbook.

The biology quiz on the screen is full of red marks. You click an answer, get it wrong, and hiss a curse under your breath.

"That’s the third time you’ve picked the same protein synthesis pathway," Jake says. He’s sitting on the lounger behind you, hunched over a thick paperback. He’s clearly been tracking your failure.

"I know what I'm doing, Jake," you snap, clicking through to the next question.

"You clearly don't. You're forcing it because you're frustrated." He sighs, his voice thin and shaky. "If you just...if you looked at the diagram on page 214, it would—"

"I don't need the diagram, I need this to be over so I can go outside." You click another random answer. Wrong again. "Fuck this."

The chair behind you scrapes harshly against the stone. Suddenly, Jake is standing right over you. He grabs the back of your chair and spins it around so you’re forced to look at him.

"Stop clicking," he says.

The stutter is gone. His voice is flat. He leans down, placing one hand on the table and the other on the arm of your chair, effectively pinning you in place. His eyes are cold and intensely focused, stripped of their usual nervous blinking.

"You are wasting your time," he says, his gaze boring into yours. "Open the book. Read the section I told you to read. Do not click another button until you can explain the process back to me. Okay?"

You stare at him, your mouth slightly open. The quiet side of him is nowhere to be found; in his place is someone who looks like he could dismantle your entire argument with a single sentence.

"I—" you start but the words catch.

Jake blinks. The sharp lines of his face suddenly go soft. He recoils as if he’s been burned, his shoulders hitting his ears as he slumps back into his usual posture. He looks at his shoes, his fingers twitching at his sides.

"I...I mean," he stammers, his voice jumping back up higher. "It would just...it would save you time. S-sorry. I didn't mean to be...whatever that was."

He won't look at you now and he edges back toward his lounger. "I’m going to go down to the beach in 10 minutes. If you want to come. But, uh...finish the work first. I'll wait at the cove."

It takes you 40 minutes to finish. By the time you trek down the private stone path to the beach, the sun is beginning to dip, turning the sand into a pale gold. You spot him standing near the water's edge. He’s taken his shirt off, and the sight stops you in your tracks. Without the oversized hoodies to hide in, his frame is lean and surprisingly muscular, his skin tanned from the few days you've been here. He’s standing tall, looking out at the horizon, his posture relaxed and confident.

"Took you long enough," he calls out. He doesn't turn around but he knows it's you.

"The quiz was a bitch," you say, walking up to him. Up close, he looks different. His hair is pushed back by the wind and he isn't wearing his glasses.

He turns to look at you and grins. "Maybe you’re just a slow learner."

"Excuse me?" you laugh, shoving his shoulder.

"I'm just saying. I finished my credits two years ago." He dodges your next shove with a quick movement.

"You seem...different today," you say, eyeing him. "Did the salt air fix your brain?"

Jake shrugs, kicking a bit of foam toward you. "Maybe. Or maybe there’s just nobody here to perform for." He steps closer, his shadow falling over you. "Is it a problem?"

"No," you murmur. "It’s just...weird."

"Life is weird, you know." he says. Without warning, he reaches down and hooks his arms under your knees and around your back.

"Jake ! Put me down !" You shriek, grabbing his shoulders for balance. His skin is hot and slightly grit with salt.

"You need to cool off," he says. He’s not struggling with your weight at all. He walks into the surf, the water splashing against his thighs.

"Jake, I swear to God—"

He drops you. You hit the water with a splash, coming up gasping and shivering. You immediately lunged for him, grabbing his waist to pull him down with you. He loses his footing, and you both go under, treading water in the shallow break. You come up laughing, wiping hair from your face. Jake is right in front of you, his hands resting on your waist to steady you against a coming wave. The playfulness vanishes as the water settles between you.

The wave pushes you forward, flush against his chest. His hands tighten on your waist, pulling you closer instead of letting you drift back. You look up, expecting to see his nervousness on his face, his eyes are fixed on your lips.

He leans in, agonizingly slow, giving you every second to move away. But you just feel like you don't want to.

When his lips touch yours, it’s not an accident of the waves. It lasts only a second where the world disappears, before he pulls back just an inch. His breath is jagged.

"S-sorry," he whispers, the stutter returning like a ghost. "The wave...pushed us."

He lets go of your waist and turns toward the shore, his shoulders already starting to hunch as he retreats into the surf.

The walk back up to the villa was silent.

Inside the villa, the air was cooler than a few hours ago. Jake disappeared into his suite immediately, leaving you standing in the foyer with damp hair and a racing pulse. You waited, leaning against the wall, until you heard the shower stop. When he finally stepped out into the hallway, he was wearing a fresh white t-shirt and grey joggers, his hair still dark and dripping.

"Jake," you said, your voice sounding thin in the high-ceilinged hall.

He stopped, his hand tightening on the towel around his neck.

"About the beach," you started, crossing your arms. "The kiss. It was...a mistake. The waves, everything…we should just forget it."

Jake was quiet for a long beat. He finally looked at you, his eyes unreadable behind the droplets of water clinging to his lashes. "It’s okay," he said. His voice was dull, almost sounding empty. "I already forgot."

He brushed past you, the scent of his soap lingering in the air, and disappeared into the kitchen. You retreated to your room and threw yourself onto the bed. You stared at the ceiling, trying to focus on your biology notes, but your mind kept looping back to the feeling of his hands on your waist. You tried to convince yourself that the spark was just a fluke, a side effect of the sun, yet the memory of his gaze in the water felt like a bruise that wouldn't stop aching.

Restless, you eventually left your room to wander in the villa. You ended up in a wing you hadn't explored yet. You pushed open a heavy oak door and found yourself in a studio bathed in the blue light of the moon. The room was filled with art pieces. Large canvases leaned against the walls, and stone statues, half-finished figures emerging from marble that stood on pedestals like in a museum. This was Jake’s mother’s space. You knew she had been an artist, but the sheer raw emotion in the room was overwhelming.

Jake stood perfectly still. He looked like one of the sculptures himself, a silhouette carved out of the darkness. You stopped a few feet away from him, your eyes wandering over the canvas near his shoulder.

"She stayed in here for days at a time," Jake said. His voice echoing through the room. "Dad hated it. He thought it was a waste of energy to create things that didn't have a profit margin."

"It’s not a waste," you said, stepping closer to a marble bust. You reached out, running your thumb over the cold and polished cheek of the figure. "It’s honest. You can feel how much she cared about this."

Jake turned his body toward you. He leaned his lower back against a heavy wooden workbench, his long legs stretching out across the floor. He wasn't hiding in his hoodie tonight, he was wearing a simple t-shirt that showed the sharp lines of his shoulders.

"Honesty is dangerous," he said. "People spend their whole lives building walls so they don't have to be honest. Then they come in here and realize they’re transparent."

"Is that why you’re in here?" you asked, looking at him. "To feel transparent?"

He watched you, his gaze moving from your eyes down to the hand you still had resting on the statue and back up again. The air in the room felt like it was thickening, becoming harder to breathe. He looked like he was taking you apart, piece by piece, analyzing the way the moonlight hit your skin.

"I’m in here because it’s the only room in this house where I don't have to pretend," he said. The honesty in his voice was a physical weight. He took a step toward you, closing the distance until you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. The height difference you usually ignored felt overwhelming now.

"You look pretty," he said. "Especially in this light. With your hair like that."

Your throat went dry. You expected him to look away, to blush and stammer a retraction, to go back to being the boy who couldn't look you in the eye at breakfast. But he didn't. He kept his eyes locked on yours, his expression unreadable and heavy.

"Jake," you breathed, the name more of a question than anything else.

"Oh please," he murmured, his voice dropping lower, sounding like velvet. "Don't look at me like you're surprised. You've been watching me just as much as I've been watching you."

He reached out, his hand hovering near your face for a second before he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm, and they lingered there, his thumb ghosting over the shell of your ear with a slow pressure.

He let his hand drop yet he didn't move back. He stood there, looking satisfied with just being close to his prey, close to you. "Go to bed," he said, the command soft but absolute. "Before I stop being nice about it." You froze in an instant to his tone. He slightly turns before leaving. His voice suddenly softens. "If you’re searching for me, I’ll be at the pool. Goodnight."

──────

You shut the door to your suite and leaned your back against the wood, your lungs struggling to find a steady rhythm. The heat from his thumb against your ear felt like it had been branded into your skin. You walked to the floor-to-ceiling glass doors that led to your private balcony, needing the cold air to snap you out of the haze.

The moon illuminated the entire grounds, turning the pool into a glowing sapphire rectangle against the dark stone of the terrace.

A ripple broke the surface. He was there.

You stayed in the shadows of your room, watching. He moved through the water with a fluid, powerful stroke that was completely the opposite of the clumsy and apologetic boy who tripped over his own feet in the kitchen. He reached the edge of the pool and hauled himself out in one smooth motion.

Water cascaded down his back, defining the muscles of his shoulders and the lean taper of his waist. He stood there for a moment, dripping, his chest rising and falling with deep breaths.He looked nothing like what you were thinking he was during those two years. He looked athletic, confident, and entirely too comfortable in his own skin.

You watched the way he ran a hand through his wet hair, pushing it back from his forehead. You found yourself wondering if he had ever been with anyone. The stutter, the hunched posture, and his awkwardness, it all felt like a clever lie now. If he could fake his entire personality, what else was he hiding? Could someone who looked like that, who moved like that, really be as inexperienced as he claimed to be?

He reached for a towel on a nearby chair, rubbing it over his face. Then, as if he could feel the weight of your stare from the second floor, his head snapped up. He didn't look startled. Not at all. He looked directly at the spot where you were standing in the darkness.

The distance was too great to see his eyes clearly, but the shift in his expression was unmistakable. A slow, knowing smirk pulled at the corner of his mouth ; a look of pure arrogant satisfaction. It was a silent acknowledgement that he knew exactly what you were doing. He knew you were watching, and he knew you liked what you saw.

Without a word, he slung the towel over his shoulder and walked toward the sliding doors of the villa, disappearing inside and leaving you alone with the sound of your own beating heart.

──────

The next morning, you sat at the breakfast table, picking at a plate of fruit while Jake’s dad scrolled through his emails at the head of the table.

Jake was sitting across from you, the nerd act back in full effect. He was slouched, his glasses slightly crooked, staring intensely at a bowl of cereal. But under the table, his foot found yours. He hooked his ankle around yours and began to slowly slide his foot up your calf. You stiffened, your fork hovering in mid-air. You looked at him, but he was mid-stutter, answering a question from his dad about the stock market.

"I-I think the tech sector is just...it's volatile right now, Dad," Jake mumbled, his face a mask of awkward concentration.

Beneath the tablecloth, his foot pressed harder, his toes tracing the sensitive skin behind your knee. You shifted in your seat, your face heating up. You tried to pull away, but he followed, his movements precise and unrelenting. He was watching you out of the corner of his eye, a tiny, almost imperceptible twitch of his lips the only sign he was enjoying your frustration.

"Are you kay?" His dad asked, looking up. "You're barely eating."

"I'm fine," you said, your voice a bit too sharp. "I’m just not hungry."

Jake finally pulled his foot away, sitting up straight. "Actually, Dad, I'm g-going out today. Some guys from the engineering department are in Ibiza for the week. They invited me to a beach club."

His dad looked surprised. "Good for you, Jake. You need to get out more. Why don't you take her with you ?"

Jake turned to you, his eyes wide and blinking. "Oh, yeah. Do you...do you want to come? It might be b-boring, but..."

"Will Jay be there?" you asked, leaning back. "He mentioned to me that he was coming to Ibiza."

The change was instantaneous. Jake’s expression flattened. His shyness didn't just fade, it evaporated into a cold and hard wall. He stood up, grabbing his phone.

"Nevermind," he said, his voice dropping into that low, steady register. "You're not coming."

He walked out of the dining room without looking back.

By 10:00 PM, the villa felt like a tomb. Jake’s dad had gone to bed early, and Jake hadn't returned. You tried to watch a movie, but the silence of the house was grating. On a whim, you grabbed your purse and headed out. You needed noise.

You took a taxi and got toward the town, the neon lights of the coast beginning to blur. You got out of the car and dialed Jake’s number. He picked up on the third ring. The background noise was a low thumping bass.

"Where are you?" you asked. "I'm bored out of my mind."

"I'm at a place called The Vault," he said with no stutter, the noise of a party in the background. "Come if you want. I'll put your name at the door."

He hung up.

When you pulled up to The Vault, you noticed the blacked-out windows and the massive security guards, but you didn't think much of it, everything in Ibiza was over-the-top. You walked past the velvet rope and into the red-lit interior.

As soon as you entered you saw the stage. It was a platform where a woman was slowly spinning around a chrome pole. You froze. It was a strip club. A high-end and discreet one, but a strip club nonetheless.

You scanned the room, your heart hammering. In the far corner, a raised VIP section was cordoned off. You saw Jay first, laughing with a drink in his hand, a girl in a minimal outfit leaning against his shoulder. A few seconds after you saw Jake.

He was leaning back in a deep leather booth, a glass of liquor in his hand. He looked like he owned the entire building. His black button-down was open at the collar, and he looked relaxed, dangerous, and entirely in control. He caught your eye across the smoky room. He didn't look shocked to see you, he smiled and signaled for the guard to let you up.

"Damn, Y/N? Is that really you ?" Jay shouted over the music as you reached the booth. "Jake said you were too much of a ‘good girl’ for this place."

Jake didn't say a word as he shifted over, patting the leather seat right next to him. "Sit down." You sat, your thigh pressed against his. The heat from his body was immediate. The tension from the morning hadn't vanished, it had condensed into something much sharper.

"You didn't tell me what kind of club this was," you hissed into his ear.

Jake leaned in close, his lips brushing against your earlobe. "I told you exactly where I was. You're the one who decided to show up."

He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes fixed on the stage where a dancer was performing. He didn't look away but his hand moved, his fingers splaying across your knee.

"Since you're here," he murmured, his voice voice through the loud music, "you might as well watch. It’s educational, isn't it?"

Jay was busy talking to someone else, leaving you trapped in Jake's orbit. His hand started to move, his thumb tracing slow and rhythmic circles on the fabric of your skirt. Every time the bass dropped, his grip tightened just a fraction.

"You're different here," you say, looking at his profile.

He turned his head slowly, his face inches from yours. The red light of the club made his eyes look almost black.

"I'm the same as I always was," he said. "Maybe you weren’t just paying attention to that."

He leaned back, his arm draping over the back of the booth behind your head, effectively caging you in. He looked over at Jay, then back to you, his eyes narrowing.

"Do you still think he's handsome?" Jake asked, his voice low. "Or do I have your full attention now?"

──────

The night air was a welcome shock after the suffocating heat of the club. It clung to your skin, cool and sharp, doing little to sober you up but clearing your head just enough. The world tilted pleasantly as you walked, Jake's hand a firm, grounding pressure on your elbow, steering you through the loose crowd of people lingering on the sidewalk.

"I had no idea you were that much fun," you said, the words bubbling up, loose and unrestrained. You leaned your head against his shoulder for a moment as he unlocked the car door. "Like, genuinely fun. That’s crazy."

He let out a short, amused breath as he helped you into the passenger seat. "Gee, thanks. I'll cherish that compliment forever." He didn't sound offended, he was entertained. The engine rumbled to life and the city lights smeared across the windshield as he pulled away from the curb.

The ride home was comfortably quiet, the sound of the radio a distant melody beneath the sound of your own breathing. You watched him, noticing how he was so familiar, a constant in your life for years, but tonight, he felt different.

Inside the villa, instead of disappearing in his room like he usually did, he followed you into the kitchen, his movements quiet. You sank onto a barstool, resting your head in your hands.

"Here," he said softly. A glass of water appeared in front of you, along with two little white pills. "You'll thank me tomorrow."

You looked up at him, at the genuine concern etched on his face in the soft lighting. He was actually taking care of you. A warmth bloomed in your chest, a feeling so intense and sudden it almost took your breath away. It wasn't new, you realized with a jolt. It had been there for a while, buried under layers of the step-brother status and growing quietly in the dark. Tonight, the alcohol had simply stripped away the camouflage.

"Jake," you said, your voice barely audible.

"Hmm?" He was leaning against the counter opposite you, arms crossed and watching you.

You stood up, the stool scraping softly against the floor. You closed the small distance between you until you were standing so close you could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes. "I really want to kiss you."

The words hung in the air between you. For a split second, you saw it ; a hint of something in his eyes. Hesitation ? Maybe conflict ? It was there and now it’s gone, replaced by a thing you’ve never seen before. He didn't move, like he just froze. So you took the initiative. You rose onto your toes and pressed your lips to his.

For a terrifying moment, he was still, a statue under your touch. And with a soft groan that sounded like surrender, he gave in. His hands shot out, one tangling in your hair, the other gripping your waist to pull you flush against him. The kiss was nothing like you'd imagined. It was hungry, a little desperate, a release of all the tension that was built since then. His tongue swept against yours, claiming your mouth, it was possessive and a little bit angry.

He walked you backward out of the kitchen and down the hall, his lips never leaving yours, guiding you with his body until your back hit the door of your bedroom. He fumbled with the handle, pushing it open and kicking it shut behind you. He broke the kiss, both of you breathing heavily in the darkness of your room.

"Y/N," he breathed, his voice rough. "I can’t—"

However he was already moving, pushing you gently towards your bed. You sat down on the edge, looking up at him. He stood before you, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his expression a storm of conflicting emotions. He slowly lowered himself to his knees in front of you on the bed. The sight of him there, sent a jolt of pure arousal straight through you. He placed his hands on your knees, spreading them apart. Then, he lifted one leg, placing his denim-clad thigh firmly between yours, right against the core of you.

"Go on," he urged, his voice a low command. "Take what you need."

It was an invitation you couldn't refuse. You began to move, rocking your hips against the hard muscle of his thigh. The friction of your core against him, the pressure right where you needed it, was intoxicating. Your hands gripped his forearm, your head falling back as you found a rhythm, chasing the pleasure that was building rapidly inside you.

"That's it," he murmured, his hands sliding up your thighs to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Just like that. Fuck, you look so good riding my thigh."

His words were gasoline on a fire. You moved faster, grinding against him, the coil in your stomach tightening and tightening, until you were right there, hovering on the precipice of your release. You could feel it, so close you could almost taste it.

But he moved.

He shifted his leg, just enough to break the perfect, maddening pressure. A whine of protest escaped your lips, your eyes flying open to meet his. He was watching you, his expression dark, a look of cruel satisfaction on his face.

"Jake," you begged, your hips still twitching with need.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Not tonight, angel." he whispered, his voice a soft, devastating blow. He placed a gentle, almost chaste kiss on your cheek. Then he stood up, leaving you cold and wanting on the edge of your bed.

He walked to the door without looking back. "Goodnight, Y/N."

The door clicked shut behind him, leaving you in the sudden, deafening silence of your room, your body humming with unfulfilled desire and the shocking, undeniable truth of your feelings for him.

──────

The villa felt larger and colder with Jake’s dad gone. The morning light was flat and grey, a sharp contrast to the blistering heat of the previous week. You sat on the edge of the sofa in the main living area, watching the dust motes dance in the air.

Jake had been a ghost all morning. He’d walked past you three times without a word, his eyes fixed on his phone or the floor, his shoulders back in their defensive, rounded slump.

The glass doors slid open, and Jake stepped inside from the terrace, dripping wet. His hair was plastered to his forehead, and a towel was slung loosely around his neck. He started toward the hallway, his head down, intending to bypass you entirely.

"Why are you ignoring me ?"

The question came out of nowhere. It was born from a week of mounting frustration and the strange, electric silence that had followed the night at the club.

Jake stopped, not turning around immediately. He stood with his back to you, the water from his swim trunks pooling on the stone floor. When he finally looked over his shoulder, he had the shy mask pulled tight. His eyes were wide, and he blinked rapidly behind his damp glasses.

"I...I'm n-not," he stammered, his voice thin. "I just have a lot of...work. From the university. The fall semester is starting soon, and I—"

"Stop it, Jake." You stood up, walking toward him until you were only a few feet away. "You’ve been avoiding eye contact since breakfast. You didn't even say good morning."

"I was just...busy, that’s all." he mummurred, looking at his feet.

"Why do you do that?" you asked, your curiosity finally overriding your caution. "How do you do it? One minute you're the guy who can't speak a full sentence without shaking, and the next you’re the person I saw at that club. And we even—" you stop yourself, the memories of the night before coming back to life in your head.

Jake stayed silent but you could notice how he stopped blinking frantically.

"It’s just us, Jake," you stepped closer, your voice dropping. "Nobody is watching. You don't have to play the part. It’s exhausting to watch you switch back and forth."

He still didn't speak, his breathing shallow.

"Something is happening," you said, the honesty of the statement making your heart thud. "Between us. It’s been growing during the whole summer break, and you know it. Why are you pretending it’s not?"

Not a single recoil. He slowly stood up straight, the hunch in his spine vanishing as he reached his full height. He pulled the towel from his neck and used it to slowly wipe the water from his face. When he dropped the towel onto a nearby chair, the shy boy was gone. His expression was unreadable. He didn't deny it nor did he confirm it. He looked at you with a terrifyingly calm intensity that made the air in the room feel unbearable.

Then, the corner of his mouth ticked upward into a slow, smug smile. It was the look of someone who had been caught but didn't care.

"I'm going to take a shower," he said. His voice was a steady vibration, completely devoid of any tremor. He started toward his suite, but as he reached the door, he paused and looked back at you over his shoulder. He let his gaze wander down your body before meeting your eyes again.

"You could always come with me," he murmured, his tone mocking and sharp. "If you’re so worried about being ignored."

Before you could answer, he stepped into his room and closed the door, the click of the lock echoing through the empty villa.

──────

Beyond all of this, you decided to cook. Not because you were hungry, it’s just because it was the only thing you could do to keep your mind off what happened these previous days. You focused on the task, deliberately keeping your mind off the shower running down the hall or the way he had looked at you before closing his door. You weren't going to wait for him.

The scent of his soap hits you a second before the heat of his body did.

You didn't hear his footsteps, but suddenly, thick arms slid around your waist, pulling you back against a solid, damp chest. You froze, the knife still in your hand, as his chin came to rest on your shoulder. He smelled of clean skin and a faint, expensive cologne.

"What's for dinner?" he asked.

His voice was a deep vibration against your ear, devoid of any stutter. He tightened his grip, his hands splaying across your stomach, pulling you flush against him so you could feel the dampness of his fresh t-shirt.

"Pasta," you managed to say, though your voice sounded strained. "And let go of me, Jake. I’m holding a knife."

"You're so tense," he murmured, ignoring your request. He shifted, his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of your neck. "Your heart is going like crazy. Why is that?"

"It’s hot in here. The stove is on."

"Right. The stove." He let out a short, dry laugh ; a sound that was more of a scoff. He turned you around in his arms, forcing you to face him. He leaned back against the counter, trapping you between his legs. His glasses were gone, and his eyes were dark, tracking the way your breathing had become shallow. "You’re a fucking liar."

"And you're a fucking prick for playing these stupid games with me," you snapped, trying to push against his chest.

He didn't budge. He watched you, his hands moving to your hips to hold you in place. The shyness was nowhere to be found ; he looked at you with a heavy-handed confidence that felt predatory.

"You could eat something better than pasta," he said.

Before you could ask what he meant, he tilted your head back. He leaned down and captured your mouth with a raw, dominant intensity. This was deep and unapologetic, his tongue sliding against yours as he tasted you with hunger. He kissed you like he was finally claiming something he’d been watching from the periphery for years, his hands gripping your hips hard enough that you knew there would be marks the next day. The air in the kitchen felt like it was disappearing, leaving only the heat of him and the sharp, sudden reality that the mask had finally stayed off.

His hand slid from your waist to the back of your neck, his fingers tangling in your hair with a gentle but possessive grip. He pulled you toward him, and the next thing you knew, you were on your knees on the cool tile. The transition was seamless. You looked up at him, his presence towering over you, and reached out lower his sweatpants and his boxers. He wasn't interested in a slow and teasing exploration. He wanted it now.

You took him into your mouth, the taste of him flooding your senses. You started with a slow, prudent rhythm, your tongue tracing the vein along the underside, but the look in his eyes told you he wasn't in the mood for patience. His hand tightened in your hair as a silent command, and he guided your head downward.

You gagged slightly, the sudden intrusion making your eyes water, yet you didn't pull away. You let him take control, his hips thrusting forward, setting a rhythm that was faster than you expected. The kitchen was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of your mouths, a deafening contrast to the peaceful scenery of the villa.

"That’s a good girl," he growled, his other hand gripping your cheek.

You looked up at him through glazed eyes, a soft, pathetic whine escaping you around his cock. It was a sound of pure surrender, of being overwhelmed by sensation. He groaned again, the sound low and feral, and began to face fuck you with ruthless precision. Each thrust was harder than the last, his cock hitting the back of your throat, forcing you to take it all.

You couldn't do anything but hold on, your hands gripping his thighs for support, your breath coming in short and ragged gasps. You were completely at his mercy, his tool a piston driving into your mouth with increasing speed and ferocity. The heat of the room seemed to spike, the air feeling thick and charged with desire.

"That's it," he commanded, his voice strained. "Take it all. You love this, don't you? You love getting fucked in the mouth."

You whined again, a mix of pleasure and desperation, your body trembling as he bottomed out. You couldn't speak or couldn't form words, surrendered to the rhythm he set, letting him use your mouth exactly the way he wanted.

He stopped and pulled out, bringing his fingers to your mouth. You suck on his finger, swirling your tongue around the tip like it’s the most delicious thing in the world, desperate to taste more of him even as you gasp for air. He watches you with a smirk, pulling his hand out slowly and watching you chase it, lips parting in a pathetic whine. "God, look at you," he scoffs, his voice dripping with contempt. "You're dripping all over the floor like a desperate little slut."

He lifts his pelvis, dragging the slick, angry head of his cock against your wet, swollen lips. He doesn't let you swallow him this time. He taps the tip rhythmically against your mouth—tap, tap, tap—teasing you, denying you the fullness you're begging for. "You want it ? Sorry, baby."

Then the leash.

That fucking leash.

Coiled like a snake near your bedroll one night. Waiting. You nearly vomited when you saw it. And that’s when it hit you. He wasn’t chasing you. He was playing with you. Because that’s what it was to him, wasn’t it? A game. A slow, careful hunt. And you’d been winning too often.

Too many bruised and broken sheep returned to Sanctum empty-handed. Rope frayed. Faces bloodied. Fingers trembling as they stammered apologies.

“She escaped—” “She bit me—” “She had a weapon—”

Heeseung didn’t scream. He didn’t rage. He just watched. Silent. Still.

And then, slowly, he began to smile. You weren’t playing fair. So he wouldn’t either. He stopped sending others. No more disposable disciples. They had failed him too many times. You had defied him too many times.

If he wanted his precious sheep back, he’d get you himself. He had stopped pretending. And now he’d play the game by his rules.

You had been running from his flock.

But now the shepherd was coming.

So when you saw the figure at the edge of the treeline—tall, still, watching you froze, heartbeat stuttering violently against your ribs as your eyes locked with his.

Heeseung didn’t move. Neither did you.

The forest held its breath with you—no wind, no birdsong, no sound beyond the soft rasp of leaves and the quiet, heavy drag of his breathing. His shoulders rose and fell with it. Measured. Controlled. But not calm.

He was breathing like he’d been running. Like he'd been tracking you.

Your legs trembled beneath you, the weight of him—of this—crashing down all at once.

Heeseung was filthy. His cloak torn. Smudges of dirt across his jaw. The collar of his shirt hung loose, one side damp with sweat. And still, somehow… he looked composed. Like this wasn’t the end of a chase. Like this was the beginning of a reunion.

Your fingers twitched toward your weapon, but even that felt laughable now. Because his eyes were on you—dark, unreadable, burning. And the moment you even thought of moving, his jaw clenched, like he knew. Like he could already feel it. Like he could already feel the fear curdling in your gut.

And then—

He moved.

Not fast. Not charging. But calm—too calm—as he took a step and slid down the slope between you, feet silent against loose dirt and leaves.

That was all it took to snap you out of your shock.

You turned.

And ran.

Heart slamming. Breath hitching. The sound of your pulse roaring louder than your footfalls as you shoved through branches and brush, barely registering the thorns holding you back or the rocks beneath your soles.

Behind you—

A low thud. Another. A curse under breath. Then the rhythmic crash of footsteps gaining speed.

He was chasing you.

He was chasing you.

You didn’t dare look back. You knew what you’d see. That same steady, unrelenting presence. That hunger dressed in patience.

“Stop running,” he called— not yelling, not panicked—just loud enough to chase your spine. “I’ll be gentle if you stop.”

Liar.

You pushed harder, lungs burning. Trees blurred past you, the world narrowing into just movement, just escape. Branches whipped your face, but you didn’t stop. Not when you could still hear him behind you.

Not charging. Not shouting. Just moving—fluid, focused. Like a shadow with a heartbeat. He didn’t have to run like you did. He knew the terrain. Knew you. Knew how long you’d last.

You were prey.

Wounded. Tired. Slipping.

And he? He was the thing that waited for you to run out of strength.

“Keep going,” he called again, voice barely winded, almost amused. “Let’s see how far you get.”

Your legs screamed. Your side ached with each ragged inhale. But the sound of him—the casual command in it—kept you moving.

You stumbled. Caught yourself. Kept running.

But he was closer now.

You could hear the difference in his steps—closer together, faster, almost playful. The brush cracked louder behind you, as if he was letting you know on purpose. Letting you feel it. The inevitability.

“Little sheep,” he murmured—closer now, God, so much closer. “You ran so far, didn’t you?”

You nearly tripped again when he said it. The name. The pet name. The claim. You hated how it shot through you. How it dug under your ribs and made your legs slow just a little. Because you remembered how he said it when you were on your knees. When his hands were in your hair. When you were too broken to run.

The leash was gone. But the memory of it still hung at your throat.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said next—soft, soothing, dripping with that awful tenderness. “But if you make me…”

You didn’t wait to hear the rest, turning sharply into thicker brush, thorns tearing into your face. It hurt. It burned. But better the sting of leaves than the weight of his hands. You were panting now—barely keeping upright. The trees opened into a clearing. If you could just—

A hand caught your wrist. Steel grip. Sudden. Absolute. You screamed—reflex, terror—twisting, kicking, but he was already there, dragging you back into him like he owned your gravity. Your back hit his chest, his arm banded across your middle, holding you like a trapped animal. You thrashed. Clawed. Bit. And he laughed. Laughed. Low and breathy near your ear. Hot breath skating down your neck. “Still so wild,” he murmured, voice thick with something feral. “But I like the fight.”

You screamed again, raw and furious, and he just tightened his grip.

“Let it out,” he whispered. “Let it all out, baby. That fear. That fire.” His other hand rose slowly to your throat, fingers brushed your throat—light, ghosting over your skin like he wasn’t already holding you still with the rest of his body. And then they stopped. Right at the collar. The slim, black band you hadn’t been able to remove. The one that had burned against your skin every day since you ran.

Heeseung let out a quiet, amused hum behind you. Low. Pleased.

“Well,” he murmured, his breath skating warm along the shell of your ear. “Would you look at that.” His fingers traced the curve of it, slowly as if reacquainting himself with something precious. “You’re still wearing it.” A soft laugh. Darker this time. “You really ran all this time with my mark on you?”

You jerked in his grasp, a snarl caught in your throat, but he didn’t budge. He just leaned in closer, voice dropping like silk dragged over a blade. “That’s loyalty, sweetheart. Even if you didn’t mean it.”

You turned your head slightly—enough to catch the edge of his face. His eyes burned down at you, pupils blown wide, mouth twisted in something too pleased to be called a smile.

“You could’ve torn it off,” he whispered. “You would’ve bled, but you could’ve.” His grip on your waist tightened just enough to make your breath stutter. “Even when you were starving. Even when you were hiding. You never let anyone see your neck, did you?”

His voice was almost gentle now. A confession. A reward.

“Because deep down, you knew.”

His hand slid from your throat to your jaw, tilting your head back, forcing your gaze up to the stars above the treetops.

“You were still mine.”

He pressed a kiss to the collar. Right at the center. Right over the little heart-shaped jewel he’d chosen just for you. And you hated—hated—how your knees threatened to give out when he did.

“Let me go—” you gasped, your voice hoarse, cracking with raw panic as you kicked back into him, squirming hard against the iron grip caging your waist. “I don’t want this,” you choked. “I never wanted this! You’re sick—you’re all sick—”

Heeseung said nothing. Just stood behind you like stone, chest rising and falling against your back, the collar still warm under his fingers.

You thrashed harder.

“I’m not yours!” you spat, twisting, reaching, fingers desperately fumbling near your boot, where the little shiv stayed tucked, hidden, waiting. “This isn’t love! This isn’t salvation! It’s—it’s a lie!”

Your hand scraped the hilt.

Almost there.

Heeseung’s voice was quiet, so quiet you barely heard it above your ragged breaths.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You froze for a second—just a second—and he felt it. Smiled into your hair.

“I see you,” he whispered, lips brushing the side of your face. “You can scream all you want. Tell yourself it’s fear. Call me every name in the book.” His grip shifted, and suddenly your arm was wrenched up behind you, your back arched slightly into him as your knees faltered. “But your body knows,” he growled, breath hotter now, dangerous. “Your body remembers who it belongs to.”

You let out a furious cry, finally gripping the shiv—but before you could swing it—

He caught your wrist.

Fast. Effortless. Crushing.

The blade clattered to the ground with a dull thunk.

He chuckled softly. “There it is.” Then he leaned in, mouth brushing the shell of your ear again. “The last spark.”

You squirmed, trembled, tears hot in your eyes, rage and despair coiling together into something sharp and breathless.

But he didn’t flinch. Instead, he spoke.

“You think this is about obedience?” he whispered against your ear. “About control?” His hand tightened around your arm again, anchoring you with impossible strength. “No, little sheep… This—” his voice darkened, roughened with something bruised and feral, “—this is devotion.” He inhaled slowly, like breathing you in. “These past weeks… do you know what it’s been like?” His voice was soft now, dangerously soft. “Waking up without you beside me. Walking past your empty chamber. Waiting for reports that never came back, again and again.”

You whimpered as he leaned in, his words wrapping around you like smoke.

“I was patient. I let you run. I let you think. But you… you never stopped aching for me, did you?” His grip flexed. “And I never stopped yearning.” He pulled you a little closer, voice breaking just slightly, but not from weakness, but from the weight of how much he believed it. “I would’ve forgiven you. I would’ve kissed your bruises, licked your wounds, made you whole again.”

A pause.

“But now—” His tone sharpened, teeth behind velvet. “Now I think I’ll carve it into you instead.”

That voice—that quiet, controlled anger—it scared you more than shouting ever could.

So you did the first thing that came to your mind.

You bit him.

Hard.

Right on the inside of his wrist, where he held your arm so tight you thought it’d bruise.

He hissed—a guttural sound of pain and fury—as his grip faltered just enough.

Just enough.

You didn’t think.

You slashed.

The shiv you’d dropped now back in your hand, guided by pure instinct, a wild, sweeping motion that cut across his cheekbone, slicing flesh clean and red.

His head snapped to the side. Blood spilled down the elegant line of his jaw.

And you ran.

You didn’t scream words—just sound, primal and panicked, as you tore through the underbrush.

Your voice must’ve drawn them, cause suddenly a Hollowed creature stumbled from the trees, eyes fogged and mouth slick, reaching—

You braced for it—until BANG.

A single shot rang out.

The Hollowed dropped.

You barely had time to glance back.

Heeseung stood in the clearing, gun still smoking in one hand, the other pressed against his bleeding cheek.

His eyes—wild now, burning—locked on you.

His voice was a growl carried on the wind:

“Run, then.”

He dropped the empty clip. Loaded another.

“I want you to.”

And with terrifying calm, Heeseung started chasing you again. Faster this time. Bleeding. Smiling.

You ran like your life depended on it. Because it did.

Branches lashed your arms, tore at your legs. The ground was uneven, littered with roots and crumbling bones, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t dare.

Behind you, Heeseung’s footfalls were steady. Measured. No panic. No rush. He didn’t need to sprint. He just needed to follow. Because predators don’t chase in bursts. They wear you down.

You veered left, dodging a fallen tree trunk, then ducked low beneath a tangle of thorned vines. You scraped your palms bloody pulling yourself through a ravine of sharp stone and broken bark.

You heard him above you, moving along the ridge, tracking your path like a shadow sewn to your feet.

“Still running,” he called down, voice like velvet soaked in blood. “That’s good. Keep going.”

You didn’t respond. Your lungs burned. Your vision blurred. Sweat mixed with dirt and dried blood as you stumbled over a patch of loose ground and caught yourself on all fours, chest heaving, before you scrambled back to your feet and shoved through a dense patch of undergrowth. Your ankle turned sharply, but you pushed through the pain, the fear louder than your body’s protest.

Because you knew what it meant if he caught you again. No ropes this time. No gentle whispers or twisted sermons. He would break you. Properly. Finally.

“I missed this,” he called again. “You panting. Wild-eyed. Covered in filth.”

There was a sick sort of reverence in his voice, like he wasn’t chasing you—he was worshipping the chase itself.

You clambered up a mossy incline, grabbing at roots to hoist yourself higher. Behind you, his boots crunched louder.

So close now.

“You know what I love about you?” he said, voice distorted by distance and breath. “You never crawl. You run. Like a good little creature with something worth losing.”

Your foot slipped. You caught yourself. Kept going.

But he was gaining.

Every time you turned your head, you saw more of him. Closer. Quicker. Bleeding, yes, but moving with purpose. Like he had become the hunt.

And you—

You were just something he was waiting to drag back, limp and gasping, into the fold.

The air felt colder. Or maybe that was just the adrenaline.

Your body was screaming, your chest seizing with every breath, muscles locking in protest. You could feel the sting of old wounds tearing open. Could taste copper in the back of your throat.

But still, you ran.

Because that’s what prey does.

You crashed through a clearing, past the blackened remains of a house eaten by rot. An old picket fence stood crooked ahead—half-splintered, half-still standing—and you leapt it, barely clearing the top.

Heeseung didn’t slow. He vaulted it like it was nothing. Landing just yards behind you. “I’m not going to shoot you,” he called, almost kindly. “You’ll thank me later for that.”

You didn’t waste the breath to answer. Didn’t look back. Didn’t slow down. Because now the broken skyline of an old city loomed ahead—rusted steel bones jutting from collapsed concrete, windows shattered, streets long since swallowed by weeds and dust.

You ducked beneath a half-fallen sign, vaulted over an abandoned car. The stench of decay hit you instantly—stronger here. More rot. More ruin. And worse...

Hollowed.

They moved slow at first, twitching with jerks of recognition as your footsteps echoed through the street. But it didn’t take long.

The closest one—limping, throat torn and leaking black—snapped toward the sound of your footsteps and lunged.

You dodged left, fast and instinctive, and drove your knife into the side of its skull with a guttural yell, yanking it free before sprinting forward again. Two more stumbled into the open, groaning with that awful gargled hunger. You slipped between them, barely avoiding their grasping hands.

Then you heard it again—

Bang.

A Hollowed’s head exploded behind you. Then another. Then another.

The cracks of gunfire echoed down the broken streets, fast and controlled.

Heeseung.

You didn’t need to look. You felt it. Felt him behind you like heat, like a shadow with teeth.

Another creature lunged from a half-sunk stairwell—too fast. You turned to stab, but—

Bang bang bang.

It dropped mid-leap, torn open by bullets. The spray of rot and bone misted the air beside your cheek. You stumbled forward, heart slamming, throat tight with a scream you didn’t release.

“You’re welcome,” Heeseung’s voice called out through the carnage which distracted him enough to create distance.

Perfect.

Your breath tore ragged through your chest as you ducked through the crumbling doorway of an old storefront, shoes slapping the tiled floor slick with grime. You vaulted the counter and crouched, knife shaking in your grip, heart pounding like a war drum in your ears.

Silence followed.

Too long.

You dared a breath—shallow, slow.

Crunch.

You pressed yourself against the wall, eyes wide. Dust drifted through a single shaft of dying sunlight. The knife felt too small in your hand now. Too useless.

He was inside.

“Hiding?” His voice echoed off the ruined walls, smooth and cold and so close.

“You’ve never been good at that.”

You squeezed your eyes shut, chest heaving. Please, you thought, just let me—

“I killed five for you back there,” he said. Calm. Measured. “Ripped them apart before they touched you.” His tone dropped—something quieter. More intimate. “I protected you. And you still ran.”

A pause.

“Ungrateful.”

That one word hit harder than a slap. Your pulse stuttered. You knew what was coming next. You always knew.

His footsteps moved again. Slower now. Careful. Like a hunter in the dark.

“Come out,” he said. “Or I’ll start pulling this place apart. You know I will.”

You clenched your jaw, wiped your nose with the back of your trembling hand, and gripped the knife tighter.

“I’ll give you one chance,” he continued, voice drifting closer. “You can crawl out, and I’ll forgive you. I’ll even kiss you for it.”

He paused, just on the other side of the counter now. You could hear him breathing. Low. Steady.

“But if you make me reach for you,” he whispered, “you won’t walk for days.”

Your stomach turned. Your fingers tensed.

Silence.

Then—

You moved.

You sprang up before he could grab you, swinging the blade wildly.

It sliced through air, inches from his face—close enough that he flinched, but not enough to stop him. He caught your wrist again, but you twisted fast, using your momentum to knee him in the ribs. The air left his lungs in a sharp grunt, grip slipping just enough for you to yank yourself free.

You didn’t look back, bursting out of the broken shop and back into the crumbling street, lungs burning, body screaming. Your legs barely felt real anymore, but they kept moving. Kept carrying you through the skeletal maze of the dead city.

Behind you— footsteps.

Fast. Determined. No longer teasing. No longer playing.

You’d drawn blood. You’d bitten.

And now he was angry.

You darted through an alley, nearly slipping on old rainwater pooled across cracked cement. A low, guttural sound followed behind you—Heeseung, breathing heavy now, feral.

“You want to act like a animal?” he shouted. “Then I’ll hunt you like one.”

Your heart slammed against your ribs. The knife trembled in your grip. You could still feel the way his fingers had bruised your wrist, the weight of his body behind every threat he hadn’t said yet. You turned sharply and ducked into another building, an old stairwell swallowed by rot. You bolted up two flights, turned a corner, slammed into a rusted door and shoved it open.

Rooftop.

Wide. Empty. Exposed.

Shit.

But there was no time. You turned to shut the door, only to see him right there, hand catching it, shoving it back open with brutal force.

You staggered backward as Heeseung stepped onto the rooftop, blood dried on his cheek, his dark eyes locked on yours.

Silent.

Seething.

His hand curled into a fist at his side. The other held the leash—clasp open, dangling like a promise.

Your chest heaved as you raised the blade again, shaking but firm. “I will kill you,” you spat. “If you touch me again, I’ll—”

“You won’t,” he said, cutting you off.

And he charged.

You swung.

He blocked.

And suddenly you were on the ground, wrists pinned, knife skidding across the concrete out of reach.

His face hovered above yours, eyes wild, hair a little messy from the chase, and when he spoke—his voice was low. Raw.

“Do it again,” he dared. “Fight. Bite. Bleed.” His fingers slid slowly down to the collar, still tight around your neck. “But next time,” he whispered, “you won’t get this far.”

You thrashed beneath him, limbs jerking, teeth gritted in panic as you twisted your wrists against his hold. You kicked, shifted, spat curses through clenched teeth—but he didn’t even flinch. Not a muscle.

Heeseung stared down at you with terrifying calm, his face unreadable. Like he’d already seen this a thousand times in his head. Like this wasn’t a fight—just a ritual.

His hand moved slowly, purposefully, reaching toward your neck.

You shook your head, twisting away—but it was too late.

Click.

The leash slid back into place.

The familiar weight yanked forward as he gave it a sharp tug, and you gasped, back arching slightly as the collar bit into your throat. The breath caught in your lungs, the sudden pressure making your eyes sting.

“There we go,” he murmured, voice low and cruelly fond, as if soothing a wild animal finally caught in its cage. “I knew you missed it.”

You thrashed harder, but your movements only made it worse, your struggling gave him every excuse to keep pulling, guiding, correcting you with that damn leash like you were nothing more than something disobedient that needed to be handled.

And still—his expression didn’t change.

Not smug. Not angry. Just patient. Like a shepherd dragging back his favorite stray.

You screamed—hoarse, furious—but the sound barely echoed before he had your wrists pinned again, rope sliding tight and practiced around your arms.

Tied. Bound.

You writhed in the bindings, chest heaving, but it was no use.

“You should’ve stayed,” he said quietly. “You had everything. Shelter. Safety. Me.” He crouched in front of you, hand curling around the leash again, pulling until you met his eyes. “I won’t ask you why you ran.” He tilted his head. “Because it doesn’t matter.” Another tug. “You’re back now.”

The words echoed louder than they should have. Like a door slamming shut behind you.

You shook your head, still squirming in the ropes, wrists aching from how tightly they were bound. Your knees scraped against the rooftop, gravel digging into skin, breath catching in your throat again as the collar tugged you forward another inch.

Heeseung didn’t move. Just watched.

And then, slowly, he crouched down again—closer this time. Eye-level. The city’s twisted skyline behind him, smoke rising in the distance like dying signals.

“You made me bleed,” he said, voice soft. His fingers traced the cut along his cheek—your cut. The blood had dried now, a rusty red line across sharp bone. But there was no anger in his face. Only something worse.

Appreciation.

“You fought harder than I thought you would.” He smiled faintly. “I liked it.”

You looked away.

He grabbed your jaw firmly and turned your face back to his. “But I like this more.”

Your lips trembled. You didn’t speak. Because there was nothing left to say that he hadn’t already turned against you.

He stood again, gaze flicking over you—disheveled, dirt-streaked, breathing ragged.

Then he tugged on the leash once more, and this time you stumbled forward on your knees, catching yourself with a soft grunt, ropes digging into your spine as you struggled to stay upright.

Heeseung didn’t even look back as he started walking. “You know the way,” he said simply.

The leash tugged once, twice—enough to remind you he still held it, and still could pull harder if he wanted to. You didn’t move at first. Knees raw against gravel, ropes biting into your wrists, your heart a mess of rage and exhaustion and something far more dangerous: surrender.

He stopped after a few steps. Tilted his head just slightly. “I won’t drag you,” he said, tone almost bored. “But I will carry you.”

You flinched. Because you knew what that meant. He had once before.

So, you moved. Because even now—after everything—there were worse things than walking.

Your legs trembled as you rose shakily to your feet, balance thrown from the bindings and the ache that lived in your bones. You could feel blood drying on your hands, the cold wind biting at torn skin, but none of that compared to the humiliation of stumbling after him like some shadow tethered by a thread.

Each step back toward Sanctum felt heavier. Familiar. Wrong. Inevitable.

You tried not to meet his gaze when he finally glanced over his shoulder, but he still smiled—just a little. Not smug. Not victorious.

Satisfied.

The city’s ruins faded behind you. The road ahead was dark, broken, silent. But he walked it like he’d known all along that you would follow.

And you did.

Step after step, gravel crunching beneath your shoes, your balance thrown by the tight bindings and the leash that jerked if you hesitated too long. The leash didn’t just tug you forward, it reminded you of who was in front. Who was in control. Who had won.

When the first Hollowed lurched from the roadside shadows—ribs split open, mouth slack and dripping—Heeseung didn’t slow.

He raised his gun without missing a step and fired.

One shot.

Right between the eyes.

Thump.

Another came from the treeline moments later. Heeseung didn’t blink. Another shot rang out. Another body hit the dirt.

You tried not to look. But you heard them. The sick sound of bone cracking, of groans choked off mid-howl.

And still he walked. Like a shepherd clearing the road.

If you slowed—if your knees buckled or your pace dragged even slightly, he gave a sharp tug on the leash. Not enough to pull you off your feet, but enough to steal the air from your lungs. Enough to make your body flinch forward like it had learned.

Like it was beginning to know its place.

You gritted your teeth, eyes burning. You told yourself not to cry again. Not in front of him. Not after everything.

And then you saw them.

People.

A small group—maybe five—half-hidden behind an overturned vehicle and the carcass of a collapsed roadside shack. Survivors. Not Hollowed. Not Sanctum.

Their eyes widened when they saw you, when they saw the leash, the collar, the ropes around your wrists, your dirtied, trembling form trailing just behind him like you were some pet dragged from a war.

They didn’t run. They didn’t call out. They just stared.

Shock first. Then something colder.

Pity.

And fear.

Not of you.

Of him.

Because Heeseung turned his head slightly, just enough to see them, and whatever they saw in his eyes made all of them freeze.

One of them—young, maybe seventeen—took a single step forward.

Heeseung didn’t raise his gun.

He smiled.

And that was enough.

The boy stumbled back, and the group retreated, eyes still locked on you until they vanished into the treeline like ghosts too afraid to even speak.

No one came for you. No one helped.

Heeseung didn’t say a word.

He just kept walking. Leash in hand. You behind him.

And the road stretched on—long, cracked, and unkind. But not nearly as cruel as the one you’d walked trying to escape him.

Eventually, you saw it.

Through the trees—half-choked by overgrowth and mist—Sanctum emerged from the darkness like something half-remembered from a fever dream.

The tall barricades. The watchtowers. The dull glint of floodlights casting pale rings across the dirt path. The thick scent of burning wood and damp earth. The faint murmur of people just inside.

Home, some would say.

But your stomach turned.

You tried not to slow, but your body faltered when the main gate came into full view—looming and heavy, manned by armed followers in long coats and black wraps. Your legs buckled slightly, knees weakened by exhaustion and dread.

Heeseung noticed, but he didn’t mock you. He just tugged the leash once, firmly. Steadying you.

The guards didn’t ask questions. They saw your face, your condition, your wrists still bound. And most importantly—they saw him.

Their gazes dropped in reverence as they unlocked the gates without a word. As if they’d been waiting. As if they already knew how this story would end.

The doors opened slowly, groaning under their own weight.

And beyond them—flickering torches, clean paths, rows of tents and shelters. People pausing to look up as you passed.

Some gasped quietly. Others smiled like prophecy had been fulfilled.

You couldn’t meet their eyes. You didn’t want to see what they saw when they looked at you.

A few even knelt as Heeseung walked by, silent and composed, dragging you behind him as if he’d simply gone out to retrieve a lost artifact.

No one asked where you’d been. No one asked what you’d done. Because it didn’t matter. Heeseung was back. And he had you.

You passed the fire pits, the mess area, the quiet groups clustered in prayer.

And then the stairs.

Down into the earth. Into the bunker.

The leash stayed taut. Your feet moved because they had no choice.

And when you reached the heavy door—the one you’d once seen sealed shut so many nights before he turned to you, eyes unreadable in the dim light.

“Welcome home,” he said softly.

And the door creaked open.

Swallowing you whole.

You stumbled when he pulled you down the final step, and your knees hit cold stone. You hissed, cursing under your breath, just loud enough for him to hear.

“You son of a—get your hands off me!”

But he didn’t flinch.

Not when you struggled, not when you dug your heels into the ground, not when you spat every insult you could think of like venom behind your teeth. He just held the leash tighter.

Like he’d expected this. Like he wanted it.

In the soft light of the bunker, he stopped walking—finally—and turned to face you. For one heartbeat, you thought maybe he’d snap. Shout. Do something loud.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he reached for your gear—the jacket stiff with blood, the torn shirt, the military vest still smeared with ash. You tried to slap his hands away. You shoved. You kicked.

Nothing worked.

“Don’t touch me—” you growled.

But he was calm. Mechanical. Efficient.

He stripped the dirt and chaos from you with quiet focus, as if peeling back layers of a broken thing he’d always planned to fix. When he wiped away dried blood from your shoulder, it wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t cruel either. It was something colder. Detached. Like he was cleaning up a mess.

Your scraped knees. The bruises on your ribs. The cuts across your palm. All were examined, wiped, wrapped with bandages pulled from a small cabinet in the corner.

Still, you cursed. Still, you twisted against the binds. Still, you fought.

And he remained maddeningly silent.

You didn’t even realize when the dress appeared—light, soft white lace, simple and ghostlike in his hands. You tried to turn away, but you couldn’t stop him from slipping it over your head. You were too tired. Too sore. Your wrists ached from the struggle. Your body didn’t respond like it used to.

“This isn’t real,” you muttered. “This isn’t real. I’m not staying here.”

But he didn’t answer.

Not until he guided you back to the bed in the corner. The same one you’d seen in flickers of memory and dreams that left you sweating.

The chain clinked softly as it was locked to the bedpost, connected to your collar again.

Only then did he speak.

“You’ll rest now,” Heeseung murmured, voice low. “You need it.”

And with that, he stepped back. Out of reach. Out of sight.

But never out of control.

You laid in that bed for what felt like forever.

Time stretched thin, impossible to measure in the dark. The only light came from the faint crack beneath the heavy door—too dim to track the hours, too pale to give any comfort.

No footsteps.

No voices.

At first, you screamed. You pulled at the chain until your wrists burned. You kicked the bedframe until your heel throbbed and your throat went raw from shouting his name, any name—just to hear a voice. Just to hear yourself echo off the stone.

But no one answered.

Not even Heeseung.

Eventually… you stopped.

Not because you gave up.

Because your body started to.

The hunger curled in your gut like a fist. Tight. Angry. It came in waves, rising and falling until it became a part of you. Like the chain. Like the collar.

Your mouth felt dry, your lips cracked. Your tongue ached against the roof of your mouth with how little moisture was left. And still—nothing.

You stared at the ceiling, the walls, the bedpost where the chain looped and clinked when you shifted even slightly. That soft metallic noise became your only companion. You listened to it like it might sing. Like it might break the silence.

It didn’t.

The worst part wasn’t the pain. It wasn’t even the thirst.

It was the quiet.

The aching, bone-deep silence that wrapped around you like a second skin. No sermons. No chants. No breath but your own. It filled your head, loud and oppressive. Until your thoughts blurred, until memory lost its shape, until the only constant you had left was the sound of your own heartbeat—soft, slowing.

You hated it. You hated him. But more than that, you hated how a part of you waited. Waited for the sound of footsteps. Waited for the door to creak open. Waited for the only thing worse than silence...

Him.

Because at least when Heeseung came… you knew you still existed.

The door creaked open hours—maybe days—later. You weren’t sure anymore.

You didn’t lift your head.

You knew who it was.

Boots crossed the threshold with steady, deliberate steps. No hurry. No rush. The air shifted with his presence, like the entire room inhaled and held its breath.

You finally looked up when the silence became too sharp to ignore.

Heeseung stood at the foot of the bed, eyes unreadable, shadowed beneath the soft bunker light. There was no smile this time. No gentleness. Just cold deliberation—like a judge returning to the courtroom.

“I gave you everything,” he said quietly.

You opened your mouth, but your voice cracked. Dry. Weak. Nothing came out.

He stepped closer.

“You spat on it. Ran. Lied. Hid.”

He circled the bed slowly, like a predator surveying damage.

“Do you think that makes you brave?” His tone dipped—low, dangerous. “It makes you ungrateful.”

You tensed when his hand reached for the chain, the familiar tug jerking your body upright. You tried to twist away, but you were too weak. Too sore. Too empty.

He crouched down in front of you, expression unreadable. “I didn’t want to hurt you,” he said softly. “But you’ve asked for it.” His fingers gripped your chin, firm and unforgiving. You flinched.

“You don’t get to run,” he whispered. “Not from me. Not after everything I’ve given.” Heeseung's fingers tightened on your chin, his grip bordering on painful. You could see the cold calculation in his eyes, the flicker of something darker, more sinister. "You thought you could escape me?" he murmured. "You thought you could deny me?"

He released your chin abruptly, and you fell back, your body aching. Heeseung stood, towering over you, his presence overwhelming. "You made me chase you," he said, his voice laced with a cruel amusement. "And now, you'll pay for it." He reached for the chain again, yanking it hard enough to make you cry out. With a swift, brutal motion, he pulled you to your feet, your body colliding with his. He leaned in close, his breath hot against your ear. "I'm going to teach you a lesson," he whispered. "One you won't forget."

A hand, firm and steady pressed to the small of your back.

He guided you forward with no resistance, no hesitation, like your path had already been chosen for you long ago.

“Go on,” Heeseung murmured, voice soft but laced with steel. “To the center.”

Your legs moved before your mind caught up. The floor stretched out beneath you like an altar. Smooth, polished stone, worn down by time and footsteps that had come before you.

You reached the center. You stopped. You waited.

Then his voice again—closer this time. A command.

“Kneel.”

It cut through the stillness like a blade. Not shouted. Not harsh.

Just final.

You dropped.

The cold floor bit into your knees, but you didn’t flinch. Not when the silence had grown so sharp it could pierce skin.

Behind you, Heeseung began to circle.

Each step echoed. Measured. Heavy with purpose. He didn’t speak at first. Just moved. Watched. Made sure you felt him without even needing to look. Like a lion studying its meal before the first bite.

Finally, his voice broke the silence—low, dark, and laced with restrained fury.

“You should have known better.”

A pause. You could feel his gaze on your bowed head, hot and unwavering.

“You should have known that you belong to me.”

His words hit like the crack of a whip.

You felt your stomach twist, your spine pull straighter—part defiance, part instinctual fear. Your fingers curled into fists against the stone as you bit back the storm rising in your throat.

“You thought distance would change that?” he asked quietly, voice curling around you like smoke. “That running would make me forget?” A hand ghosted over your shoulder—gentle, and then it closed.

Tight.

“Foolish.”

He bent slightly, so his lips were just above your ear.

“There is no before me anymore.”

You didn’t breathe.

Because in that moment—under his touch, his voice, his control—you felt it again. That awful, trembling truth.

You hadn’t been free the moment you left him.

You’d only been out of reach.

Now, with the air stretched taut between you and Heeseung standing above you like a shadow cast by something far older than rage, you could feel the truth in your bones.

His eyes didn’t burn—they froze. Piercing. Patient. Like he was dissecting your soul in real time.

The quiet metallic click of his belt unfastening sliced through the silence like a warning shot. The sound echoed off the cold stone walls, sharp and clinical, echoing over your skin like a chill you couldn’t shake.

Heeseung let the belt slip from his hands with a whisper of leather against cloth, letting it hang loose at his side—not as a weapon, not yet, but as a symbol.

Of control.

Of authority.

Of ownership.

He stepped closer, the heels of his boots loud against the stone. Your eyes lifted despite yourself, chest tight with too many things at once—fear, defiance, longing, shame. It coiled in you like static before a storm.

And when he knelt in front of you, crouching to your eye level, it felt like the room itself tilted in his direction. “You always make it so difficult,” he murmured, his voice low, unreadable. “But maybe… you just wanted to be reminded.”

In the stillness, something cracked open inside you. Because this wasn’t punishment in the way most would understand it.

This was ceremony.

A moment designed not to hurt you—but to humble you.

“You don’t listen,” Heeseung said, softer now. “But you remember. And that’s all I need.” He rose again, tall and quiet and endless, and with a rough tug on the chain, he pulled you forward, causing you to fall onto your hands.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. You obeyed, your eyes meeting his, seeing the cold, calculating glint in his gaze. He reached down, his hands moving to his pants and boxers, pushing them down slowly.

His erection sprang free, hard and ready, a stark reminder of his power and your submission. You stared, your eyes wide as your body responded to the sight of him, your thighs clenching in recognition. You could feel your pussy starting to get wet, your body betraying you.

He stroked himself slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, a cruel smile playing on his lips. "You see what you do to me?" he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "You're going to take this," he murmered. "And you're going to thank me for it."

Heeseung's hand moved to the chain around your neck, his fingers wrapping around the cold metal with a cruel, possessive grip. With a swift, brutal tug, he pulled you up, forcing you to your knees, your mouth now level with his erection. He hummed, a low, satisfied sound.

"You know what to do." He slapped the tip of his cock against your lips, the wet, warm flesh a stark contrast to the cold, hard metal of the chain. "Suck it."

You hesitated for a moment, your mind rebelling against the command, but your mouth betrayed you, your lips parting involuntarily. Heeseung took advantage of your hesitation, his hand fisting your hair, pulling your head back as he pushed his hips forward, his cock sliding into your mouth.

"Good girl," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Now, suck."

You obeyed, your mouth working him with reluctance. Heeseung's hips began to move, his cock sliding in and out of your mouth with a relentless, punishing rhythm. He used the chain to control your movements, pulling you closer when he wanted more depth, pushing you back when he wanted to tease you.

"Feel that?" he moaned, "that's what happens when you run. That's what happens when you try to escape."

Your mouth was full of his cock, your eyes watering as you struggled to take his impressive length. Heeseung's hands were fisted in your hair, his grip tight and punishing, controlling your movements, your breaths, your very existence.

"You like that, don't you?" he murmured, as he looked down at you. "You like being used. You like being a good little slut for me."

You tried to respond, but no words came out, your throat constricted around his length, your body trembling. Heeseung chuckled as he pushed his hips forward again, his cock sliding back into your mouth, hitting the back of your throat with a force that left you gasping and choking.

"Suck it," he commanded as he began to move his hips, fucking your mouth. "Suck it like a good little whore."

He pulled your hair, causing your head to tilt back, revealing the bulge in your throat from his cock, a rather obscene sight. Precum leaked from his tip, filling your mouth, coating your tongue, a salty, intoxicating taste that left you dizzy and wanting more. You whimpered, the sound a desperate, pleading moan, as you continued to suck, your mouth and throat working in tandem, your tongue swirling around his length, your lips creating a tight, wet seal around his base.

Heeseung's grip on your hair tightened, his fingers digging into your scalp, holding you in place. You could feel his cock swelling, his body tensing, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps, a sign that he was close, that he was on the edge.

You looked up at him, your eyes wide and tear-streaked, your lips swollen and red, your throat sore and raw.

"Fuck, yes..."

"Choke on it. Take every inch."

Tears streamed down your face as you gagged around his cock, your body betraying you with each desperate gasp for air.

"Look at you," he mumbled as he looked down at you, his eyes gleaming. "So pathetic. So fucking helpless."

WIth a few more thrusts Heeseung's cock swelled in your mouth, and with a final, brutal thrust, he came, his body shuddering with the force of his climax as he released his load down your throat.

You swallowed, your body betraying you even as your mind rebelled, your throat working to take every drop. Heeseung pulled out of your mouth, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and coughing, your throat raw and aching.

"Good girl," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Now, let's see if you've learned your lesson."

He released your hair, his hand moving to your chin, forcing you to look up at him. You met his gaze, your eyes filled with tears, your body shaking with exhaustion and fear, your mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. Fear. Desire. Submission. Defiance. You weren't sure what you felt, what you wanted, what you needed.

Suddenly, with a brutal jerk, Heeseung pulled you to your feet, his other hand gripping your arm with a punishing force.

You stumbled, your body still weak and aching from the earlier ordeal, but Heeseung's grip was unyielding. He dragged you across the room, his steps purposeful and dominant, until you reached the edge of the bed. With a swift, almost casual motion, he threw you onto your stomach, your face pressing into the cool mattress.

Before you could react, he was on you, his body pressing down on yours, his weight pinning you in place. You could feel his hardness against your ass. His hands quickly moved to your dress, his fingers gripping the fabric with a savage intensity.

"Please," you whimpered, your voice muffled by the mattress, as you felt the fabric tear, the sound of ripping cloth filling the air. "Please, don't..."

"Shut up," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble, cutting you off mid-sentence. "You don't get to talk. You just get to take it."

Heeseung's hands moved to your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you back, positioning you on your knees, your ass exposed and vulnerable. You tried to squirm away, but his grip was like iron, holding you in place.

"So beautiful.. all for me."

You tensed as you felt his cock press against your entrance, the head sliding through your folds, coating itself in your arousal. Heeseung chuckled, as he positioned himself at your entrance.

"Ready for this?" he asked, "ready to take what's yours?"

Before you could respond, he was pushing in, his cock sliding into you with a swift, brutal thrust. You cried out, the sound a mix of pain and pleasure, as Heeseung began to move, giving you no time to adjust.

Heeseung's breath was hot and ragged against your ear. His right hand moved to your throat, his fingers wrapping around your neck with a possessive grip. He pressed and twisted your head, forcing you to look at him, your eyes meeting his, seeing the cold, calculating glint in his gaze.

"All mine."

You moaned and gasped, your body betraying you with each desperate breath, your lungs struggling for air as his hand tightened. His lips crashed down on yours, his tongue invading your mouth, swallowing your moans and gasps.

His left hand moved to your clit, his fingers finding the sensitive nub with a cruel, teasing touch. He rubbed it in slow, deliberate circles, a stark contrast to the brutal, punishing rhythm of his hips.

"Feel that?" he murmured against your lips. "Feel how your body betrays you? How it wants me? How it needs me?"

You whimpered, your body arching into his touch, your hips moving of their own accord, seeking more friction, more pressure, more of him. Heeseung chuckled, a low, dangerous sound, as he increased the pressure on your clit, his fingers moving faster, his touch more insistent.

"Such a good little slut."

You could feel your pleasure building, your body coiling tight, your mind reeling from the overwhelming sensations.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl, as he increased the pressure on your throat, his fingers digging into your flesh. "Come for me like the good little whore you are."

Your body obeyed, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and choking, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed through you. 

Your orgasm ripped through you, a violent, all-consuming force that left you gasping and choking, your body convulsing with the intensity of the pleasure.

"Good girl," he gasped as he felt your body clench around him, your inner walls pulsing with the force of your release. "That's it... so good for me."

But even as your orgasm subsided, Heeseung showed no sign of stopping. His hips continued to snap forward, his cock plunging deep into your pussy with each punishing thrust. You sobbed and cried, your body wrecked and broken, overstimulated and raw.

"Please," you begged, your voice a raspy, desperate plea, as you gripped the sheets, your knuckles white with the force of your grip. "Please, I can't... I can't take anymore..."

Heeseung chuckled as he continued to thrust, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a wet, obscene sound. "You say you want me to stop," he hissed. "Yet you keep clenching around me so deliciously. You don't want me to stop. You never want me to stop."

You realized with a shock of horror and arousal that you were grinding back at him, your hips meeting his thrusts, matching his pace. You whimpered as you tried to pull away, to escape, to deny the truth of your body's response.

"But look at you," he continued, as he gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you back onto him. "You're so wet. So ready."

You tried to respond, to argue, to plead, but no words came out, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure crashed over you, you were lost in the sensation, your mind a foggy, disoriented haze, your body betraying you as it welcomed him in, accepted him, craved him.

"Please," you whimpered again, your voice a desperate, pleading moan, as you gripped the sheets, your fingers digging into the fabric, your body trembling. "Please, Heeseung. Please, make it stop. Please, make it end."

Heeseung pulled out of you slowly, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and shaking, your body aching and your mind reeling.

"Make it stop?" he asked as he looked down at you, a smile playing on his lips. "Why would I do that? You're mine, and I'm going to remind you of that. Over and over again. Until you never forget it. Until you never want to escape it. Until you never want anything else."

He slipped his cock back in slowly, inch by inch, letting you feel everything, the stretch, the burn, the pleasure, the pain. You could hear the wet squelches from your pussy, the obscene, lewd sounds. They mixed with Heeseung's whines, and your own whimpers.

"Oh baby... you feel so good.."

Heeseung's thrusts quickly sped up, becoming more erratic, his hips snapping forward in a sloppy way. You could feel his body trembling against yours, his breath coming in ragged, desperate gasps.

"Fuck, I missed you," he mumbled, his voice a low, slurred growl, as he leaned over you. "I missed being inside you. I missed feeling you wrap around my cock like this."

You could feel his saliva dripping down your back, warm and wet, as he continued to mumble, "you're so perfect. So fucking perfect. My good little angel..."

His hips moved faster, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a relentless, punishing rhythm. "Fuck, I'm close," he whined out loudly. "I'm so fucking close.."

His body tensed, and with a final, brutal thrust, he released himself inside you, his cock pulsing as he filled you with his seed. You gasped and shook, your body convulsing with the force of his climax, your inner walls milking him for every drop.

"Shit," he groaned, as he collapsed on top of you, his body pressing you down into the mattress. "Fuck, that was good."

He remained inside you for a moment, his breath ragged against your ear, before he slowly pulled out.

You lay there, your body shaking and your mind reeling, the aftermath of his brutal claiming leaving you in a daze. The room spun around you, and your breaths came in short gasps, your lungs still burning from the lack of air. You felt raw, broken, and utterly spent, your body aching from the relentless onslaught of pleasure and pain.

Suddenly, you felt his fingers, warm and wet, slipping inside your puffy, sensitive walls. You jumped at the intrusion, a sob escaping your lips as you felt him push deeper, his fingers curling inside you, claiming every inch of your being.

"Keep every drop inside you," he commanded. "You're going to keep it all. Every fucking drop... keeping my seed where it belongs."

Without warning, Heeseung flipped you onto your back, his hands gripping your thighs with a punishing force. He pushed your legs up to your chest, exposing you to his gaze, your pussy open and vulnerable to his inspection. You watched, dazed and disoriented, as he stared down at you, his eyes gleaming with arousal.

He brought his hand gently to his mouth, his fingers slipping between his lips as he coated them fully in saliva, before pulling his fingers free, the tips glistening with his spit.

"Want more?" he asked as he positioned his fingers back at your entrance, his eyes never leaving yours.

Before you could respond, he pushed his fingers inside you again, his movements slow, each thrust a teasing claim.

You tried to squirm away, your body instinctively rebelling against the invasive touch. Your hips bucked, and your legs kicked, a desperate attempt to escape his fingers.

"And where do you think you're going?" he asked, his voice laced with a cruel, mocking amusement.

He pushed you down, his body pressing against yours, his weight pinning you to the mattress. You could feel his hardness against your thigh, as his fingers continued to move while he leaned down, his breath hot against your ear. "You're going to take my fingers. You're going to take my cock. You're going to take everything I give you. And you're going to like it."

His fingers curled inside you, finding that sensitive spot that made you clench around his fingers, your hips moving, despite your pleas and your tears. You could feel your arousal coating his fingers, a wet, slick proof of your want.

With that Heeseung pulled his fingers free, leaving you feeing empty and aching, your body craving more. He brought his fingers to his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours as he sucked them clean, his tongue swirling around the digits. "Mmm," he hummed out. "You still taste so fucking good. So sweet..." He licked his lips. "You've tortured me, you know. Running away, keeping me from this sweet pussy for weeks."

With that, Heeseung crawled down your body, his movements swift and purposeful. He positioned himself between your legs, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. Without hesitation, he leaned in, his tongue swiping through your folds. You gasped, the shock of his sudden touch sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body.

He groaned, a low, feral sound, as he began to lick and suck, his tongue exploring every inch of you. You could feel his fingers digging into your thighs, holding you in place as he feasted on you.

In all your shock, you found yourself grabbing his hair, your fingers tangling in the soft strands as you threw your head back, your eyes rolling upwards, your mouth wide open as you screamed his name. "Heeseung! Oh my god, Heeseung!"

His tongue and fingers worked in tandem, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breaths stuttering.

As Heeseung's nose bumped into your clit with each vigorous lick, you could feel the intense, electric jolts of pleasure coursing through your body. His tongue delved deep inside you, fucking you, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of oblivion. Your body tensed, your muscles coiling tight as each inhale you took sounded like a ragged, desperate plea for air.

You risked a glance down at Heeseung, and what you saw sent a shiver down your spine. His eyes were locked on you, studying every reaction, every twitch, every gasp, with an intensity that bordered on feral. Yet, there was a dazed, almost trance-like quality to his gaze, as if he were completely consumed by the act, by the taste and the feel of you.

His mouth moved vigorously, his lips and tongue working in a frenzied rhythm. His eyebrows were scrunched in concentration, his forehead glistening with sweat, strands of hair clinging to his skin, damp and disheveled. The sight of him, so utterly focused, so completely absorbed in pleasuring you, was almost overwhelming.

But what struck you most was the way he was grinding into the bed, his hips moving in a rough rhythm, as if he were fucking the very mattress beneath you. You could hear the soft, wet sounds of his mouth against your flesh, the occasional muffled groan as he breathed you in, straight from the core, his nostrils flaring with each desperate inhalation.

His hands gripped your thighs with a punishing force, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving moon-shaped marks where his nails bit into the meat. You could feel the sting, the sharp, almost painful sensation, but it only served to heighten your pleasure, to push you closer to the edge.

As Heeseung's relentless assault on your senses continued, you could feel that familiar, tingling sensation building in your core, a sure sign that your orgasm was imminent. Your body tensed, your muscles coiling tight as you gripped the sheets with a punishing force, your knuckles white and your fingers trembling.

"Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, I'm gonna come! I'm gonna come!"

Heeseung pulled back for a moment, his eyes meeting yours, a cruel, mocking smile playing on his lips. "Oh, you are, are you?" he murmured, and with a renewed vigor, he dove back in, pushing you closer and closer to the edge.

And then, with a final, brutal lick, you were pushed over the edge, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you gasping and choking. Your scream was a choked, desperate sound, your whines mashed together as you rode out the overwhelming sensations.

Heeseung, ever the worshipper, licked and sucked, his tongue exploring every inch of your pussy, lapping up every drop of your cum.

As Heeseung's relentless assault on your senses continued, you could feel your body becoming increasingly sensitive, every touch, every lick, every suck sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins. You reached a point where the sensations were almost too much to bear, your nerves raw and exposed.

With a desperate, almost pleading push, you placed your hands on his shoulders, trying to create some space between you. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, I can't... I can't take any more."

To your surprise, Heeseung pulled back, his eyes meeting yours, his chin was dripping with a mix of your cum and his saliva, a rather primal sight. He wiped his chin with the back of his hand, never breaking eye contact.

"You can't take any more?" he questioned, "or you don't want to take any more?" He gripped your hips with a punishing force, his fingers digging into your flesh as he pulled you closer to him. You could feel his hardness pressing against your folds, the head of his cock sliding through your sensitive flesh with a teasing, almost torturous touch.

"Beg for it," he ordered. "Beg for me to put it in. Beg for me to fuck you."

You tensed, your body betraying you as it responded to his touch, his words, his command. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, Heeseung. Please, put it in. Please, fuck me. I need you. I need this."

Heeseung hummed while he continued to tease your folds with his cock, the head sliding through your wetness. "Need what?" he asked, "need my cock? Need me to fill you up? Need me to remind you who you belong to?"

"Y-yes," you stammered, your voice barely a whisper. "Yes, please. I need your cock. I need you to fill me up. I need you to remind me. I need you to own me."

With a brutal thrust, Heeseung plunged his cock into you, his hips snapping forward. You cried out, your body easily welcoming him in.

Heeseung remained still, his muscles straining, his jaw clenched tight as he cursed under his breath. "Shit, you're still so tight," he growled, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.

You whined, your eyes meeting his, your gaze pleading. The low lamp hanging from the roof cast a warm, golden glow over his face, highlighting the sharp angles and the intense, almost feral expression in his eyes. His eyes twitched, a telltale sign of his barely restrained control, as he pulled back slowly, leaving only the tip of his cock inside you.

And then, he plunged back in, his hips snapping forward with a force that left you arching your back, your body bowing off the bed as you cried out loudly.

Wet sounds filled the room, the slick, obscene noises a reminder of the intimacy and the degradation of the act. The sound of chains rattling echoed through the space, a haunting, almost ominous accompaniment to your combined moans and gasps.

Neither of you realized you had an audience.

Not until a sharp knock—too sudden, too real—cracked through the heady silence of the room like lightning. You froze. Heeseung stilled deep inside you, a full-body tension radiating through him as if the air itself had turned hostile.

His head turned, slow and dangerous, toward the now open door.

You followed his gaze, pulse hammering in your throat, only for your heart to seize entirely. Two of Heeseung’s followers stood in the doorway, eyes wide with a mix of disbelief and dawning horror. Their expressions shifted rapidly—shock, embarrassment, guilt. They were statues, breathless and pale.

You felt your skin prickle in mortified realization, heat rushing up your chest and neck, and despite everything—despite how used you were to the rituals, the possession, the worship—you still wanted to disappear.

Heeseung reacted instantly.

He shifted, his arms pulled you against him with a protectiveness that felt more like a claim. One hand cupped the back of your head. The other coiled around your waist with bruising precision.

The room that had once been warm with candlelight now crackled with something darker.

His voice, when it came, was low and wrathful.

“What the fuck?”

The two disciples flinched.

“I told the guards I wasn’t to be interrupted. Not for any fucking reason.” His words dripped with fury—controlled, but barely. Like he was using every ounce of his restraint not to destroy something. You could feel it in his body—how tightly he held you. How hard his jaw clenched. The storm in his breath.

“S-sorry, Heeseung…” one of them stammered. He wouldn’t meet your eyes. “We—we wouldn’t have come, but something’s… wrong. Up top. Near the wall. A group. Armed. They're getting too close—”

Heeseung didn’t blink.

His grip on you tightened. Not out of anger at you—but at the world, it seemed. At the insolence of it daring to interrupt what he considered his.

“The only thing wrong here,” he said quietly, dangerously, “is your interruption.”

You felt his chest rise and fall against your back, each inhale more ragged than the last. The candlelight threw violent shadows across the floor, stretching long and wild.

“Get out,” he snapped.

Neither of them moved.

“I said get out.”

The guards scrambled then—shoulders tight with shame, fear heavy in their footsteps. They backed out, heads down, disappearing behind the heavy wooden door which thudded shut moments later, echoing like judgment through the room.

Silence fell again. But it was no longer the same.

Heeseung didn’t move right away. His hands were still on you. His breathing sharp and body tense above you, his muscles coiled tight as he processed the intrusion. You looked up at him—uncertain, raw.

His jaw ticked once.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Fucking hell."

He pulled out of you slowly, his cock slipping free with a wet, sucking sound, leaving you gasping and shaking, your body aching and your mind reeling. Heeseung stood up, his movements abrupt and jerky as he adjusted his pants, his expression unreadable in the dim light.

"Stay here," he commanded, his voice low. "Don't move. I'll be right back."

You nodded, your body still trembling as you pulled the sheets around you, a futile attempt to cover your nakedness and your shame. Heeseung strode to the door, his steps purposeful and angry, and slipped out into the hallway, leaving you alone with your thoughts and your humiliation.

The room felt empty without him, the silence almost oppressive. You closed your eyes, trying to block out the memory of the intrusion, the shock of being caught, the raw, exposed feeling of your body and your desires laid bare. But the images and the sounds lingered, a haunting reminder of the reality you now faced.

Eventually, the door creaked open, and Heeseung stepped back into the room. You gasped when you saw him, your eyes widening in shock as you took in the sight of him. He was bloodied, his skin stained with crimson, and he was wiping away the evidence with a random cloth.

"Wh-what happened?" you asked shakily, your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes fixed on the blood.

He looked up at you and grinned. "I took care of the of the problem," he answered simply, and with a casual flick of his wrist, he threw the cloth away, the stained fabric landing in a crumpled heap on the floor.

Before you could react, he was on the bed, crawling over you with a predatory grace. His hands moved to the sheets, pulling them away from your body with a swift motion. You lay exposed before him, your body trembling. He pulled you carefully with him, sitting against the bed frame, his back leaning against the headboard. You found yourself straddling him, your legs wrapped around his waist, your body positioned perfectly as he positioned you above his cock.

With a soft sigh, he pulled you down, impaling you on his length. You gasped and arched your back, the sudden intrusion sending a wave of pleasure through your body. Your breasts pushed forward, offering themselves to his hungry mouth.

Heeseung accepted the invitation greedily, his lips and tongue sucking and biting, his teeth leaving marks on your sensitive skin, his mouth moving from one breast to the other, his moans vibrating against your flesh.

His hands occupied themselves by gripping your ass, fingers digging into your cheeks, slapping them with a sharp, stinging force. Your hands gripped his shoulders in shock, your nails digging into his flesh as you moaned and whined his name. "Heeseung," you gasped, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps. "Please. Please, don't stop."

He continued to suck and bite, his mouth leaving a trail of marks across your breasts and your collarbone. "Don't worry," he muttered. "I'm not going to stop. Ever."

You trembled in his hold as Heeseung ravished you, his mouth leaving a trail of hickeys and marks across anywhere his lips could reach. His grip on your ass was punishing, his fingers digging into your flesh, leaving red marks where he slapped and squeezed.

"Fuck, you're so responsive." With a swift, almost brutal motion, he pulled you towards him, his lips crashing down on yours in a harsh, messy kiss.

When you pulled back, a string of saliva connected your lips, which Heeseung licked up, his tongue swirling, his eyes never leaving yours, a possessive glint in his gaze. And then, with a steady motion, he began to lift you up and down, impaling you on his cock.

You gasped, your body arching, hands gripping his shoulders, your nails digging into his flesh as you held on for dear life, your body moving in time with his, your hips meeting his thrusts with an almost hungry need.

You kept whining as Heeseung continued to lift and lower you on his cock, the sensation of being stretched overwhelming your senses, leaving you whining and clinging to him.

Eventually, Heeseung manhandled you onto your back, his strength overpowering as he positioned you beneath him. He towered over you, his body a wall of muscle and power.

With a swift, almost brutal motion, he pushed your legs back, spreading you open, exposing you as he began to fuck you deeper, his hips snapping forward. Your mind numbed, your senses overwhelmed, leaving you in a state of a mindnumbing sensation. The room buzzed around you, the sounds of your combined moans and gasps, the wet, obscene noises of your bodies moving together, the sharp, stinging slaps of his hips against your ass, all blending together.

You came suddenly, your orgasm crashing over you with a force that left you whining, your body convulsing as waves of pleasure washed through you. In that moment, you swore you felt like your soul left your body, your mind shattering into a million pieces, your reality fragmenting and reforming around the overwhelming sensations.

Heeseung rambled on, his words a low, and slurred but you couldn't make out what he was saying. Your ears rang, the sound a high-pitched, almost painful whine, a result of being fucked senseless, your body and mind pushed to their limits. You felt cock drunk, your body craving more, needing more, desperate for the feeling of him inside you, filling you, possessing you. Your body was a limp and boneless mess, your mind a foggy, disoriented haze.

"You're going to take every drop of my cum," Heeseung murmured, his hips continuing to move. "You're going to look so fucking good with your stomach bulging... I'm going to fill you up so good, so much that you'll be leaking for days."

You could only whine in response.

"I'm going to breed you so good, fill you up with so much cum that you'll be carrying my child..."

Your mind reeled at his words, the promise of his seed, of his claim, of his possession. "Please," you whimpered, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Please, Heeseung. Please, breed me. Please, fill me up. Please, make me yours."

"Don't worry," he mumbled. "I'm going to give you everything I have. Every drop of my cum. Every inch of my cock. Every part of me. You're going to be so full of me, so complete with me."

You could feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps.

"Come for me," he commanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl. "Come for me like the good little cocksleeve you are. Come for me and take my cum."

And with a final, brutal thrust, you were pushed over the edge for the millionth time, your body convulsing, each sensation more intense than the last.

Heeseung followed soon after, his hips snapping forward with a few more thrusts before he released himself deep inside you. You could feel the warmth of his cum filling you, his seed spilling into your depths, a claiming so intense it left you breathless. He remained inside you, his cock pulsing as he emptied every last drop, ensuring that you were completely and utterly filled.

As the intensity of the moment began to fade, Heeseung stayed inside you, his body pressing against yours as he moved you closer to him. He adjusted his position, pulling you into his arms, your bodies entwined as you both lay on the bed. You were so tired, so spent, that as he started kissing your face tenderly, his lips soft against your skin, and playing with your hair, your eyes fluttered closed, and you drifted off into a deep, exhausted sleep.

The room was quiet, the only sounds the soft, rhythmic breaths of your slumber and the occasional shift of Heeseung's body as he held you close. You were safe in his arms, protected and possessed, your body and mind finally at peace after the overwhelming sensations.

As you slept, Heeseung's hand gently stroked your back, murmuring soft, almost affectionate words, his voice soothing, ensuring that you knew, even in your dreams, that you were his. 

You didn’t run again.

Whether it was exhaustion, fear, or something deeper—something Heeseung had carved into your mind with quiet, patient cruelty—you stayed by his side. Loyal. Prized. His.

The compound called you many things now.

The saved. The chosen. The miracle that came back.

But Heeseung called you something else.

Mine.

No one touched you.

That was sacred.

He made it clear—once, violently, when a follower brushed too close while offering water. The poor man didn’t even see it coming, the punishment swift, public, and brutal. After that, no one dared. You could feel their eyes on you when you walked—soft, curious, reverent—but no one ever reached out again.

Because that was Heeseung’s right. Only Heeseung’s.

He sat on his throne like a king who’d bled the world dry to earn it, and you—his crown, his queen—sat on his lap like you belonged there. Because you did. That’s what he told you. Over and over.

In the dim light of the bunker, followers knelt in rows before you both, murmuring prayers. Praising salvation. Begging for mercy.

And Heeseung?

He kissed your neck gently. One arm locked around your waist, the other tracing shapes over your thigh, possessive and idle.

“You’re so good for me,” he whispered in your ear, voice soft as silk. “So obedient now. So perfect.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and you shivered. “But not too perfect,” he added with a smirk. “You still cry when I ruin you..”

You clenched your fists, breath catching as his hand squeezed your hip beneath the fabric of your dress. His touch was gentle now—but it never stayed that way for long. And you’d learned: pleasure and punishment were two sides of the same coin in his hands. Twisted rewards. Earned devotion.

You were a queen in his eyes, but you were also his possession, his property, his to command and control.

Around the compound, you rarely walked alone. Mostly because… you couldn’t. Your legs still ached most mornings. From the things he’d done. The things he’d proven. So his arm stayed tight around your waist when he led you through Sanctum. Not support. Not comfort. But control.

You were a symbol now. And symbols didn’t get to stumble.

He fed you the finest preserved rations—lavish by apocalypse standards. Fresh fruit, warm broth, spiced rice. He always made sure you ate. Made sure you smiled. Tucked hair behind your ear like he hadn’t broken you just the night before.

“You deserve to feel full,” he said once, pressing a spoon to your lips. “You deserve everything.”

And in his eyes, you were everything.

Not just because he loved you. But because he needed you.

You were his altar, his proof, his possession.

And without you, Heeseung didn’t breathe.

So you stayed.

And he worshipped. And devoured. And whispered, always:

“You’re mine, little lamb. My last holy thing.”

Even in moments of quiet—when the compound basked in sunlight, when the fires weren’t burning and no one was chanting—Heeseung would remind you.

Remind you who held the leash, even when it wasn’t in his hand.

It didn’t take much. A glance. A certain tone in his voice. A question that wasn’t really a question at all.

“You wouldn’t leave again,” he’d murmur, brushing a stray leaf from your shoulder after a walk through the courtyard. “Would you?”

You’d pause—just for a breath too long—and he’d smile.

Not wide. Not kind.

Slow. Sharp.

Like he’d caught the rabbit still twitching under his paw.

Sometimes, he didn’t even need words. Just a touch. A hand on the back of your neck when you passed through the halls, light but final. Fingers tracing the collar still locked around your throat. You’d flinch, sometimes—but he always noticed. And he’d lean in close, lips at your ear. “I like when you remember,” he’d whisper. “What it felt like to run.”

The worst part was how he made you feel it. Still.

That instinct.

That prey-deep shiver under your skin.

Even when you were full and dressed in white, draped in luxury. Even when you were safe.

Because safety was a lie he whispered while baring his teeth.

When others approached—offering prayer, gifts, loyalty—he would keep you close, his hand always low on your waist. Not just claiming you. Daring them.

You learned, over time, that his gentleness was layered like silk over steel. A mask for something far older. Deeper.

Predatory.

Heeseung didn’t need to growl or snarl. He studied you. Waited. Learned every reaction, every sound you made when you were nervous, ashamed, afraid. And then—he’d trigger it.

With purpose.

With precision.

Because to him, power wasn’t shown through violence. It was shown in how easily he could make you remember.

The woods. The leash. The desperate, bloody ache of your escape.

All of it, at the mercy of his voice.

“I don’t keep you because you can’t run,” he said one night, eyes gleaming in the low candlelight. “I keep you because you know what happens when you try.”

You said nothing.

Because the truth was this:

He didn’t have to chase you anymore.

Heeseung already had you. Right where he wanted. Tamed. Trembling. And his.

Heeseung was cruel, but fair.

And he loved toying with you.

Not with violence—no, that was too easy. Too loud. He preferred the slow unraveling. The game. The quiet dissection of your will, one string at a time. He’d give you softness just long enough to make you ache for it—then take it away. He’d hold you in his lap during prayers, thumb stroking circles over your thigh, murmuring praises under his breath… then later, he wouldn’t touch you at all. Wouldn’t even look at you. Would leave you pacing in silence, caged in your own skin, wondering what you’d done wrong.

(You hadn’t. That was the point.)

He made you earn him.

And when you reached for him—when you finally broke, voice hoarse with need, trembling under the weight of his absence—he’d smile.

“That’s better,” he’d whisper, tilting your chin up. “See what happens when you remember your place?”

And you hated that it worked. That part of you needed him to remind you.

He didn’t punish with rage. He punished with control. Silence. Restraint. Precision.

And when he did give you what you craved—his attention, his hands, his voice curling around your name like a prayer—he made sure you remembered.

“You only exist because I let you,” he murmured once, teeth brushing your throat. “You breathe because I allow it. And you stay, little lamb…” His smile darkened. “Because you want to.”

That was the cruelest part.

The part where he was right.

Because by now, you’d stopped counting how many times you could’ve run.

And started counting how many ways he could pull you back.

There had been a day—two, actually—where Heeseung was gone.

Not far. Not abandoned.

Just busy.

A breach had nearly occurred. A horde of Hollowed had shambled too close to the western wall of the compound. Alarms sounded, smoke rose, steel rang against bone. The Sanctum’s guards had fought them off just in time, but the damage to the barricade was enough to send the entire compound into a state of tension.

Heeseung, of course, had gone straight to the perimeter.

He didn’t take you with him.

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even relieved. You simply… waited.

And in his absence, they turned to you.

Because when Heeseung was gone, the throne did not stay empty.

You sat in it—his throne—at the very center of the bunker, high-backed and curved around you like it had been built for this moment. The seat still held his warmth, the scent of worn leather and incense clinging to its edges.

No one questioned it. Because you were the only other living being on earth allowed to sit there.

And oh, how they moved around you.

The moment you shifted, someone was there. You asked for juice—it was in your hand before you could blink. A bowl of fruits? Rested at your side before you even finished the sentence.

They watched your every breath like it held meaning.

Kneeling. Bowing. Smiling with a reverence that made your skin crawl, even as your lips curled in indulgence.

You didn’t need to lift a finger.

When the sun streamed in through the cracks of the compound roof, it kissed your shoulders like even nature obeyed. You reclined into the throne, sipping sweet juice from a silver cup, and the world bent around you.

But still—something in your chest pulsed uneasily. Because even dressed like a queen, even praised and waited on like a goddess… you were still wearing the collar. Still tethered by something unseen. Still waiting for the shadow who never let you out of his grip for long.

And when Heeseung returned—dust on his coat, jaw tense—you saw it in his eyes the second they landed on you.

Pride. Possessiveness. And a flicker of something else. Jealousy, maybe.

Not at the followers. At the throne. Because for two days, you sat in it.

Heeseung stood there a moment, his gaze roaming over you, taking in the sight of you reclining on his throne, dressed in regal attire. The sunlight streaming through the cracks in the roof cast a warm, golden glow on your shoulders, as if nature itself bowed to your presence. The world seemed to bend around you, acknowledging your power and your grace.

With a swift, authoritative gesture, Heeseung dismissed his followers. "Leave us," he commanded. "And do not return until I call for you."

The followers, seated around you, rose silently and filed out of the room, leaving you alone on the throne, confused and uncertain. The heavy steel door clicked shut behind them, sealing you in with Heeseung.

He began to walk towards you, his eyes never leaving yours. As he approached, he gripped the armrests of the throne, leaning over you, a mocking smile playing on his lips. "You look beautiful," he murmured, his voice a low, dangerous purr. "Like a queen. Like my queen."

You met his gaze, your heart pounding in your chest, a mix of fear and anticipation coursing through your veins. "Heeseung," you said, your voice a soft, tentative whisper. "What are you going to do?"

His smile widened, a predatory glint in his eyes. "What do you think I'm going to do?" he asked. "I'm going to remind you who you belong to. I'm going to remind you who this throne belongs to."

Before you could respond, Heeseung's hands gripped your shoulders, his fingers digging into your flesh with a punishing force. He pulled you up from the throne, his movements swift and authoritative.

With a fluid motion, Heeseung turned and sat down on the throne, his eyes never leaving yours. He patted his lap, a silent command for you to join him. You hesitated for a moment, but the intensity of his gaze left you no choice. You climbed onto his lap, straddling him, your body pressed against his, your heart pounding in your chest.

Heeseung's arms wrapped around you, one hand gripping your hip, the other tangling in your hair, pulling your head back while his lips crashed down on yours in a harsh, demanding kiss, his tongue invading your mouth.

As he kissed you, his hands roamed over your body, exploring, claiming, possessing. He gripped your ass, his fingers digging into your flesh, pulling you closer to him, grinding you against his growing hardness. You could feel his cock pressing against your core.

You both ground against each other, the friction sending jolts of pleasure coursing through your veins. The room filled with the sound of your combined moans and gasps.

until Heeseung suddenly pulled back, his breath ragged. "Stand up," he ordered. "And strip for me."

You exhaled slowly, pushing yourself to your feet, your eyes never leaving his. With a fluid motion, you slipped your dress off, the fabric pooling at your feet, leaving you in nothing but your lacy panties.

Heeseung's gaze ate you up, his eyes roaming over your body with a possessive intensity. You could feel his hunger and it left you trembling, your body responding to his silent command.

With a swift, almost brutal motion, Heeseung unzipped his pants, pulling his boxers down just enough for his cock to slip out. He began to jerk himself off, his eyes never leaving yours, his gaze intense. The sight of him, so completely in control, left you breathless, your body aching for him.

You stood there, your body trembling, your breath coming in short, desperate gasps, your eyes locked on his, unable to look away, unable to break the intense, almost hypnotic connection between you.

Slowly, almost hesitantly, you slipped your hands down to your thighs, your fingers brushing against your skin, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You could feel the heat of his gaze that emanated from him, and it left you trembling.

Heeseung leans back on the throne, his legs wide, his body taking up space, commanding attention, demanding submission. He bit his lower lip, eyes roaming over your body, taking in every inch of your exposed flesh, every curve, every line, every mark.

And then, with a swift, almost brutal motion, he lashed out, his hands gripping your hips as he pulled you towards him, guiding you back onto his lap, your body pressing against his, your thighs straddling his, your core pressing against his hardness.

"You want this, don't you?" he asked as he began to move his hips, grinding his cock against your clit.

You only whimpered, your voice a pleading moan, as you moved with him, your hips grinding against his.

He took his time, his movements as he pulled your panties to the side, exposing your most intimate place to his hungry gaze. "Sit on it," he commanded.

You hesitated for a moment, before you hovered above him, your knees on either side of his thighs, your body poised and ready.

Heeseung positioned himself at your entrance, the head of his cock pressing against your folds, then you lowered yourself onto him, your body stretching to accommodate his size. You could feel every ridge, every vein, every inch.

As you took him inch by inch, both of you moaned, Heeseung's was a deep, guttural rumble, while yours was a high, desperate plea.

"Feels like heaven baby," he whined as he leaned in close. "You were made for me. Made to take my cock. Made to please me."

You moaned in response, a sound of pure, unfiltered ecstasy, as you took him deeper, your body adjusting to his size.

"Shit," you gasped, your voice a raspy, desperate plea, as you took the final inch, your body pressing against his, your clit grinding against his pelvis, a sensation that left you dizzy and wanting more. "So big..."

Your words boosted Heeseung's ego, a huge smile stretching across his lips as he grabbed your waist and began to use you, lifting you up and down.

"Mmm, you like that, don't you? You love my big cock, don't you?" he snickered. "You love having a boyfriend who's big, who keeps spoiling you, fucking you so good that you can't walk. You're so lucky, you know that? So fucking lucky."

You could only hold onto his shirt, screaming out, your fingers gripping the fabric with a punishing force, your body convulsing with each deep thrust, your thighs sore from the relentless movement.

"Please," you shouted, your voice raspy as you continued to ride him.

"Love being my good little slut, don't you?" he growled, "you love choking on it. You love getting fucked on it. You're so pathetic. So fucking helpless."

You whimpered, the sensation of him, hard and insistent, filling you completely, leaving you breathless, your body aching, your mind reeling. "Yes," you gasped, your voice a raspy, desperate plea. "Yes, I love it. I love you. I love your cock. I love everything about you!"

Heeseung's hands moved to your ass, his fingers spreading your cheeks, exposing you to his hungry gaze. "Thought so."

As you continued to ride him, you realized you had become accustomed to his size, his length, his girth. It felt like hell and heaven, a cruel limbo of two realms. And there was no escaping that reality.

You lost track of time after that.

You had turned into something shaped by his hands. By his voice. By the way he looked at you like you were the final holy thing left in a world already damned.

Heeseung sat with you often—on the throne, in his bed, in the quiet gardens behind the bunker, where the last flowers bloomed under poisoned skies. His hand always rested on your thigh. His voice always found your ear.

“My perfect little lamb,” he would murmur, brushing his lips over your temple. “They’d all die for you now, you know. Every last one of them.”

You didn’t ask if that included him. You already knew the answer.

Because he wouldn’t die for you.

He’d burn the world for you.

And make you watch.

There was no freedom. There was no before.

Just this: soft silk robes and blood-washed stones, candlelit prayers, your name whispered like it meant salvation. You were loved. You were feared.

You were his.

And one night, as he held you close with your back to his chest, voice low and sleep-heavy, you heard it again:

“You saved them. You saved me.”

He kissed the base of your neck, just beneath the collar.

“And I’ll never let you go.”

And you—warm, quiet, and no longer trembling—closed your eyes.

Because maybe that was the ending.

Not an escape. Not a rescue. But a throne you could never leave.

And a god who never stopped worshipping you. Even as he broke you into something divine.

══════⊹⊱≼≽⊰⊹══════

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They wandered until their flesh gave out. Until their bones cracked under their own weight and their jaws unhinged from overuse. Until their hands fell off, fingers clawed to the tendon from scratching at barricades, doors, skin. A mindless disease with a heartbeat.

You still remember the day the outbreak began. Still remember the sound of sirens that didn’t stop for three days. Still remember the look in your mother’s eyes as it shifted. Still remember your friend’s trembling hands turning feral. How they lunged for your throat. How their teeth snapped inches from your skin. How you ran, sobbing, as the people you loved turned into something else.

You survived. Somehow. By sheer force and luck, you managed to claw your way through the end of the world. You’d always find groups—ragtag clusters of hopefuls, wanderers, people desperate not to die alone. But they never lasted long. Some got bitten, turned overnight while everyone slept. Some died from wounds, infection, starvation. Others just… vanished. No screams, no blood. Just a bedroll left behind, cold and undisturbed.

So eventually, you stopped trying. Stopped hoping. You learned it was better to stay moving. Alone.

One bag. One weapon. Covered skin, quiet steps, head down. You learned how to strip a house clean in minutes. You wrapped yourself in torn fabrics and old military gear, kept your skin covered at all times. The Hollowed hunted by scent and sound, but they responded to skin like moths to flame. You got good at staying invisible. Good at putting them down before they got too close. Good at not thinking about who they used to be.

It wasn’t life—not really. But it was survival. And in this world, that counted for something.

Without survival, you’d be lost. But since you had no one left, you were never really found to begin with. No roots. No attachments. Just footprints in the dirt that vanished with the wind and blood that washed off easier when you didn’t know the name behind it.

You didn’t mourn anymore. Didn’t flinch when the Hollowed screamed. Didn’t hesitate to drive a blade through what was once someone’s brother, sister, child. You stopped asking how long you’d last. Stopped looking for purpose. All you had was the next hour. The next shelter. The next breath.

Loneliness didn’t hurt when it became habit. Silence didn’t sting when you forgot what laughter sounded like.

You stopped needing sound. Stopped expecting kindness.

The sky was just beginning to bruise with morning light, a cold, pale pink stretched over skeletal trees and dust. Dawn always felt quieter, like the world was still deciding whether or not to wake up.

You were low on drinking water. Your canteen had barely two mouthfuls left, and your tongue felt like paper. Still, you moved like always—silent, cautious, untrusting. The road had long since turned to cracked asphalt, and ahead, the jagged outline of a busted-down supermarket sat in a puddle of shadow.

That’s when you saw them.

A group. Five, maybe six. Faces half obscured by scarves and visors, silhouettes sharp with weapons and armor salvaged from every corner of the dead world. But what stopped you weren’t them. It was the wagons.

Stacked with crates. Full water jugs. Canned food. Tools. Blankets. Like they’d hit a supply cache untouched by ruin. Or like they’d taken it from someone else.

Corpses littered the area around them, some still fresh—torn, gnawed, drained. Hollowed or not, it didn’t matter. Death always looked the same in the end.

Your grip tightened around your weapon. Instinct said walk away. But as you turned, your shoulders sinking back into the comfort of withdrawal, one of them looked up. And just like that, it was too late. Their gaze locked with yours. No words. No movement. Just that slow, eerie stillness that always came before something broke.

Then another turned. Then another.

You backed up a step, foot crunching broken glass, and a voice finally cut through the tension—low, cautious, but not unkind.

“We’re not gonna hurt you,” the man said, palms raised, his voice rough from disuse but steady. “You look like hell.”

You said nothing, not yet. Let him speak. Let him reveal more than he meant to.

Another figure, smaller, leaned slightly to the side to get a better look at you. “Are you bitten?” they asked sharply, hand twitching toward their belt.

You shook your head once. “No.”

They didn’t lower their guard, but they didn’t raise their weapons either. The man who had spoken first gave you a nod and motioned toward the cart.

“We’ve got more than enough to share.” Too generous. Too fast.

You didn’t move. Your eyes scanned past them instead, and that’s when you saw it. One of the group—taller, hood drawn low—was spray-painting something on the supermarket’s crumbling outer wall. Bright crimson against grey concrete. The lines were careful. Precise. Rehearsed.

A sheep’s skull. Haloed in gold.

Your stomach turned.

You’d seen it before—on road signs, carved into abandoned homes, smeared in blood near old campsites. Some survivors called it a mark of safety. Others avoided it like plague.

From what you'd heard, it belonged to a group that called themselves The Sanctum—a so-called community, closed off from the infected zones, safe behind fortified gates and high walls. A place of peace. Of healing. Of rebirth.

They were said to take in lost souls and guide them back to something better. You’d heard whispers from strays, half-mad with hope or starvation, swearing they'd seen it. Touched it. Called it paradise. But even paradise had its price. And that symbol—it never looked like hope to you.

It looked like a warning. A brand.

And now it was fresh, bright, and drying in front of you.

They hadn’t just passed through. They were marking territory.

You swallowed hard, finally speaking.

“Where’d you get that symbol?”

The man blinked at you. Then smiled—slow, knowing.

“From the only place still worth living.”

And deep in your chest, something cold began to coil.

You didn’t reply. You just stared at the still-dripping symbol on the wall—the red too bright, too deliberate. The way it seemed to stare back at you.

The one who’d spoken stepped forward—not close enough to threaten, but enough to make his presence solid. “We’ve got clean water. Real beds. We’ve got medicine. Weapons, too. Things that work. It’s not like the stories. It’s better.”

He smiled like he meant it. Like he’d been saved.

“You won’t have to sleep with one eye open anymore. You won’t have to kill just to eat.”

You didn’t answer. Didn’t blink.

Another spoke up, this one softer, a woman with a pack slung over her shoulder and cracked lips. “You look like you’re running on nothing. You don’t have to keep doing this. Not alone.”

Still, you said nothing.

Because it was always like this—soft words, open palms, promises that felt too smooth. You’d seen how quick kindness could turn the second you stepped out of line. The world didn’t run on generosity anymore. It ran on leverage.

You didn’t care how gentle their voices were. No one offered peace without a price.

You adjusted your grip on your weapon and took a small step back, just enough to signal distance, not threat. Their eyes tracked the movement. Careful. Calm. Measured.

You were too tired to fight, but not tired enough to be pulled into something you couldn’t crawl out of.

Your gaze flicked back to the mark on the wall.

Some said it marked safe zones. Others said it was a warning. You weren’t sure what you believed anymore. But the more you saw it, the more it felt like a trail—and you didn’t like where it led. Especially not now, when it felt like it was starting to follow you.

The woman didn’t push. She just gave you a sad sort of smile, like she’d already buried the conversation in her head. You recognized that expression. You wore it often.

The group exchanged a few quiet words among themselves before the one in charge reached for the cart. He pulled out two water bottles and a vacuum-sealed ration pack, then set them gently on the ground a few feet from where you stood.

“Take it,” he said. “Even if you don’t come with us. Doesn’t mean you have to die thirsty.”

And then they left.

No pitch. No pressure. Just the soft crunch of boots and the fading creak of cart wheels as they disappeared down the road, leaving the symbol drying behind them like a stain.

You stared at the food they left behind. You didn’t touch it. Not yet.

The wind shifted.

You scanned the empty road, the skeletal buildings, the horizon bleeding with early light. No sound. No movement. Still, a prickle crawled down your spine, like something unseen had taken a step closer.

You exhaled slowly, hand still clenched around your weapon.

Then, without a word, you knelt and grabbed the food and water. Quick. Efficient. No time to hesitate—hesitation got people killed. You didn’t trust where it came from, but survival didn’t give room for pride. You’d gone longer on less.

The sun had risen higher now, climbing to its brutal peak, casting warped shadows across the crumbling streets. Heat shimmered against broken pavement. Dry air clung to your skin like dust.

Midday was a gift.

The Hollowed were slower in the light. Not blind, but weaker—dragging, twitching things that hated the sun, retreating into shadows and tunnels when the rays were at their brightest. You had a few good hours before the world shifted again, before the wind picked up and the sky turned that dead, yellow-grey that meant dusk was crawling in.

You kept walking.

Boots crunching glass. Backpack heavier with the weight of borrowed mercy. Eyes flicking to every rooftop, every alley, every unmoving silhouette in the distance that might be watching.

You didn’t head anywhere specific. There was no destination anymore—just forward. Always forward. Toward the next sliver of rest. But as you walked, something gnawed quietly at your thoughts.

The way the group hadn’t begged. Hadn’t pleaded. Like they knew something you didn’t. Like they weren’t really offering you a choice—just time.

And behind it all, that symbol. Still glowing in your mind, fresh and red like it had been burned into you. You’d seen it more and more lately. Always in places you were about to pass. Never places you’d already been. It felt too deliberate. Too much like a trail laid just for you.

A pattern carved into the ruins.

Once or twice, you’d tried to backtrack—turn around, veer off-course, take paths through tighter alleyways or over rooftops where the Hollowed wouldn't follow. But no matter how far you veered, how carefully you moved, the mark always reappeared. On old cars. On collapsed walls. Carved into the bark of dead trees with a precision that made your skin crawl.

It never looked rushed. Never smeared. It looked prepared. As if someone knew the direction you’d take before you did. At first, you told yourself it was coincidence. Or superstition. The human brain finding patterns in the chaos just to feel something.

But the human brain also knew when it was being watched.

And lately… you felt it. That itch just beneath your skin. That sensation—fleeting, maddening—like someone was always just behind you, just out of sight. The kind of feeling that didn’t go away when you turned around. It only settled deeper in your spine.

But it was crazy. You were going crazy, right? There was no one out here. No footsteps but yours, no shadows that didn’t belong to dead trees or crumbling buildings. Just silence. Endless, suffocating silence.

You told yourself that again and again as you walked. There’s no one here. There’s no one watching. There’s no one waiting for you to slip. But the thought never stuck for long. Because sometimes the wind carried things it shouldn't. A hum. A scrape. A soft shuffle that didn’t belong to your steps. Once, you swore you heard someone breathing in the same room. You held your breath, frozen behind a broken fridge, heart thudding so hard you thought it would give you away.

But there was nothing. Always nothing. Just your reflection in shattered glass, eyes hollowed by hunger and paranoia.

You started questioning everything. Did you leave that door open? Did you really use that last bullet, or did someone take one while you slept? Maybe it was the loneliness. Maybe the infection didn’t need to bite you to rot your mind.

You thought about speaking. Out loud. Just once. Just to hear your own voice and remind yourself it was still yours.

But you didn’t. Because if something was out there… you didn’t want to let it know you were afraid. You didn’t want to give it the satisfaction of hearing you crack.

So you stayed silent. Kept walking. And tried to pretend you weren’t already unraveling. Even though every day, it felt a little less like you were alone, and a little more like something was walking just a step behind. Waiting for you to stop. To rest. To give up.

You didn’t see any of the Sanctum members again, not for a few weeks, at least.

By then, you’d moved through two towns and a stretch of hollowed farmland, surviving off scavenged water, dried meat, and whatever luck hadn’t run dry. You didn’t think about them anymore. You told yourself they were just another strange group in a world full of strange people. You had passed. They had left. That should’ve been the end of it.

It wasn’t.

You were scavenging a dead mall on the outskirts of a collapsed city when it happened. The place had already been picked over years ago, but you still moved quiet, cautious—always check the corners, always look up, always keep your blade out.

There had been a few stray Hollowed inside. Twitchy ones. Slow. You’d killed them quickly—no hesitation, no wasted motion. They dropped like they always did. Easier than breathing.

But to your disappointment, the mall didn’t have much left. Some loose ammo in a locked case you couldn’t pry open, a few crumbling shelves, half-rotted snacks that would make you sicker than the Hollowed ever could. Another dead building full of dust and ghosts.

You were about to move on when you heard it.

Gunfire. Sharp, rapid, controlled.

It wasn’t far—maybe two floors below. You froze, instinct kicking in, and slipped behind the broken glass counter of what used to be a jewelry store, eyes locked on the entrance, heart thudding once, then steady.

Then silence.

You waited. Watched.

And just as you peeked through a broken display, movement caught your eye, figures moving between the escalators and smashed storefronts. Six of them. Same group.

Their silhouettes were unmistakable—patched armor, carts in tow, confident strides. One of them stopped to spray something onto a wall near a pile of Hollowed corpses. Red paint. Familiar shape.

The skull. The halo.

Sanctum.

They hadn’t seen you. Not yet.

You counted their weapons. Noted the distance. You could leave. You should leave. But still, you stayed behind the counter a moment longer, breath tight in your throat.

They didn’t move like they were in danger. They moved like they owned the place. Confident. Unbothered. One of them—tall, wide-shouldered—gave a dramatic bow to an invisible crowd before pretending to wrestle a Hollowed corpse for laughs. Another laughed and kicked over a display case, glass crunching under their boots.

Goofing off. Loud. Careless.

But not all of them.

You watched the group start to split—three staying near the center, two drifting to opposite wings of the mall, their steps quieter, eyes scanning the upper floors. You told yourself they wouldn’t find you. You were tucked in deep, crouched behind a busted counter, shadows cloaking most of your figure. You’d done this before. Survived worse.

So you waited. Breath held. Fingers wrapped tight around the grip of your blade.

And that’s when you felt it. That same prickling crawl down your spine. Like someone was already there.

You turned—

And your blood froze.

One of them stood a few feet away. Quiet. Still.

You hadn’t heard them approach. Not a footstep. Not a breath. They just… appeared, like they’d been standing there the whole time, watching. Their mask covered their face—smooth, featureless, like porcelain carved to erase identity. The gold markings were faint in the low light, but you saw the halo etched along the forehead.

A Sanctum sentinel.

They didn’t raise their weapon. Didn’t speak. Just tilted their head, slow and deliberate, like you were something fascinating. Something expected.

You rose quickly, weapon up and aimed at his chest, finger hovering just above the trigger. The movement was instinctual—fast, sharp, practiced. You didn’t need to think about it anymore. Survival had long since become muscle memory.

But he didn’t flinch. Matter of fact, he didn’t move at all. Just stared at you through that blank, expressionless mask, head still tilted, body still relaxed—like the gun in your hands didn’t matter. Like you didn’t matter. Or maybe… like he knew you wouldn’t pull the trigger.

And then you heard it. Boots. Soft, scuffing. Surrounding you.

You didn’t have to turn. You felt them before you saw them. That subtle shift in the air, the slight pressure of eyes digging into your back. You swallowed and finally glanced to your left—another figure stood a few feet away, gun slung low, not aimed. Another to your right, leaning lazily against the wall. One behind you—close enough to hear them breathe.

They hadn’t chased you. They hadn’t shouted. They had simply closed in. As if they’d planned this. As if they’d been waiting for this moment all along. And you—so careful, so used to staying two steps ahead—hadn’t even noticed the circle tightening until it was already closed.

Still, you kept your weapon up.

The one in front of you tilted their head back the other way, slow and deliberate, then finally spoke—voice low, muffled by the mask but clear enough to make the hairs on your arms rise.

“You’ve been walking for a long time.”

You said nothing.

He took a step forward—not threatening. Not fast. Just… steady. “You look tired.” Another step. “You don’t have to keep running.”

Your jaw clenched. You adjusted your grip.

Another voice spoke behind you, softer, almost amused. “They always act like this at first. Like they think they’re still alone.”

Your heart hammered in your chest.

They hadn’t touched you. They hadn’t even raised their weapons. But somehow, it felt like they already had you. They didn’t touch you. Didn’t force you. Just kept talking. Little things.

“We have food. Real food.”

“You don’t have to sleep with a blade in your hand anymore.”

“There’s hot water. Blankets. Walls.”

“You won’t have to fight every single day just to breathe.”

And gods, they said it gently. Soft and measured, like a lullaby worn down from repetition. Like they’d done this before. So many times before.

Your grip on your weapon stayed firm, but your arms… didn’t.

You were so tired. The kind of tired that went deeper than bone. The kind that lived in your thoughts, your silence, your hollowed-out nights. You couldn’t remember the last time you’d eaten something warm. The last time your shoulders didn’t ache from sleeping against concrete. The last time someone spoke to you like you were human.

You told yourself this was a trick. You knew it was a trick.

But when one of them handed you a canteen—extended it without a word, no demand, no smile—you didn’t knock it away.

You drank.

And when someone else passed you a sealed ration bar, you didn’t question what might be in it. You ate. Slowly. Eyes still scanning their masks, their hands, their formation.

You were still afraid. But the hunger was louder. So was the ache.

When they turned to leave, they didn’t invite you. They didn’t gesture or coax or wait. They just walked—quiet, steady, purposeful.

And before you realized what you were doing, you were following.

One step. Then another. Weapon still in your hand, but heavy now. More like habit than threat. No one spoke again.

And as the sun dipped lower across the ruined mall’s shattered skylight, your shadow joined theirs. Long and silent and already forgotten by the person you used to be. After all, you were human. And the promise of constant shelter—of something stable, something soft—was too tempting. Not just walls and rations and hot water. But people. Voices that didn’t scream or beg. Laughter, even if it didn’t quite reach their eyes.

You hadn’t heard laughter in months.

You told yourself you’d just stay the night. Eat. Rest. Keep your distance. You’d leave in the morning, maybe the day after. Before they could dig their claws in.

So you followed them.

Through wrecked streets and collapsed intersections. Past bloodstained buildings, half-collapsed churches, the twisted remnants of lives long abandoned. Through alleys lined with corpses too decayed to rise again, and others too fresh to have a story.

You didn’t ask where you were going. Just followed. They knew the way. You didn’t.

They moved like they’d walked this path a hundred times, steps falling in rhythm, even their silence coordinated. The carts rolled behind them without a sound, like even the wheels had been trained not to betray a single creak.

None of them spoke to you, but none of them ignored you either. One would occasionally glance back—check that you were still there, still walking, still breathing. Another handed you a protein bar without a word. You took it. Ate it. Didn't say thank you.

You weren’t sure how many hours passed after that. Time slipped strange when you weren’t actively running for your life. Just walking. Just following.

Eventually, the ruins thinned out. The bones of the city gave way to dense, overgrown wilderness. Roots cracked through asphalt. Trees swallowed road signs. The deeper you went, the quieter it got—no wind, no birds, no Hollowed. Just the rhythmic crunch of boots on dirt and gravel, and the occasional low murmur of a private conversation you weren’t invited into.

And then you saw it.

Massive walls, reinforced and welded from scavenged steel and concrete slabs. Watchtowers. Armed guards. Floodlights hidden high in the trees. Everything camouflaged to blend with the forest—almost invisible unless you were led to it.

A fortress.

The gates didn’t open with a creak or groan. They opened smoothly. Silently. Like they’d been expecting you.

And on the other side—

Warmth. Light. Life.

A courtyard filled with the hum of voices and quiet laughter. Makeshift homes built from reclaimed wood and salvaged sheet metal. Lanterns strung between rooftops. People—real people—walking, tending to gardens, repairing walls, passing food and water like the world hadn’t ended years ago.

A woman smiled at you as you passed. A child waved. Someone handed one of your escorts a bundle of cloth—clothing, you realized. Clean. Folded. Fresh. The contrast was dizzying. Too perfect. Too calm. You paused just inside the gates, staring. Disoriented. Suspicious. You had prepared yourself for violence, for control, for something sharp and bloody waiting behind their eerie masks.

You hadn’t prepared for a welcome.

A man passed by carrying a basket of bread and paused beside you, offering a kind smile. “You’re safe now,” he said gently. “You’re home.”

The word made your stomach twist. Home. You hadn’t heard anyone say it in months, not since the world went silent and survival became your only language. It sounded too soft now. Too intimate. Like a hand brushing against something you didn’t know you still protected.

You didn’t respond. Just nodded stiffly and kept your hands near your weapon out of habit, even though no one here looked like they wanted to hurt you.

They all looked… grateful. Like they believed in something. Like they belonged. That was what unsettled you most. Not the guards. Not the walls. The people. They weren’t afraid. They weren’t hardened. They smiled like they had nothing to run from anymore.

And as your guide led you deeper into the compound, past fire pits and neatly stacked supplies, the strange stillness of it all began to settle in your chest like dust. Everything was too orderly. Too quiet. Like a place that had forgotten what fear was.

Your footsteps echoed softer here, swallowed by the sound of distant murmurs and crackling fire. You passed more people—smiling, nodding, carrying baskets of food or tools or folded clothing. All of them looked at you not like a stranger, but like someone expected.

Eventually, a woman joined your side. Older, draped in robes stitched with gold thread, her steps unhurried, her expression calm. She walked close but not too close, her presence practiced, like she’d greeted a thousand others before you. “He’ll want to see you soon,” she said.

Your eyes narrowed. “Who’s he?”

She turned her head slightly, smiling like it was the easiest answer in the world. “Our leader. Our savior.”

You stopped walking.

She did too, as if she’d been waiting for the pause. Her gaze never wavered. “He built all of this,” she said. “Sanctum was nothing before him. Just ash and fear. He gave us purpose. Gave us peace. We’re safe because of him. Alive because of him.”

You stared at her, trying to read beneath the kindness in her voice. Trying to find the cracks. “And what does he want with me?”

She tilted her head, expression softening. “He saw you. Long before you ever saw us. He’ll explain everything when the time is right.”

Her hand reached out—not touching, just hovering slightly above your arm. “You’ve been wandering for so long. You deserve to stop running.”

You didn’t answer.

Something in her voice made your stomach twist—sweet, rehearsed, full of belief so deep it had hardened into fact. Not a lie. Not a threat. Just truth, as they knew it.

She didn't press you further. No one did. They just kept moving, and you followed, eyes flicking to every corner of the compound, every exit, every pair of eyes that lingered on you a moment too long.

You were shown the gardens first, rows of crops surprisingly healthy for the world outside. Then the sleeping quarters, where cots were lined in perfect rows, personal belongings tucked neatly beneath. The kitchens, where a large metal pot simmered with something warm and rich-smelling. Children played in the distance, laughter trailing behind them like smoke. It didn’t feel real.

Too quiet. Too clean. Too controlled.

They spoke gently as they walked you through, their words full of kindness. But no one answered your unspoken questions. No one explained the symbols on the walls. No one talked about the outside.

Eventually, they led you to a separate building tucked into the hillside. Reinforced steel and concrete framed the entrance, half-swallowed by moss and roots. A bunker. Guarded, sealed—different from everything else you’d seen.

The robed woman paused beside it, then keyed in a code without hesitation. The door hissed open, heavy and cold, and you stepped into something else entirely.

No warmth here.

The air was cooler. Thicker. The walls were smooth, sterile. Too intact for something built in a crumbling world. You moved past flickering overhead lights, the buzz of old generators humming beneath the floor.

To your left was a wall lined with weapons. Cleaned, arranged, and locked in place. Guns, knives, even tasers and modified tech you hadn’t seen since before the fall.

To your right was a single secure door. Reinforced, sealed tight with biometric locks. No handle. No keypad. Just a smooth black panel that pulsed faintly.

And in the center of the room—

A chair. No, not just a chair. A throne.

Raised slightly off the ground, forged from repurposed steel. The back curved high, arching over like it was meant to crown whoever sat there. Not built for comfort. Built to be seen. The kind of seat no one dared to occupy unless they’d already convinced the world they belonged in it. The kind of seat that didn’t invite people to kneel—it commanded them.

Even empty, it filled the room.

And then— a sound behind you. Soft. Measured. Like a boot scraping lightly across the floor. You turned fast, weapon instinctively half-lifted— and froze.

A figure stood just inside the doorway. Tall. Broad shoulders wrapped in a long, dark cloak that dragged slightly across the concrete. The hood was pulled low, casting the face in shadow. Stillness clung to him like a second skin. He said nothing, did nothing—just stood there.

Watching.

Your breath caught. Muscles tensed, body ready to spring— until he moved.

Not toward you. Past you. He walked right by, unbothered by your weapon, your tension, your presence. Like you were already a part of this place. Already his. Then, without pause, he stepped up onto the raised platform and sank down into the throne—long legs stretching out in front of him, one arm slung lazily over the armrest, the other resting against his knee, fingers curled loosely.

A picture of effortless dominance. Relaxed. Unshakeable.

And then—slowly—he raised his hands and pulled back the hood.

Your breath hitched.

Dark hair framed a sharp face—angular jaw, defined nose, full lips that looked like they hadn’t smiled in years but could ruin you with one if they tried. His eyes, deep and dark, swept up and down your body slowly.

Evaluating.

Like he was reading your history without asking a single question. Like he already knew the answers. He didn’t speak for a moment. Just looked at you, gaze settling somewhere just below your collarbone, then back up to your eyes. And then he spoke—low, calm, smooth as silk with an edge that made your skin prickle.

“So,” he said. “You finally made it.”

His voice was deeper than you expected. Steady. Certain. It filled the space like the throne had. He leaned back slightly, one hand tapping thoughtfully against the armrest. “I’m Heeseung,” he said simply. “Leader of Sanctum.”

A pause.

“Or, if you prefer…” His lips curved, just slightly. “Your new beginning.”

The words sat heavy in the air, too knowing. You didn’t answer—just stared, trying to piece together the disconnect between everything you’d heard, everything you'd feared, and the man now lounging before you like this was all already decided.

His presence filled every inch of the room. Not loud. Not aggressive. But settled—like he owned the floor beneath your feet and was waiting for you to realize it.

His gaze lingered on you, slow and unreadable. “You look tired,” he said, not unkindly. “Starved, actually.” He gestured casually to the empty space before his throne, like he was inviting you to sit—not beside him, not across from him. Below.

You didn’t move.

Heeseung tilted his head slightly, studying your silence. “You know, most people try to act braver than they are when they first meet me,” he mused. “But not you. You already know what this is, don’t you?”

His voice was soft, but there was weight behind it. A pull. Something in the cadence that made your spine straighten even as your instincts screamed to turn and run.

But where?

Back into the wasteland?

Back to empty nights, hollowed screams, and the ghost of his voice already buried in your dreams?

No.

That part of your life had ended the second you stepped through those gates.

“You’ve been walking alone for so long,” Heeseung said, almost gently now. “Fighting for scraps. Running from things you don’t even believe you deserve.” He leaned back again, legs still sprawled, arms resting like he had all the time in the world. “You don’t have to do that anymore,” he said. “I can give you purpose. Safety. Devotion.” Then—just a beat, barely above a whisper: “Obedience.”

Your jaw tensed, fingers twitching at your sides. But you still hadn’t stepped back. Still hadn’t spoken.

Heeseung smiled again, slow and dangerous. “Don’t be afraid,” he said. “Sanctum doesn’t break what it loves.” Then his gaze sharpened—subtle, almost imperceptible, but you felt it in your chest like a blade pressed flat. Not piercing. Just there. Waiting. Testing how long you could stand still beneath it.

You didn’t speak. The weight of him—his voice, his presence, that throne like a stage designed only for him—was already pressing down, slow and steady. And he hadn’t even touched you.

Heeseung leaned forward again, hands clasped loosely between his knees, and this time, when he looked at you, it was different.

Hungrier.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “You’re still telling yourself this is temporary. Just a place to rest. Somewhere to take from before disappearing again.” He let that hang in the air. “But that’s not why you’re here.”

You opened your mouth—maybe to argue, maybe just to breathe—but he held up a hand, fingers relaxed, commanding stillness with nothing more than a gesture.

“You didn’t come for food. Or safety. Or shelter.” He stood then, rising from the throne like gravity didn’t quite apply to him. Every movement was precise, restrained, like he was capable of so much more but didn’t need to show it. Not yet.

He stepped down from the platform. His boots echoed once, then again. Each footfall sounded like finality. “You came,” he said, voice lowering, “because something in you was already breaking.” Another step. “And you wanted someone to notice.” He stopped in front of you—close enough to feel his heat, but not close enough to touch.

Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your hand hovered near your weapon, fingers twitching—but he didn’t flinch. Just watched. Patient. Amused.

“You’ve been surviving,” he murmured, gaze still locked on yours. “But you’ve never belonged. Not anywhere. Not to anyone.” He let the silence stretch, let the words fester where they hit. “Until now.”

He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth curved—not into a smile, but into something older. Deeper. A knowing carved into bone.

Then, softly—so soft it barely felt like a command at all: “Come. Join us.” Not shouted. Not barked. Offered. Gently. Like he already knew you would. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. And the terrifying part? It felt like it was.

You didn’t move. But you didn’t step back either. Something in you was shifting. Not broken, not yet—but bending. Quietly, slowly, without resistance.

Heeseung’s gaze flicked to your fingers—still near your weapon—and he let out the faintest breath of a laugh. “You’re still deciding,” he said. “That’s fine. I like watching people come to conclusions on their own.” He leaned in, brushing a thumb gently across a smudge of dirt on your cheek. Just a touch. Barely anything. But it stole the air from your lungs. “You don’t have to live like that anymore,” he whispered. “Not if you choose me.” He straightened, eyes burning steady and low. “I offer you peace,” he said. “Not chains.” Then, after a beat—quieter, sharper, more honest: “Unless that’s what you want.”

And in the thick silence that followed, something inside you cracked—not shattered, not screamed, just shifted.

Like the first soft crumble before the cliff gives way. And you realized..

He wasn’t just waiting for you to fall.

He was pulling you down.

You stayed.

One day turned into two. Two turned into five.

The food was good—real. The beds weren’t just cots; they were warm, layered with thick blankets. You worked hard, trying not to draw attention. Tasks were simple: hauling supplies, sorting rations, tending to the gardens or cleaning the communal spaces.

People treated you well. Smiled. Nodded. Spoke to you like you belonged. You learned names. Faces. Patterns. You kept your head down. Stayed useful. Stayed quiet. And maybe it would’ve stayed that way, if not for one thing.

At first, you didn’t notice it. You were too tired. Too focused on earning your place, avoiding Heeseung’s gaze when it lingered too long, ignoring how your name seemed to already be known by people you hadn’t met. But eventually… you realized something strange.

Every night, around the same time—just after dinner, when the fires were dying down and most people retreated into their homes—the compound would start to feel… wrong. Too quiet. Not like sleep. Not like rest.

Empty.

At first you thought it was just coincidence. People turning in early. A long workday. You shrugged it off—until you noticed it happening every night, like clockwork. Around 11.

By 11:03, the paths were empty. By 11:10, the lanterns were dimmed. By 11:15… it was like the entire compound had vanished.

You started watching from your window. Counted heads at dinner, tracked movements. And then you realized—people weren’t in their homes. They weren’t sleeping.

They were gone. Every night. And always in the same direction. Toward the bunker. The one carved into the hillside. The one no one ever mentioned unless Heeseung wanted them to. The one with a sealed door and a dark pulse behind it.

You tried to ignore it. You told yourself it wasn’t your business. That you'd seen worse in the outside world. But something about it… gnawed at you. So you waited one night. Stayed out late. Hid behind one of the garden walls, breath shallow, heart thudding. And you saw them. Not all at once. Not in a line. But in twos and threes, slipping silently into the trees, toward the reinforced door. Robes pulled tight. Heads bowed.

No one spoke. No one looked up. They just disappeared into the bunker, swallowed one by one into its mouth of steel and stone.

You stayed frozen, watching until the last figure passed through.

And then you were alone. Truly alone.

The compound—so full of life by day—was nothing more than an echo at night. And that door? It stayed closed until morning.

You tried to let it go. Tried to tell yourself that whatever happened behind it wasn’t your concern. You weren’t a follower. You weren’t theirs. But curiosity had a way of becoming hunger, and hunger never stayed quiet for long.

The whispers you’d heard from other survivors before you’d arrived—rumors of Sanctum, of what they did behind locked doors—began to churn in your mind like rot. You remembered what they’d said in low, terrified voices: “It’s not a safe haven. It’s a trap with gold-painted walls.”

And maybe you should’ve believed them.

But you were too curious for your own good.

One night, when the last fire had burned down and the last footsteps faded into the trees, you acted. You slipped into the shadows, heart hammering as you crept to one of the drying lines and plucked a robe off its peg—plain and soft, stitched with the Sanctum symbol over the back. It was looser than you'd expected, smelled faintly of ash and something sweeter, something strange.

You pulled the hood over your head and made your way toward the bunker. No one stopped you. No one looked. As if the compound itself had already accepted your trespass. The bunker door opened without resistance. Inside, the air was colder. Still. The kind of stillness that didn’t belong to sleep, but to something waiting.

The throne room stood just as you remembered it—dimly lit, humming low with unseen power. The throne itself sat empty, looming. But your attention snapped to the far side of the room, where the sealed door was now open. Just a sliver. But open.

You didn’t hesitate.

You stepped through.

The air beyond was different. Closer. And what waited wasn’t another room—it was a maze. Corridors stretching in every direction. Doors. Hallways. Turns that led to more turns. Some paths narrowed so tightly you had to twist sideways to pass. Others opened into long, yawning corridors of concrete and silence.

You walked. And walked. And walked.

Dead ends. Rooms that looked like storage but held nothing but dust and claw marks along the walls. Other doors led to mirrors. Some to nothing at all. More than once, you turned a corner and found yourself right back where you’d started. It didn’t make sense. The building shouldn’t have been this big. This deep.

The air began to feel heavier. Warmer. Like breath on the back of your neck. Still, you didn’t stop. Because the deeper you went, the more it felt like something was leading you. Like a pull, but not the kind that came from fear. The kind that came from fate.

You turned one last corner and froze.

An open door.

Dim, flickering light spilled out into the hallway, casting long shadows that swayed like breathing things. You stepped forward, soundless, heart clawing at your ribs as you leaned just close enough to see—

There they were. The people.

Rows of them, seated in silence, hoods up, backs straight on long wooden benches facing a stone altar at the far end of the room. The air was thick with incense and devotion, suffocating and warm. Candles lined the walls, wax dripping like blood over rusted sconces.

And there—at the altar—stood Heeseung.

He was no longer cloaked. He wore black, tailored to fit, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows. The top few buttons undone, revealing the delicate line of his collarbones, a thin chain resting against his throat. His voice filled the room—not loud, but commanding. Smooth. Rhythmic.

“…We were given chance after chance. Warnings dressed as disasters. Fire. Flood. Famine. And still, humanity worshipped itself.” He turned slightly, pacing the front of the room like a preacher before a pulpit. “So the sickness came. Not a punishment,” he continued, tone reverent, “but a correction. A sacred undoing.”

Your breath stilled in your chest.

He raised a hand slowly, gesturing out as he spoke. “The virus stripped away the illusion. Turned man into hollow flesh—reminders that without humility, without order, without faith—we are nothing more than meat.”

The room stayed silent. Not a shuffle. Not a cough. Only rapt, devoted stillness. And that was when it hit you.

This wasn’t sanctuary.

This wasn’t salvation.

This was a cult.

You felt it in the pit of your stomach, cold and sinking. It was one thing to hear the rumors, another to see it, to feel the weight of worship pressed into every breath of this place.

Because they weren’t just listening to him. They were following him. Believing him. Loving him.

Heeseung—beautiful, terrifying, divine—wasn’t a leader.

He was their God.

And in that moment, you knew you had to leave. Now.

You took one step back. Barely a shift of weight on your heel. Ready to melt back into the shadows, pretend you were never there—

Then his voice rang out again. Only this time, it wasn’t to them. It was to you. “And look…” His voice curled through the air like silk, low and warm and sweet with something wrong. “…my newest sheep has found their way home.”

You froze. Eyes wide. The room was still, every head turned in your direction, as if his words had snapped them into a new position. Like puppets pulled by the string of his voice.

“I was starting to wonder,” he continued, stepping down from the altar, his steps unhurried, deliberate, “how long you’d keep pretending you didn’t feel it. That pull. That ache to be seen.”

You backed up another step. But it was too late.

Hands grabbed you from behind. Two figures—hooded, strong, silent. You thrashed, elbowed, kicked, teeth bared, panic curling through your chest like smoke. “Don’t touch me—! Get the fuck off—!”

But nothing deterred them. They didn’t even speak. They just moved like they knew this dance well, like they'd done this before.

You were dragged forward, heels scraping the ground.

“Bring her here,” Heeseung said smoothly.

And they did.

In one breathless moment, they shoved you down. Your knees hit the cold floor hard. A sharp pain shot up your legs as your wrists were yanked behind you, bound in rough cord that bit into your skin.

The hood fell back. Exposed. Vulnerable. Kneeling.

And before you could spit another curse, your eyes rose and met his.

Heeseung stood before you, arms loose at his sides, head tilted slightly in quiet amusement. Like this was funny to him. Like this had been the plan all along, looking down at you like a king before a sacrifice. Or a god before a gift. Amused. Pleased. Hungry.

He stepped forward, the soft clink of his boots the only sound in the room, until he stood just above you. A shadow swallowed in candlelight. “Isn’t it beautiful?” he murmured, voice curling over the sharp edges of your fear. “Even the lost always find their way back to me.” His gaze swept over you slowly—leisurely—taking in your face, your clenched jaw, the flush of rage and shame blooming across your skin.

His eyes lingered at your throat, then down further, tongue running briefly along the inside of his cheek like he was savoring the way you looked on your knees.

You wanted to scream. To lunge. To spit in his face. But your wrists were bound. Your pride was burning. And his presence was everywhere.

He suddenly knelt down, one knee nearly brushing yours, and his fingers came up to tilt your chin, firm but not harsh. Just enough to make it clear: he was in control. Always had been. “You’re angry,” he said, as if it delighted him. “Good. It means there’s still a little of the outside left in you.” He leaned in, so close his breath grazed your lips, warm and patient and possessive. “But don’t worry. Sanctum will fix that.”

The room was still deathly quiet behind you. You could feel all their eyes. The congregation. His flock. Watching. Not with pity. Not with judgment. With expectation. As if this was a ceremony. And you were the offering.

“You thought you were just passing through,” he whispered, thumb brushing against the corner of your mouth. “That you could walk in, take what you needed, and leave.” His smile widened just enough to show teeth. “But sheep don’t leave the flock. They come home.”

He let go of your chin at last and rose to his full height, looking down on you like you were a thing he’d already claimed, just waiting for the rest of you to realize it. “You think you’re different,” he murmured, circling you slowly now, his voice smooth. “But all sheep stray. And all sheep bleed the same when they resist.” He paused behind you. “And before they can serve the flock… they must be molded.”

A soft metallic click.

“Trained.”

You barely had time to flinch before something cool slid around your neck, a band of supple leather that cinched snug, but not choking. Just enough to remind you.

You jerked in shock, but the collar had already been secured.

Black. Smooth. Slim. At the front, where your throat rose and fell too fast, a single ornament glittered under the candlelight, a delicate heart-shaped jewel, small and glassy, mocking in its gentleness.

Your stomach turned.

Then—

Another sound. A clasp. A leash.

And before you could twist away, the slack was pulled taut. You gasped as the collar tugged tight against your throat, your body jolting forward just an inch—but enough. Enough for him to lean in, fingers still on the leash, knuckles brushing your jaw as he spoke.

“See?” he murmured. “Already closer.”

Your bound hands tightened into fists behind your back. “Get the fuck off me!” you spat, rage and panic pouring from your throat. “You’re sick—you're fucking insane—” But before you could finish, a cloth was shoved into your mouth—soft, thick, gagging you mid-curse. You tried to shake free, but it was knotted fast, rough fingers behind you securing it without a word. You writhed, every inch of you burning with defiance and humiliation.

Heeseung only smiled, tipping your chin up, forcing your teary, furious eyes to meet his. “There it is,” he whispered. “That fire.” His thumb stroked the jewel at your throat like it was something sacred. “Don’t worry. I’ll tame it.” He stepped back, leash still coiled in his hand. “And when you kneel for me next time…” His smile deepened, slow and certain. “You’ll do it because you want to.”

Your breathing was ragged behind the gag, jaw aching from how hard you were clenching it. The collar bit softly against your skin every time you moved, a silent, constant reminder. You pulled against the line between you and him, but Heeseung didn’t even flinch.

He simply stood there—serene, patient—like he’d already won. And in a way, he had. Not because you’d given in. But because he knew you wouldn’t last forever.

He tugged lightly on the leash again, dragging you forward one more step until you were kneeling directly between his legs. You glared up at him, eyes burning with fury and something else—something shakier.

You hated that your body betrayed you. That even now, with the gag in your mouth and the collar snug around your neck, your pulse still jumped beneath his gaze.

And worse—he saw it.

Still seated, still composed, Heeseung reached out and curled the leash tighter in his hand, drawing the slack in slowly until your neck strained upward to keep the pressure from cutting deeper.

Then he turned—casually, as if this wasn’t a performance—as if your kneeling body wasn’t posed like a centerpiece before his altar.

He faced the congregation again.

“As I was saying,” he began, voice smooth and reverent, “humans were given everything. Freedom. Choice. And what did they do with it?”

He glanced down at you—just briefly—but the weight of that look scorched down your spine like heat from a fire too close.

“They built empires of greed. Worshiped flesh. Spat in the face of grace.”

You struggled again. A twist of your shoulders. A jerk of your wrists behind your back. But your bindings held firm, and the moment you shifted forward—

Snap.

The leash tugged tight.

You choked, breath stuttering against the cloth in your mouth as your head jerked back, throat catching under the pressure of the collar.

Heeseung didn’t even pause.

“But the virus… the virus was a blessing. A cleansing.”

Your knees scraped the stone floor as you writhed again, desperately trying to lean back, to shift away from the humiliating position between his legs. But the leash yanked again, sharper this time, dragging you flush against him.

A hum of amusement left his throat. Low. Quiet. Just for you.

“Some of us were chosen to remain untouched,” he said, addressing the room, but his hand came down then, resting heavy atop your head, fingers threading through your hair like a benediction. Like a claim. “To lead. To guide.”

Your breath came fast through your nose, jaw clenched as you refused to look up—even as his grip tightened ever so slightly, encouraging.

“You all have your roles,” he said, stroking his thumb over the crown of your skull. “And this one…” His voice dipped, soft and intimate. “…was made for something greater.”

A shudder ran through you. Not from fear. From how much you hated that tiny flicker deep in your chest, the one that wanted to understand what he meant. The one that needed to know why it felt like you were sinking into something bigger than yourself. You told yourself it was just adrenaline. Just confusion. But the warmth crawling under your skin didn’t feel like panic. It felt like recognition.

Heeseung’s hand still rested on your head, firm and unyielding. Not cruel—just present. Just there. Like he knew what that flicker meant. Like he’d been waiting for it to take root. “Even now,” he said quietly, not to the room anymore, but to you, “your body is starting to understand what your pride can’t.”

Your fists clenched behind your back. You shook your head as much as the leash allowed, trying to pull away, to deny him the satisfaction.

His grip on your hair tightened, gently but with warning. “You want to run,” he murmured, voice low and maddeningly kind. “But you came here. You put on the robe. You stepped into my sanctuary. And now you found your way to your knees.”

You whimpered through the gag, a guttural sound filled with rage and denial, and the smallest, sickest trace of something you couldn’t name.

Desire?

No. You refused that. Bit down on it until it bled.

But Heeseung only smiled, tilting your head upward with the leash so your eyes met his. And there it was again. That pull. Not magnetic. Not tender. Inevitable.

“You don’t need to understand yet,” he said softly, reverently. “You just need to stay. Let go. Let yourself be led.” He traced a finger along the edge of your jaw, his touch light and reverent—like he wasn’t punishing you, but preparing you. Like you weren’t being broken down. You were being reborn.

Behind you, the congregation remained silent. Watching. Waiting. Like witnesses to a ritual that hadn’t yet finished.

Like they knew— This was only the beginning.

And deep in your chest, that flicker—that cursed, trembling flicker—burned brighter.

They locked you away after that.

A cold, windowless cell somewhere beneath the compound—far enough from the others that your screams wouldn’t echo through the halls. You couldn’t tell how deep underground it was. Couldn’t count the days. You were chained at the ankles, wrists bound to the headboard of the narrow bed. Gagged. Blindfolded.

Time lost all shape like that.

You heard footsteps sometimes but no one ever spoke. No one ever opened the door.

Except him.

Heeseung.

You always knew when it was him.

Not from sound—his steps were too careful. Not from scent, though sometimes he carried that familiar trace of smoke and earth and something darker. You knew it was him because your body knew. Something in your chest tightened the moment the air changed. Like the room recognized him before your mind could. Like your skin had learned his presence by instinct.

He’d enter silently. Close the door. And then his voice would cut through the dark like silk drawn across a blade.

“Are you ready to be good for me today?”

You flinched every time. Not because it startled you. Because it didn’t. But because part of you hated how relieved you felt hearing him speak.

And then he’d begin.

The testing.

Simple things at first. Commands spoken low beside your ear.

"Lift your head."

"Open your mouth."

"Say yes, even if you can’t speak it."

If you obeyed, he rewarded you. Cool water tipped gently to your lips. Food, real food—soft bread, warm broth. His fingers stroking along your jaw after, murmuring, “Good. That’s my girl.”

But when you resisted—when your head shook or your body tensed—he punished you.

Not always with pain.

Sometimes it was silence. Leaving you bound and aching with nothing but your heartbeat and the drip of water behind the walls to keep you company.

Other times, it was worse.

His voice would sharpen, his grip firm but never violent—controlled. Always in control. A slap against your thigh. Teeth against your shoulder. The twist of your hair as he bent you forward and made you listen. Until you trembled. Until you cried. Until your body surrendered even when your mind still screamed.

And after?

After came the worship.

His voice soft again. Hands gentler. Brushing across your stomach. Your thighs. The curve of your back like you were something sacred.

“You take it so well,” he’d whisper, mouth against your skin. “Even when you think you don’t want it.”

He never undid the blindfold. He never let you see him. But you felt him. Every inch. Every breath. Every praise muttered like prayer as his fingers pressed into your hips, or his lips mapped a trail up your throat.

It was maddening.

Mind-numbing.

It didn’t feel real. And yet, it was the only thing that felt real. No time. No sun. No world outside the cell. Just the sound of his voice. The taste of his approval. The pain when you resisted. The worship when you broke.

That was your world now.

And Heeseung knew it.

Every time he returned, he took a little more from you, but not with violence.

With care. With consistency. With soft words, slow touches, warm food placed at your lips when you were too weak to lift your head.

“I hate seeing you like this,” he’d murmur one night, thumb stroking gently across your cheek. “But you do this to yourself, you know. You push. You run. And look where it brings you—right back to me.”

You shook your head, gagged and silent, but he just smiled.

“Shh, shh,” he soothed, brushing his knuckles down the curve of your jaw. “I know it’s hard. But we’re getting there. You’re almost ready.”

Ready for what, he never said. And maybe that was the worst part. Because the longer you stayed like this—bound, blindfolded, stripped of time and identity—the more your mind twisted around the silence between his words. Your thoughts ran in circles, trying to fill in the blanks.

Ready to be released? Ready to kneel? Ready to break completely?

You didn’t know. And he never rushed.

Heeseung was careful with you. Meticulous. Every visit was deliberate—measured touches, chosen words, like he was sculpting you piece by piece. He broke you down slowly, kindly, until you could no longer tell the difference between his cruelty and his care.

“You’ve come so far,” he whispered once, as he fed you water from his fingertips. “The first night, you bit me. Do you remember that?”

You flinched.

“I liked it,” he added with a quiet laugh. “But I like this more.” His hand cradled the back of your head, thumb stroking softly behind your ear as he pressed a gentle kiss to your cheek. “You’re learning to trust me. To listen. That’s all I ever wanted.”

But you hadn’t agreed. You hadn’t given anything. Not really. You were still resisting—at least in your mind. Still telling yourself this wasn’t permanent. And yet… your body didn’t flinch when he touched you anymore. Your throat didn’t tense when the leash tugged. Your breath didn’t hitch when he whispered your name.

“Almost ready,” he said again one night, his voice closer than usual, like he was bent right over your chest, watching every tremble of your ribs. “Then you’ll see what I’ve built for you. What we are. No more hiding. No more pretending you don’t belong.” His fingers brushed your lips over the gag, slow and reverent. “You’ll understand soon.”

You didn’t cry anymore. You didn’t scream. You just lay there, heart a trapped animal, praying that when “ready” came you’d still remember who you were before Heeseung made you forget.

You didn’t know how long you’d been under.

Time had unraveled weeks ago, bled out through the cracks in your thoughts like water from a broken vessel. But that night… something changed.

The chains at your ankles were unfastened. Your wrists were still bound, but not to the bed anymore. And for the first time in what felt like forever, they lifted you. Rough hands under your arms. A voice—calm, too calm—saying, “Don’t struggle.”

You didn’t.

Not because you obeyed. Because your limbs barely worked anymore. You were dragged. Carried. Walked like an offering down an unseen path, your bare feet brushing cold stone, then soft rugs, then something warmer.

Then they stopped.

You were lowered again, gently this time, onto something soft.

A bed. No—a mattress. Luxurious. Silken. Wrong.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

Then—click.

The sound of shackles again. Cold metal. One at your ankle. One at your wrist.

Secured. Exposed.

And then the cloth was lifted from your eyes.

Blinding.

You blinked hard. Tears pricked instantly. Your vision blurred and burned, white and colorless at first. Then slowly—too slowly—it began to return.

Shapes. Figures. Shadows.

Dozens of them.

All kneeling in rows, heads bowed, hoods drawn, bodies still.

Chanting. Low and rhythmic, the language unfamiliar—guttural and reverent, like prayer spoken through centuries of dust. The light above you was golden and soft, like candlelight poured through stained glass. But it did nothing to ease the cold bloom of dread unfurling in your chest.

You were dressed—something white, something soft. A dress. He had dressed you in it, you realized distantly, sometime between punishments. Between “rewards.”

And they were staring at you. Not with lust. Not with malice. With devotion. You were strapped down on a bed like an offering on an altar. And every single one of them was worshipping. Before you could scream, before you could tear your gaze away, he appeared.

Heeseung.

Stepping through the crowd, slow and steady, like the center of gravity itself. His black clothing sharp against the light, eyes locked on you like a priest seeing a vision for the first time.

He didn’t say anything.He simply walked to the foot of the bed. Paused. And then—before your breath could return—he knelt.

Right there, in front of you.

His hands slid up, fingers curling reverently in the fabric of the dress he had chosen for you. His head bowed low, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you—like you were too holy.

And then, his voice. Low. Shaking.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “My fallen angel.”

You trembled.

“Dragged from the wasteland. Touched by fire. Broken open for truth.” His hands gripped the edge of the bedframe now, holding it like a sacred relic, his voice nearly cracking. “They thought they could cast you out,” he whispered, lifting his gaze finally—hungry, shining. “But you were always meant to rise. And we—we were always meant to worship.”

A soft murmur rose behind him as the followers continued their chant, voices growing louder, harmonizing into something sickly sweet and ancient.

Heeseung leaned forward, lips brushing the inside of your knee through the sheer fabric. “Don’t be afraid,” he breathed, kissing higher. “This is your awakening.”

His hands didn’t grope. They glided.

Up your legs, over the soft, sheer fabric he had chosen. Fingers pressing gently into your thighs—not possessive, not rushed—devoted. As if touching you was a privilege. A ritual. A holy act only he was worthy of performing.

His lips followed.

Kisses laid like offerings, slow and reverent, tracing the skin just above your knee, then higher. His breath warm. His words warmer.

“I starved for this,” Heeseung whispered against your skin. “I watched you fight so hard to stay alone. Watched you drag your body through hell. But you didn’t need to. You were never meant to suffer out there.”

His voice wrapped around your head like silk and smoke. Like poison disguised as scripture. Every syllable slithered into your skull and twisted—slowly. Carefully. “You were meant to be seen,” he murmured. “Tended to. Adored.” He kissed your hip through the thin dress. His hands caressed your waist, your ribs, brushing up the curve of your body as he stared at you like you were a god descending through ash. Like you were purity wrapped in ruin.

“I would burn the world to keep you here,” he said. “Don’t you understand? They kneel because you’re salvation. I kneel because I’m yours.”

Your fingers twitched in their binds. Your chest heaved with each trembling breath. Tears spilled freely now—silent at first, then louder. You sobbed, the sound broken and involuntary. Your mind couldn’t hold the contradiction. Couldn’t reconcile the nightmare with the hands worshipping you. Couldn’t explain the way he touched you like you were holy and filthy all at once.

What the actual fuck was this?

Heeseung didn’t stop. If anything, your sobbing seemed to encourage him. His hands pressed gently over your stomach, his thumbs stroking in soothing circles like you were a child in pain. His lips brushed your sternum. His voice dropped to a hush—too soft to belong to someone this dangerous. “You’re overwhelmed. I know,” he whispered. “That’s what love does when you’ve never had it right.”

You shook your head, choked on the gagging sobs, but his grip only grew more tender.

“Shhh,” he crooned, kissing the damp trail of tears down your cheek. “It’s okay. Feel it. Break, if you need to. Cry. Hurt.” Another kiss. Another stroke of his thumb across your trembling lip. “I’ll put you back together after.”

He wasn’t just breaking you. He was rewriting you. Page by page. Tear by tear. He kissed your forehead—soft, reverent. Then your temple. Then your lips—light and slow and aching with praise.

Not lust. Not hunger. Worship.

The kind of kiss that made your skin forget it was yours. The kind that said mine without needing to speak it.

Your sobs stuttered, caught between the confusion and the calm. You didn’t kiss back—but you didn’t pull away. His touch burned and soothed at once, like he knew exactly how to undo you from the inside out.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispered, breath brushing across your damp cheek. “Even now. Even shaking like this, you’re still so... divine.”

You wanted to scream. To curse him. To disappear. But instead you whimpered, body wracked with too much emotion to contain.

His thumb traced your jaw like he was sketching a memory. “That’s why they kneel,” he murmured. “Why they pray. Because they see what I see.” He leaned in again—kissed the corner of your mouth, then lower, over your throat, your collarbone, every touch slow and tender, every word dragging you deeper into the trance.

“You think I’m the one corrupting you,” he breathed. “But sweetheart… this is who you’ve always been.”

A soft bite. A sigh.

His teeth sank lightly into the edge of your jaw—just enough to make you gasp, to make your back arch against the restraints. He soothed it a moment later with a kiss, as if to apologize for drawing blood he hadn’t spilled.

“You were made for this,” he whispered against your skin. “Made to be seen. To be touched. To be claimed.”

Your wrists tugged weakly at the cuffs above your head, body trembling from the weight of too many emotions collapsing into one: confusion, despair… and something darker.

Desire, twisted and forced into devotion.

“I didn’t make you this way,” Heeseung said, lips ghosting over your cheek. “The world did. When it abandoned you. When it left you starving, begging to be chosen.”

Another kiss. This one to your throat, where your pulse jumped wildly beneath the collar he’d never removed. “I just picked you up where they dropped you,” he said. “And I gave you purpose.”

You sobbed again, but this time it was quieter. Numb.

“You’re not crying because you want to escape,” he murmured, his hand sliding over your ribs, thumb brushing the trembling rise of your chest. “You’re crying because a part of you knows I’m right.”

He drew back just far enough to look into your eyes, and the way he gazed at you—like a worshiper beholding his god—made your stomach twist.

He wasn’t asking for love. He was building it. Out of fear. Out of isolation. Out of need.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said softly. “As long as you let me.” His thumb dragged slowly across your lips, wiping away a tear that had clung there. “You just have to let go of everything else.”

And you did nothing.

You just laid there—helpless, trembling, eyes red and wide—while he worshipped you like you were something fallen from the stars. His hands never left your skin for long. His lips followed the trails of his fingers, leaving soft, haunting kisses.

Your chest still shook with the remnants of your sobs. Your arms still ached from being bound. And your body still trembled under the weight of it all—

But you laid there.

Unmoving. Bare. Adorned in white. Offered.

Like some sacred relic that had already been broken open and blessed.

The chanting softened.

The kneeling followers began to rise, their robes rustling quietly as they bowed once—first to you, then to Heeseung—and slowly filed out. One by one. Silent. Devout. Dissolving into the shadows like they'd never been there at all.

Until the vast room was empty.

Just you, still trembling, chained to the altar-bed. And Heeseung, kneeling at the edge like a man who had gotten everything he’d ever wanted and still wanted more.

He didn’t speak right away. He just looked at you.

With something too vast to be called love, too sharp to be mercy. It wasn’t lust in his eyes—it was certainty. Like he had always known it would end this way.

Slowly, gracefully, he rose to his feet.

He stepped closer, boots soft against stone, and sat gently beside you on the edge of the bed. His hand reached out, trailing down your arm, then to your hip, anchoring you there—like you might float away if he didn’t keep you tethered.

“I knew you’d look beautiful like this,” he murmured, more to himself than to you. “Unburdened. Finally seen.”

You didn’t answer. at least not with words. Not with thought. Your mind felt like gauze soaked in warmth and fear and something dangerously close to surrender.

He leaned over you again, his body brushing the edge of yours, his hand cradling your jaw as he tilted your face to meet his eyes.

“Now,” he whispered, “we begin.”

And there was no audience. No witness.

Just you. And the man who had turned your captivity into a kingdom, and crowned himself your king.

Heeseung's hands, calloused and commanding, trace the length of your arms, lingering at the restraints that bind you. His touch both gentle and firm, a paradox that leaves you breathless. As his lips meet yours, you surrender to the kiss, a desperate dance of tongues and breaths mingled.

His fingers deftly work the fabric of your dress, sliding the straps down your shoulders with deliberate slowness. The cool air of the room meets your skin as he pulls the dress down, revealing your body inch by inch. He tosses the garment aside, his eyes never leaving yours.

You lie there, exposed and vulnerable, the weight of your chains a constant reminder of your position. Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, fear and desire intertwined. You know the rules, the unspoken laws that govern your existence here. Struggle, and you invite his wrath. Obedience, and you earn his favor.

Heeseung's gaze roams over your body, a silent appraisal that sends shivers down your spine. His hands explore your curves with a possessive touch. "Perfect," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that resonates through you. "You are perfect."

You remain silent, your body a canvas for his exploration. He moves with a slowness, spreading your legs wide, making room for himself between your thighs. Your restraints allow this much, a cruel mercy that leaves you exposed and open.

His touch is gentle as he parts your folds, revealing your most intimate self. You gasp, the sound torn from your throat as his tongue finds its mark, tracing a long, slow line from your entrance to your clit. The sensation is electric, a shock that jolts through your body, leaving you trembling.

You can't help but arch your back, a silent plea for more, even as your mind races with the reality of your situation. He takes his time, his tongue exploring your depths, tasting you, teasing you. Each stroke designed to elicit a response, to draw out your pleasure.

Your hands, bound above you, clench into fists, the only outward sign of your inner turmoil. 

Heeseung's tongue continues its relentless assault, each lick a claim of ownership, each flick a promise of pleasure and pain. You squirm beneath him, your body betraying you, arching into his touch. But he is merciless, his hands gripping your thighs, holding you in place as he feasts on you, his mouth and tongue exploring every inch of your most intimate place.

Suddenly, he teases your folds with his fingers, spreading you open with a slow, deliberate motion, exposing you to his hungry gaze. You gasp, the sensation a mix of vulnerability and anticipation, your body trembling with a desperate, almost hungry need. He leans in, his tongue licking a long, slow stripe up your slit, a cruel, teasing promise of what's to come. You can hear him moan, a low, primal sound of pleasure and satisfaction, as he savors your taste, your essence, your very being.

"Mmm, you taste so fucking good," he murmurs, his voice a low, dangerous purr, as he slips his pointer finger into you, thick and long, thrusting it in and out with a relentless, unyielding rhythm. "Oh, baby... I'm going to wreck you... Make you drip for me..."

You whimper, the sensation of his finger filling you, stretching you, claiming you, leaving you breathless and wanting more.

He quickly adds another finger, joining the first, stretching you out deliciously, his fingers moving in and out of you with a wet, obscene sound. You can feel every ridge, every knuckle, every inch of him, filling you, stretching you.

"You're going to take this," his voice a low rumble against your sensitive flesh. "Every fucking lick, every fucking bite. You're mine to do with as I please." And he proves it, his teeth grazing your clit, a sharp sting that has you crying out. You try to hold back, to swallow your sounds, but he won't allow it. His hand comes down hard on your pussy, a sharp slap that leaves you gasping, tears stinging your eyes.

"Bad girl," he taunts, his voice laced with sadistic glee. "You know better than to hold back. I want to hear you, I want to feel you. Every fucking sound, every fucking tear."

He bites down again, harder this time, his teeth sinking into your flesh as he sucks your clit into his mouth. The sensation is overwhelming, a mix of pleasure and pain that leaves you sobbing, your body convulsing as he brings you to the edge of orgasm, only to pull back, leaving you teetering on the brink.

He knows your body better than you do, knows how to play you like an instrument, pulling you between ecstasy and agony. His tongue flicks and teases, his fingers plunging deep, only to retreat, leaving you aching.

You bite your lip, swallowing your cries, your moans, your pleas. You won't give him the satisfaction, won't let him hear the desperation in your voice. But he sees it, sees the way your body betrays you, the way your hips buck, seeking more, seeking release.

"Fucking stubborn," he growls, his breath hot against your skin. "You think you can hold out? You think you can keep this up?"

He pulls back, his fingers glistening with your wetness. He brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean, his eyes never leaving yours. "You're going to beg," he says, his voice a low rumble. "You're going to beg and plead and scream for me. And I'm going to make you wait, make you suffer. Until you're nothing but a whimpering, begging mess."

His hand comes down hard on your pussy again, a sharp slap that leaves you gasping. He does it again, and again, each strike a punishment. He wants to break you, wants to shatter you, wants to hear you beg.

You grit your teeth, your body shaking with the effort of holding back. But he won't let you, won't let you hide. His tongue finds your clit, his teeth grazing, his fingers plunging deep. He fucks you with his fingers, his tongue, his teeth, a relentless assault that leaves you sobbing, your body convulsing, your mind shattering as his fingers keep hitting that sweet spot that makes your eyes roll back.

As his fingers fuck you relentlessly, he shifts his position, his mouth finding your nipple, his teeth grazing, his tongue swirling.

You gasp, the sensation of his mouth on your breast, his fingers deep inside you, almost too much to bear. He sucks hard, pulling your nipple deep into his mouth, his fingers matching the rhythm, in and out, in and out, a relentless, merciless pace. "Fuck," he growls, his voice vibrating against your skin. "You're so fucking wet. So fucking tight. You're going to come all over my fingers, aren't you?"

You can feel your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. But he won't let you come, not yet. He pulls back, his fingers slowing, his mouth releasing your nipple with a wet pop, leaving you aching and empty. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with amusement and delight. "How is it.." he taunts, his voice a low, mocking drawl, "..that you haven't begged to come yet? I thought you were more desperate than this."

You glare at him, your eyes filled with tears and defiance. It's a weak attempt, a futile gesture, but it's all you have left. You won't give him the satisfaction, won't let him hear the desperation in your voice.

His laughter is cruel, a mean sound that echoes in the room, bouncing off the walls, mocking your pathetic attempt at resistance. "It seems your fire is still alive," he says, his voice a low rumble. "But I think it's time to put it out."

His hand moves quickly, his fingers finding your clit, pinching, squeezing. The sensation is overwhelming, a sharp, electric shock that jolts through your body, leaving you screaming, your back arching, your body convulsing.

"Fuck!" you cry out, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate. "Fuck, please, stop!"

But he doesn't stop, doesn't relent. His fingers continue their relentless assault, pinching, squeezing, teasing. "Beg," he commands, his voice a low growl. "Beg for me to let you come. Beg for me to stop. Beg for me to do whatever the fuck I want."

You try to resist, to hold onto the last shreds of your dignity, your defiance. But Heeseung is relentless, his words a cruel, mocking taunt. "No one's coming to save you," he says, his voice a low rumble. "No one's here but me. No one but your king, your master, your god."

His fingers plunge deep inside you again, a brutal, claiming invasion. You gasp, the sound torn from your throat, a raw, desperate plea. He kisses you harshly, his lips crushing yours, his tongue invading your mouth, a brutal, punishing kiss.

His other hand comes up, wrapping around your throat, his fingers digging into your flesh, pressing, choking. You can feel the collar around your neck, a constant reminder of your captivity, your submission. He uses it, his fingers pressing against it, cutting off your air and your voice.

Heeseung's eyes never leave yours as he continues to finger you, his movements deliberate, calculated. He watches every twitch, every tear, every desperate gasp, savoring your reactions like a connoisseur. "You're so beautiful when you cry," he murmurs, his voice a purr. "So fucking perfect. Look at you, so desperate, so needy. Begging for my touch, my mercy. It's pathetic."

You cry, your tears streaming down your face, your body shaking with sobs. You're so close, so fucking close to the edge, your orgasm building, your body tensing, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

And then, suddenly, he stops. His fingers pull out, leaving you empty, aching, desperate. You cry out in pain, a raw, desperate sound, your body convulsing, your mind shattering. "No, please, don't stop," you beg, your voice a sobbing, desperate plea. "Please, I need it. I need to come. Please, Heeseung, please."

He watches you, his eyes dark with delight. He knows he has you, knows he's broken you, knows you're his to command, his to pleasure, his to punish. And he savors it, savors your desperation.

"You want to come?" he asks, his voice a low, mocking drawl. "You want to come so bad, don't you? You want to come and scream and beg for more. You want to come and know that you're mine, that you belong to me, that you live for me."

You nod, your body shaking, your tears streaming. "Yes, please, yes," you sob, your voice a desperate, begging plea. "Please, Heeseung, please make me come. Please, I need it. I need you."

Heeseung grins widely, a cruel, mocking curve of his lips that sends a shiver down your spine. He hums, a low, satisfied sound, before leaning down, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh. "See? That wasn't so hard now, was it?" he taunts. "All you had to do was surrender." And then, suddenly, his mouth and fingers and tongue are on you, his tongue flicks and teases, his fingers plunge and stroke, his teeth graze and nip. He moans into you, the vibration sending shockwaves through your body, leaving you screaming, whining, begging for more.

"Fuck, you taste so good," he growls, his voice a desperate rumble. "So fucking perfect. I could eat you out all day, make you come over and over again."

You scream, your voice raw, your body convulsing, your mind shattering. You whine, a pathetic, needy sound, your hips bucking, seeking more, seeking release. You beg, your voice a sobbing, desperate plea, your hands clenching into fists, your nails digging into your palms.

"Come for me."

Your body responds to his words, your muscles tensing, your breath hitching, your heart racing. You can feel the orgasm building, your pleasure coiling tight in your belly, ready to explode. And then it does, your body convulsing, your mind shattering. "I'm coming, I'm coming, fuck!" you cry out, your body bucking, your hips grinding against his face, seeking more.

Heeseung moans into you, his tongue and fingers work in perfect harmony, his touch both gentle and firm, his movements calculated. He licks you clean, his tongue lapping up your wetness like it's his last supper, his moans a low, satisfied rumble. You can feel his hunger, his insatiable need for you, his desire to devour you, to consume you, to own you completely.

You try to pull away, your body overwhelmed, your voice a sobbing plea. "Please, stop," you beg, your tears streaming down your face, your body shaking with sobs. "Please, Heeseung, I can't take anymore. Please, stop."

But he doesn't stop, his hands grip your thighs, holding you in place, his fingers digging into your flesh, bruising, claiming. He looks up at you, his eyes dark with desire, a cruel, mocking curve to his lips. "Shh, you can take more angel," he growls, "you can take everything I give you. Everything I want to do to you. Everything I want to make you feel."

And he does, he makes you feel, he makes you feel pleasure and pain, need and desperation, submission and surrender. He makes you feel alive, makes you feel owned, makes you feel his.

You come again, your body convulsing, your mind shattering, your voice a raw, desperate scream.

That makes Heeseung finally pull away, his mouth glistening with your wetness, his fingers slick and shining. He licks them clean, savoring your taste, his eyes never leaving yours.

Your pussy is red, swollen, clenching and unclenching, your clit throbbing, a testament to his insatiable hunger.

You watch, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps, your body aching and sensitive, as he starts to undress. He pulls off his shirt, his muscles rippling, his skin glistening with sweat. He unzips his slacks, pulls down his boxers, his cock springing free, big and leaking, angry and hard. You can see the veins pulsing, the head glistening with precum.

Drool drips from the corner of his mouth, a needy sound escaping his lips as the drops hits your thigh. He spits on his hand, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. He gives himself a few jerks, his hand moving up and down his shaft, his eyes never leaving yours, then suddenly, he's pushing into you, his cock stretching you out, filling you up. You shout in surprise, the sound torn from your throat, raw and desperate, not expecting the stretch, the burn, the fullness. Your body tenses, your muscles clenching, your breath hitching, your mind shattering.

Heeseung's hands grip your waist, his fingers digging into your flesh, he cusses, a low rumble. "Fuck, you're still so tight," he growls. "So fucking delicious. Better than anything in the world. Better than everything."

He starts to move, his hips thrusting, his cock plunging deep, his body claiming yours, his pleasure your only purpose. You can feel him, every inch, every pulse, every thrust. He fucks you hard and deep and fast, his hands gripping your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh, his teeth grazing your skin, his cock plunging so deep that his tip hits your cervix, a sharp, intense sensation that leaves you gasping, your eyes rolling back. You can feel him, every inch, every pulse, every thrust.

A claiming, a conquering, a devouring.

Pornographic sounds leave your mouth, a mix of moans and screams and whimpers, a symphony. You can't control them, can't hold them back, can't do anything but take what he gives, what he demands, what he takes.

He rambles on, his words jumbled, cut off with groans. "Fuck, you feel so good.. fucking perfect... I want everything from you. Everything. You're going to take my cock, my cum, my pleasure. You're going to take it all. You're going to take it and love it..."

His teeth graze your skin, your neck, your breasts, your nipples, a sharp, intense sensation that leaves you gasping, your body convulsing, your mind shattering.

"You're mine," he groans, "mine to fuck, mine to own, mine to break. My everything." And you are, you're his world, his everything, his all. You're his to command, his to pleasure, his to punish. And he will, he will do whatever he wants, whatever he needs, whatever he desires. And you will take it, all of it, every thrust, every touch, every taste, every sound, every scream.

As Heeseung continues his relentless assault, your eyes cross, your vision blurring, your body convulsing as another orgasm tears through you. You scream, your body bucking, your hips grinding against his.

He fucks you through your orgasms, your body a sobbing, shaking mess, sweat and tears and drool coating your skin, your hair, your face.

Suddenly, one of his hands comes up, wrapping around your throat, his fingers pressing, choking you, controlling you, owning you.

Your mouth opens and closes, small, desperate wheezes escaping your lips, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Your body convulses, your mind shatters, your vision blurs, your world narrowing down to the sensations, the sounds, the screams.

Heeseung's lips are hot and wet and hungry, his tongue invading your mouth, a brutal, punishing kiss that leaves you gasping.

As he kisses you, his hand slips down from your throat, his fingers trailing a path of fire and ice down your body, leaving a trail of goosebumps in their wake. You can feel his touch, hot and demanding, as it moves lower, his palm pressing against your mound, his fingers finding your clit and he twists it, rolling and pinching the sensitive nub with a skilled intensity. You gasp into the kiss as your pleasure explodes, your body squirting with a force that leaves you shaking and gasping, your wetness coating him, dripping down your thighs, leaving you a proper mess.

Heeseung pulls back from the kiss, his breath ragged, his eyes gleaming with a mix of cruelty and arousal. He looks down at you, a mocking smile playing on his lips, as he takes in the sight of your spent, shaking body, your thighs slick with your release, your chest heaving with each desperate gasp.

The room is thick with the scent of your pleasure, a heady, intoxicating aroma that hangs in the air, a testament to the intensity of your shared passion.

He groans, a low sound that rumbles from deep within his chest, as he leans his head back, running his hand down his face in a gesture that's equal parts exhaustion and satisfaction. When he looks back down at you, there's a twisted grin on his lips and a crazed look in his eyes, a wild, almost feral intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

"Fucking hell, baby," he murmurs, his voice a dangerous purr, laced with a possessive intensity. "You came so hard. I'm so flattered."

You hesitate, your mouth opening slightly as you try to form a response, but before you can utter a word, Heeseung starts thrusting hard again, his hips snapping forward with a relentless, unyielding intensity.

"Shit!" you shout in surprise, the sound a mix of pleasure and pain, as you struggle to keep up with the brutal rhythm of his movements. Your body moves harshly back and forth, the force of his thrusts leaving you gasping and choking.

Heeseung chuckles, a low, dangerous sound, as he continues to thrust, his cock sliding in and out of your pussy with a wet, obscene sound. "That's it, baby," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "Take it. Take every inch of me."

Suddenly his body tense up, his muscles coiling, you can feel it as he spills into you, filling you up. It's a sensation unlike any other, a raw, and overwhelming invasion.

His cum is hot and thick, a relentless flood that coats your insides, marking you, branding you, filling you to the brim, spilling out, dripping down your thighs.

His voice is wrecked, his words slurred, his breath coming in short, sharp gasps, his body shaking. "Fuck, yes," he moaned.

After that night—after Heeseung had claimed you in every way a man could claim something— you were never alone again.

He kept you close like a second skin.

During inspections, you walked just a step behind him, his hand wrapped firmly around your wrist or resting at the small of your back like a reminder. Not to guide. Not to comfort. To possess.

He paraded you through corridors filled with loyal followers who never questioned it. Their gazes never lingered on you, not out of respect, but fear. You weren’t just his anymore. You were sacred by proximity. Untouchable. An extension of their prophet.

And when he sat upon his throne—the same throne that had first made you tremble—you weren’t kneeling before it anymore.

You were on it. On his lap. Curled against his chest like something fragile and adored. His arms wrapped around you like armor, his fingers constantly tracing circles against your thigh, your hip. His lips brushing your temple. His voice, low and steady, whispering things only meant for you.

“You were always meant to sit beside me,” he’d murmur, letting his fingers toy with the chain that still connected to your collar. “You look better here. Where everyone can see who you belong to.”

You were never out of reach. Never out of his sight. Even when he wasn’t touching you, you could feel the weight of his gaze, watching you like something precious and breakable. Something that might slip through his fingers if he didn’t keep holding on.

He bathed you himself. Dressed you himself. He fed you when he wanted. Rewarded you when you were obedient. And when you weren’t? He reminded you gently. Firmly. Sometimes through punishment. Sometimes with nothing but silence—cold, stretched, and endless until you begged for him to speak again.

You slept in his bed, wrapped in his warmth, in his breath, in the weight of his control. He’d hold you tight against his chest, lips at your ear as you drifted off.

“I see you now,” he’d whisper. “And I’ll never look away again.”

And you knew he meant it. Because wherever Heeseung went, you followed or were dragged.

He would stand before the congregation, bathed in golden light, voice ringing with divine conviction as he spoke of sin.

Of how humanity’s downfall had been written long before the first infected ever rose. How the virus wasn’t a curse—it was a reckoning. A purging.

“Sin,” he would say, voice steady, eyes burning, “is not just action. It’s desire. It’s weakness. It’s forgetting who you belong to.”

They hung onto every word. You sat silently at his feet, head bowed, hands folded in your lap, the perfect picture of devotion. Of obedience.

But when the sermons ended. When the followers filed out with their heads lowered and chants echoing behind them.

Heeseung would sin. Sin for you. And he never pretended otherwise.

His hands would be on you before the door even fully closed, gripping your chin, your hips, the back of your neck, dragging you into his lap or pinning you to the velvet-draped altar where moments ago he’d been preaching salvation.

“You’re my punishment,” he’d groan against your skin. “My favorite sin.”

There was nothing gentle in it. Not anymore. He worshipped you the way fire worships wood—consuming, cracking, devouring. His mouth left bruises in places no one else would ever see. His hands forced you into poses of submission, control, and praise all in one.

He corrupted your mind with whispers of scripture laced with filth. He corrupted your body with touches so exacting, so possessive, you forgot where your pain ended and his worship began.

“You think you’re clean?” he’d sneer, dragging the collar tighter around your throat. “Look at you. Shaking like a heathen. Letting me use you like this. My perfect little contradiction.”

And you let him. Not because you believed in his divinity. But because you had no self left to cling to. He made sure of that—slowly, thoroughly, night after night. Until the sermons began to blur with his gasps. Until you couldn’t hear “salvation” without feeling his hands on your skin. Because Heeseung didn’t just preach with fire. He burned it into you. And by the time night fell, and the candles burned low, and the chants had faded into silence… you weren’t just his follower. You were his altar.

He would drag you to your knees in the same room where people prayed for mercy, and he’d show you none. He’d press you against the walls where holy symbols had been carved, and make you feel anything but pure.

“You know why they worship me?” he’d whisper, breath ragged, voice thick with heat. “Because I carry the weight of their sins.”

And then, as his hands spread you open for him, his lips hot against your ear—

“And you, my love… you carry mine.”

You never knew where the sermon ended and the desecration began. Because to Heeseung, there was no difference.

You were tired. Weak. A breathing shrine to Heeseung’s work. He had broken you open and rebuilt you with trembling obedience, every breath shaped by his voice, every thought fogged with his touch. He made sure you remembered how easily he could overpower you. How simple it was for him to take what he wanted, and how much worse it was when you disappointed him. Even when he was gentle, you knew it was to keep you docile. Even when he praised you, it was to remind you how fragile that praise could be.

Your mind buzzed with static now, clouded by rituals and rules, yeses you hadn’t meant and noes that had died in your throat.

But then— One night, it happened.

The opportunity. Freedom hidden in plain sight.

The compound gate stood cracked open just wide enough, just enough for a scavenging party of six to slip out into the darkness, tasked with finding supplies from what remained beyond the treeline. The guards were distracted, slouched around a crate playing cards, laughter low and careless.

And Heeseung?

He stood just in front of you, half-turned, speaking quietly with someone beside the gate. The leash in his hand was taut as always, a reminder at your throat… But the clasp.

It was right there. One movement. One flick of your fingers. And you’d be free. But were you ready?

Your heart beat so fast it hurt. Because the truth sank in before you even moved—

You were scared. Terrified. Not of the world outside, but of him.

Of what he would say if he caught you. Of what he would do.

And worst of all— Of disappointing him.

Because Heeseung didn’t just punish. He devastated.

And still—

No.

You couldn’t keep living like this. You weren’t his pet. His disciple. His goddamn altar. With shaking hands, you reached up. Fingers found the clasp.

Click.

The leash came free. The collar still hugged your neck, but the chain was gone. You took one step back. Then another.

No one noticed.

You reached the threshold. Your hand brushed the edge of the open door. The forest was waiting. Cold. Dark. Free.

And then—

“Where do you think you’re going?”

Your blood froze.

You turned.

Heeseung stood there, still as death, the leash dangling from his hand like a severed chain. His voice was low, furious, betrayed. His eyes burned. Unforgivable.

You didn’t wait. You ran. Bolted into the trees, the branches tearing at your legs, your breath ragged, panic splitting through your ribs. Behind you came the sound of chaos—shouting, feet pounding, someone screaming your name like it wasn’t a name at all but a claim.

“GET HER!” “DON’T LET HER LEAVE!” “BRING HER BACK TO ME!”

Heeseung’s voice cut through the night like a whip—fierce, commanding, possessed. A voice that once soothed now scraped down your spine like a threat.

You didn’t look back. Branches lashed at your face. Roots caught your feet. You stumbled once—twice—but didn’t stop. Your chest burned, lungs clawing for air, tears streaking down your cheeks as you choked on sobs you didn’t even feel until they were pouring out of you.

You were out. You were really out. For the first time in weeks—months? You didn’t even know anymore—there was no leash, no hands on your body. Just the wind. Just the night. Just you.

“Thank you,” you gasped, breath hitching between sobs, legs aching. “Thank you—thank you—thank you—”

You didn’t know who you were thanking. The trees? The stars? God?

Leaves crunched behind you, voices shouting somewhere in the distance, but farther now. Fainter.

You were fast. Faster than they thought. Faster than he ever let you be. You reached a ridge, legs buckling as you collapsed behind a thicket, heart hammering against the cage of your ribs. You pressed a hand over your mouth to muffle the sound of your breathing, the sobs still threatening to slip through.

And for a moment... just a moment, there was only silence. No footsteps. No voice whispering your name like a prayer. Only the distant echo of his rage, carried on the wind. And for the first time since Heeseung claimed you—

You were alone.

It didn’t take long for you to arm yourself again.

The forest was merciless, but it wasn’t empty. A half-collapsed outpost, overrun with moss and bloodstains, gave you your first break, a fallen soldier slumped near the rusted perimeter, the hollowed-out remains of a jawless infected twitching beside him. His dog tags were gone, but his gear remained.

You stripped the white dress off your body without hesitation. It fell like a shroud to the dirt, soaked with old tears, old submission. You didn’t look at it again. Instead, you dressed in his tactical gear. It was too big, stiff and scratchy—but it fit in all the ways that mattered.

You took everything. Ammo. Knives. A handgun with two clips. A faded canteen. Even a rusted map with scribbles on it.

And you kept moving.

You never stayed anywhere longer than a night. Not even when it rained. Not even when your muscles ached so badly you could barely stand. The idea of stopping, of sleeping too deeply—it wasn’t just dangerous.

It was terrifying.

Because in the quiet, in the stillness, that voice always returned.

I will find you again.

So you didn’t rest. You ran on scraps, cans of food you found in crumbled gas stations, berries you knew wouldn’t kill you. You boiled river water in a bent metal cup, filtering it through your scarf to keep the worst of the dirt out.

And when the sun fell each day, you chose high ground. A rooftop. A tree. An attic with only one way in.

You slept with your hand on the trigger. You never dreamed.

But in the silence between your breaths—when the wind died down and the night got too quiet you could still feel it.

That pull.

Like something invisible was dragging you backward, whispering for you to come home. Like a leash without a chain. And every time it tightened, you reminded yourself:

You're not his anymore.

You're not.

But even with a gun in your hand and a knife strapped to your thigh, it still felt like Heeseung was just one step behind you.

It didn’t help that you weren’t able to take the collar off.

You’d tried. God, you’d tried.

The moment you found a piece of shattered mirror, you sat in the corner of a collapsed shack and dug your fingers behind your neck, trying to find the clasp, the seam—anything.

But all you found was cold metal.

It had a keyhole in the back. Small. Precise. And worse—it was tight. Too snug to twist or shift, no matter how hard you pulled. It dug in when you moved your head too far, a constant reminder.

You were free. But not completely.

You were still wearing his mark. Still dragging the symbol of his claim with you wherever you went. Some nights, you’d claw at it until your skin went raw. You’d cry—not from the pain, but from the humiliation. Because every time you saw your reflection, every time you drank from a stream and caught your distorted image in the water, you didn’t see a survivor.

You saw his sheep.

His voice haunted you even in silence:

“You wear it so well.”

You wrapped scarves around your neck to hide it. Tried to forget it was there. But it chafed when you ran. It pressed into your throat when you slept. It reminded you that no matter how far you got, no matter how armed, how fast, how strong... Heeseung was still on you.

The collar wasn’t just leather. It was a vow. A leash waiting to be reattached. And the worst part was that sometimes, in the dark—when you were shivering, when the world felt too big, too empty—you caught yourself touching it.

Like it was comfort. Like it meant someone still wanted you.

And you hated yourself for that more than anything.

You didn’t see any trace of Sanctum for a while.

No symbols. No robed silhouettes. No whispers of scripture floating on the wind. It lulled you into a false rhythm. A rhythm that felt dangerously like hope. You started sleeping longer. Slower to draw your weapon. You even let yourself breathe.

But you shouldn’t have let your guard down. Why did you? Because now, they were here.

You heard them before you saw them—footsteps, soft and synchronized, never rushed. They didn’t panic when you ran. They followed. Like wolves.

The first time you recognized one, your stomach dropped clean through you. It was someone who used to serve you tea. Someone who once draped blankets over your shoulders after long nights beside Heeseung’s throne. Someone who bowed when they passed you in the halls.

Now?

Now they sprinted after you with a blade in one hand and rope in the other, eyes crazed with purpose.

They didn’t shout. Didn’t call your name. They didn’t have to. You knew what they were there to do.

Bring you back. Alive and breathing.

It happened again. And again.

Sanctum members appearing in the woods. At the edge of abandoned towns. In the shadows of gas stations and watchtowers.

Once-loyal sheep turned silent, ravenous hunters. And no matter how fast you ran, they didn’t give up.

Sometimes you lost them by luck. Sometimes a group of Hollowed would cross your path—lurching, groaning, blind with infection and they’d scatter, trying to avoid a bite.

But not always.

You had bruises now. Cuts you didn’t remember getting. A knife gash on your thigh that slowed you down more than you wanted to admit.

You stopped counting the days. You stopped hoping for silence.

Because silence always ended with the sound of someone stepping on a twig behind you. With a voice you hadn’t heard in days whispering:

“There you are.”

They did everything in their power to bring you back. Sometimes they succeeded. Sometimes you weren’t fast enough, weren’t careful enough. They’d ambush you in the night, drag you down in numbers, hands clawing at your limbs like vines. They’d wrestle your knife away, pin you to the earth, as they tied your wrists with torn robes and scavenged cords.

“You’re not thinking clearly,” they’d murmur. “He’ll forgive you. He always forgives you.”

You’d be bruised. Bloodied. Shaking. But they never expected what came next. They didn’t expect the sharp piece of rock you kept hidden in your boot. They didn’t expect how fast you could move when panic kicked in. They didn’t expect you to scream until your throat tore, to slam your head back into someone’s nose just for a split second of slack in the bindings. They didn’t expect you to run through the Hollowed, screaming, bleeding, letting the undead claw at your attackers just so you could break free.

And they never expected the traps.

The shallow pits lined with spikes. The rigged branches that swung like blades. The makeshift snares fashioned from wire and vines. You learned fast. You had to.

You weren’t fighting to win. You were fighting to not be brought back.

To not see him. To not be on your knees again, not have that leash click shut again, not feel his hands stroking your hair while his voice praised you for being “so strong, even when you lose.”

You fought with everything. Even when you were starving. Even when your body screamed for rest. Even when every inch of you was bruised and aching, a map of lucky escapes and narrow victories.

Because you knew what waited if you failed.

Heeseung’s voice—sweet, patient, cold—in your ear:

“I always forgive you. But that doesn’t mean I won’t teach you a lesson.”

So you kept running. Kept bleeding. Kept surviving.

But even as you prepared for everything—the Sanctum’s scouts, the Hollowed, the cold, the hunger— you weren’t prepared for him.

You weren’t prepared for the day Heeseung came himself. No more messengers. No more quiet, obedient followers dragging you back in chains.

No—this time, it was different.

Because after so many failed retrievals, after so many escape attempts, Heeseung had clearly decided...

If you wanted to run, then he would be the one to hunt.

--

READ PART 2 HERE

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