#n33mesis

“You'll get your money.”

“Will I?” Yoongi tilted his head, studying him with sharp eyes. “Or is Y/N the one paying again?”

“What does she have to do with this?”

Yoongi's gaze sharpened. “One million. For Y/N.”

“You're insane.”

“Two million.” Yoongi pulled a cigarette from his jacket, lit it with a flick that sent embers dancing. Yoongi was the kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice to command a room. When he called, you came. That was the unspoken rule.

Taeki bit the dry skin of his lip, foot tapping the polished floor. “Must be nice, being so fucking rich you think you can buy someone's girlfriend.”

“Name your price.”

“Shit, you're all kinds of messed up in the head, aren't you?” He scoffed, his crossed arms jerking slightly against his chest.

Yoongi's men loomed silent behind Taeki, ready to move at the smallest flick of his hand. Yoongi's gaze pierced him, challenging Taeki to dehumanize himself. His fingers tapped against his jaw, rushing him for an answer.

Taeki blurted out the highest, most ridiculous number he could think of.

“Ten million. Happy?”

Yoongi’s smile curled, a razor-thin slash across his scarred face, eyes glinting like shattered glass. “Deal.”

“Huh?”

The desk drawer slid open. Inside: a sheet of paper waiting for this very moment. Yoongi scribbled numbers in indigo ink and slid the paper across the desk.

$10,000,000

Taeki’s throat dried, venom of the smile choking him.

That was more money than he would ever see in his worthless life. More than his debts, more than rent, more than her two shitty jobs could ever touch.

Ten million meant freedom. Cars. A mansion. No more loan sharks.

All for a signature.

“Why her?” Taeki broke. “You could have anyone.”

“Yeah,” Yoongi hummed, exhaling smoke towards the ceiling. “And I want her. She's loyal, Taeki. Stays with a loser like you.”

“But…she's not…she's not even the prettiest—”

“She saved me once,” Yoongi said. “No questions. Just a glass of water and that smile.” Yoongi flicked the cigarette, embers like dying stars on the desk. “It’s worth more than the paper you’ll never pay me with.” He took a slow drag of his cigarette. “But you wouldn’t understand. Not with that shallow mind of yours.”

The bar was a shithole, all chipped wood and flickering neon, reeking of spilled beer—the kind of place Yoongi never visited. But there he was, slumped on a stool, forehead pressed to the sticky bar counter. Waiting for his end.

He drank to silence the paranoia and intrusive thoughts. He was sold out—by a man he considered closer than his biological brother. A tip to a rival crew, a raid that cost eight lives—almost Yoongi’s. His carefully crafted empire was crumbling right in front of him.

The bar spun—a carousel of faces he didn’t trust, eyes he knew were watching him. Scheming.

Too much liquor, too many pills, too many voices in his head that wouldn’t shut up.

End it now. They know. You’re already dead—a walking corpse.

The tips of his fingers grazed the pill bottle in his pocket. One more and the voices might stop.

One more, and he might stop.

“Hey. Drink this.”

A glass of water was set beside him, ice clinking softy. Yoongi’s head snapped up, eyes wild, bloodshot. He couldn’t tell if he was already dead—a soft halo shimmered around a female figure, gold and white, like something sacred. His breath caught.

An angel.

Was she sent to lead him down to hell?

He cleared his raw throat. “What?”

“Water,” she said, nudging the glass closer. “You’re going to throw up if you keep going like this.”

Yoongi stared, words failing. She smiled, and God, he had never seen a smile so genuine—so pure, clean of deception. With shaking hands he lifted the glass up and drank, the cool water flushing the whiskey’s burn down his throat. It was just water. But to him, it was everything—his head cleared, voices shrinking to a low hum.

“You good?” She asked.

“Fine,” an obvious lie, but she didn’t push—just nodded and turned back to wiping wine glasses, humming faintly.

The voices stayed quiet. He watched her, memorizing—every move, every strand of hair, every sound. Her name tag glinted under the neon: Y/N. He mouthed it, the sound holy on his tongue.

The whiskey bottle sat untouched for the rest of the night. He didn’t take the pills. He didn’t need them now. Not with her. To her—he was just another pathetic drunk man. She was his angel—sent to pull him from the abyss.

If I wake up tomorrow, we are meant to be. He promised himself.

Yoongi left before dawn, her smile burned into his mind. He’d find her again. Keep her. He'd trace her shifts, her routes, her life, build a shrine to her in his mind.

Because if she could silence the noise once, she could do it forever.

Taeki’s stomach turned.

Did he love her, or was she just the only one foolish enough to stay? She wasn’t even that pretty. Cellulite. Stretch marks. Annoying. Chewed with her mouth open. Clingy. Couldn’t cook.

Worth ten million?

“What about her family? Someone will report this.”

“Her family? She hasn’t called them in months." Yoongi tilted his head, one brow rising. “You didn’t know that?”

“You bastard—” Taeki rose from his seat, about to lunge himself at Yoongi before a muscular arm stopped him. “You’re sick! I’m not doing this!”

Click.

“I wasn’t asking.”

A barrel of a glock rammed into his cheek. Frigid and slick from gun oil. Spit pooled in Taeki’s mouth, as his body screams to flinch but freezes under the muzzle’s cold command.

Ironically, he knew Y/N would be safer with Yoongi. With Yoongi she wouldn’t have to worry about loan sharks threatening to murder her. She would be untouchable, Yoongi would protect her from everyone but himself. She wouldn’t have to work ever again. She would have everything. It was better for the both of them. Right?

Besides, ten million was ten million.

He forced the words from his throat, “Give me the pen.”

Yoongi tossed it. “Smart boy.”

Taeki pressed hard, the nib scratching the paper. The pen felt a knife in Taeki’s hand, ink flowing like blood.

“She’ll hate you for this.” Taeki muttered, the signature carving into his soul.

“Whatever anger she has for me will pass. But for you.” Yoongi slid a black credit card across the desk with an icy grin. “She’ll never forgive you.”

Later at home, Y/N hummed as she flipped a burnt pancake, flour dusting her knuckles. When Taeki stepped inside, she was already calling from the kitchen.

“Baby?” It carried warmth she’d fought to keep alive, despite the late nights he stumbled in smelling like cheap soju and excuses.

Taeki kicked off his shoes. “Yeah…I’m home.”

“Late like always.” Y/N turned the stove off and rinsed her hands in the sink. She emerged from the kitchen, her white t-shirt stained with cooking oil. Her hair tied up into a ball of knots, some greasy strands falling onto her cheeks. “Don’t tell me it’s those loan sharks.”

Her arms wrapped around his neck, lips brushing his in a kiss. Taeki instinctively gripped her waist; the other hand clutched the paper that sold her.

“Rough day?” Y/N teasingly tugged at his collar. His silence stung, but she pushed it down—she was used to his moods, the way he’d shut her out when the world pressed too hard.

“No. Just…long.”

Her knuckles caressed his cheek. “Oh, my poor baby.” Leaning in, her lips brushed his jaw, smile turning sly. “Maybe I can help?”

She intertwined her fingers with Taeki's, pulling him into their small living room with a gentle tug. Pushed him down onto the worn-out couch, then sank to her knees in front of him, ignoring the bite of the cheap carpet against her skin.

“Wait, you don't have to—” Her pout silenced him, her cheek resting on his thigh like a plea.

“My boyfriend has been working sooo hard.” Y/N looked up, eyes shimmering with unspoken need. “I want to make you feel good.” Her hand slid over his crotch, nails scraping lightly though his pants, which made him harden despite the guilt clawing at his chest.

He should have been lost in her already. He should have wanted her. But her adoring gaze twisted like a knife—he traded it for ten million.

Fingers unbuckled his pants, sliding into his boxers to trace veins with her thumb—soft, teasing circles that drew him harder. Taeki swallowed, his heart racing not with desire, but with fear, guilt, and anticipation. Her warm breath ghosted over the tip, making it twitch.

“Cute,” Y/N giggled, the sound like a forgotten melody, her tongue pressed under his tip, lifting it with a slow, languid stroke. She focused on his reactions, her tongue swirling in lazy patterns, searching for the spark they'd lost to his endless excuses and gambling. Taeki threw his head back with a groan, eyelids squeezing shut as her saliva coated him, warm and slick, pulling him deeper into the haze. When he managed to look down again, her lips stretched vulgarly around his cock, half-lidded eyes staring up at him.

“Oh shit—” Taeki cursed, thighs tensing as he watched her reflection in the TV behind her.

Tears clung to her lashes, not from the depth, but from her effort. Sinking lower, his tip brushed her throat, forcing a gagging sound—disgusting, arousing.

“Fuck, I don't deserve you,” Taeki panted, the truth spilling out. “Too good for me.”

Gasping, but still smiling, she pulled back, lips swollen, shiny, a string of saliva connecting them like a fragile thread. She didn’t know it wasn't just lust talk. 

She's loyal, Taeki.

In that moment, he saw her—really saw her—and the self-loathing crashed in. Y/N stayed through every fuck-up, every failed investment in a new crypto that deepened his debts. Once, he’d sold his watch to pay her rent, promising better days.

He loved everything: her smile that chased away shadows, worth every overtime shift; tracing her stretch marks like constellations after lovemaking; her legs wrapping around him, pulling him close in drunken clinginess; her weary efforts to cook after exhausting days.

God. He had just sold her.

Her mouth wrapped around his cock again, the heat enveloping him like a forbidden embrace. She guided his hand to her head, urging him to take control, to claim her as she yearned to be claimed. But he couldn't. Instead of giving in, he pushed her off gently, the lost heat leaving him exposed.

“S-Stop.” Taeki’s chest heaved.

He couldn’t cum down her throat. Not when he had just betrayed her. 

“What's wrong?” She choked, her heart sinking as she wiped her mouth from humiliation.

“Nothing. Just…stress.” He smeared the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand, leaning back onto the couch.

Her brows furrowed. “No, it's not.” Straightening her back, Y/N pressed, “Did I mess up? Was it bad?”

“What?” Taeki exhaled, brushing his sweaty hair back. “God, no, stop. You're fine.”

Silence. Her gaze stung as if he'd slapped her.

“You don't want me anymore, do you?” Y/N's voice cracked, raw with the fear she'd buried for months.

Before he could answer, a sharp knock broke the tension. Taeki shot up, zipping his pants. He rushed to the door before his girlfriend could react. From the peephole, he saw Yoongi’s silhouette flanked by three hulking figures. Cold dread raced up his spine. He cracked the door open .

“Deal’s off.”

Yoongi's laugh was low and mocking, eyes gleaming with amusement. “You don’t back out of my deals, kid.”

Taeki shoved the credit card into Yoongi’s chest, hand quivering. He knew. He knew there was no reasoning with a man like this. “I don't care. She’s not yours.”

“Taeki, what’s going on?” Y/N peeked over his shoulder, arms crossed, gut twisting at the silhouettes. Taeki’s debts were bad, but these men weren't just loan sharks. They reeked of something worse.

Yoongi’s gaze slid to her, predatory and possessive, like he'd already claimed his prize. “Oh, your man didn’t tell you?” He stepped forward, ignoring Taeki. 

“Don't touch her!” Taeki lunged, only for a thug to slam him back inside against a wall, a fist slamming into his ribs with a sickening thud.

“Taeki!” Y/N shrieked. Yoongi held her steady as Taeki slumped to the floor. “Let me go!”

“Your man sold you for pocket change, Angel.” Yoongi dangled the black card in front of her face, voice dripping with false pity.

“What?”

“Shut up!” Taeki roared, desperation bleeding as he thrashed against the grip that held him. “Baby, don’t listen—”

Yoongi leaned close, warm cigarette breath grazing her cheek. With his thumb, he wiped the saliva off her chin. “Ten million for my perfect girl. He signed without blinking.”

That’s when she recognized him… the man who almost threw up all over her bar counter. Back then, he looked like a homeless guy dressed up as a businessman—tie undone, blazer soaked in alcohol, hair sweaty—now, he was collected, fresh. No longer sounding like his vocal cords were about to break—it was warm, smooth, reassuring. Liquorice hair neatly styled, brushed back to expose his forehead and to show off the scar going down his right cheek.

Yoongi’s smirk was calm, confident. “Relax. She’s safe with me. Safer than she is with you.”

Taeki’s blood boiled in his veins, throbbing under his skin. “Safer? You think you can just…own her?”

“She’s mine to protect,” Yoongi replied, like it was a fact of life. “You made your choice.”

Her tears mixed with fury, betrayal slicing sharper than any knife ever could. She pushed Yoongi away, hands trembling. “What are you talking about? Sold me?” Her voice shook, but her eyes burned, daring him to repeat it.

“Baby, I’m sorry—I didn't mean—”

Another blow silenced Taeki, bone crunching. A picture of Y/N and Taeki fell off the wall, the one they took at last New Years eve. Glass shattered across the floor, reached Yoongi's feet.

“Stop hitting him!” Y/N shoved her fists at Yoongi’s chest. Tears clung to her wet lashes, eyes bloodshot. She hated Taeki for what he'd done, but she hated this man even more for twisting it into his game.

Yoongi caught her wrist, thumb brushing her pulse. “Still loyal?”

“You think cash makes you a god?!” Y/N spat through tears, struggling in his grip, every muscle screaming freedom.

Yoongi's lips curled, the smoke of his last cigarette lingering like Taeki's empty promises. “You’re an Angel, even now, when your boyfriend has just betrayed you.” He murmured, caressing her cheek, offering twisted comfort Taeki never could.

For a moment, she paused, staring into his triangular eyes. Yoongi swore he saw love in hers; Y/N saw only a dark mahogany void, a man who thought that he could own her soul.

The moment shattered. Y/N kicked his ankle. She thrashed in his arms like a feral animal. But he could tame her; all she needed was a bit of food and love. Soon, he would make her purr in his lap, he was sure of that.

She bit his hand, her teeth sinking deep. Yoongi yelped, releasing her. “Fuck—” he hissed, rubbing the mark. “Enough fun. Get her to the car. Gently.”

A cloth was shoved into her mouth to muffle her screams. She’d fight until her last breath—not for Taeki, but for herself.

As they dragged her out, Yoongi squatted by Taeki. He looked like a fish drying on the sand, lips opening but nothing coming out of them. Yoongi patted his cheek with a mocking pity.

“Pathetic.” He scoffed, “You couldn't even save her from yourself, dog.”

The car door slammed, Y/N's muffled screams echoed inside Taeki's skull.

Yoongi touched his bite mark, smiling.

Charcoal walls, dark wood, a modern lounge couch by a massive window. Golden LEDs bathed the space in a warm glow, mocking the cold reality she was set in. Y/N sat on the edge of a bed on a raised platform, linen sheets cold against her thighs, wrists bound behind her back with black ribbon. Next to her, on the bed’s platform—a gun, tempting. She tested the ribbon's knot, heart pounding—could she slip free? Or was this another test from a man who bought lives like cigarettes?

Yoongi walked inside the bedroom. His suit jacket hung casually over one arm, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong forearms. His eyes softened just slightly as they met hers, but the heat of his presence left no room for comfort.

“Shh, Angel,” he stepped closer, fingers tracing her jaw—she jerked away. “No more fighting. You’re home now.”

Yoongi removed the cloth from her mouth. She spat in his face, saliva dripped down his brow. “You’re delusional. I’ll never be yours.”

For a few seconds, Yoongi only blinked at her, taken aback by her resistance. Then he chuckled, shoulders laughing with him. But she could hear the nervous crack in his voice. He wiped her spit off with a sleeve of his shirt, apparently unfazed. The mattress dipped as Yoongi sat, pulling her onto his lap.

“You already are.” Hands slid under her shirt, caressing her bare stomach. “See? Perfect.” Her muscles tensed under his palms. “Relax, you’re safe.” He said, smooth, calm, but undeniably authoritative. “No one’s going to hurt you here.”

Y/N bristled, pulling back. “Safe?” she spat. “With you?” Her wrists rested low on her back, arms straining, shoulder blades grinding against each other.

“You’re more fragile than you know,” Yoongi replied. “But I won’t let anyone else break you. Not him, not your so-called friends. Only me.”

She twisted, but his grip on her waist tightened, holding her firm. “Get off me,” she hissed, shaking with rage, hatred, fear, exhaustion.

Yoongi tilted his head, as if weighing her words. “I can, but would you really be safe out there? Or would someone like Taeki drag you back into danger?”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

“You don’t understand,” His lips brushed her neck, short kisses trailing to her shoulder, sending shivers she fought to hold back. The scent of his perfume—spicy, vanilla, tobacco—made her stomach lurch. “I’ve seen what the world does to people like you. You saved me once… I can’t forget that. I can’t let it happen again. Not to you.”

“This is insane. You’re insane!” She wanted to run. But the apartment, the way his presence filled it, made her hesitate. She couldn’t ignore the truth: Yoongi was powerful, cunning and deeply deranged.

“That night, I was ready to die, drowning in alcohol and despair.” His kisses moved to her collarbone. “Your smile kept me alive.”

“It was pity. Nothing more.”

“Pity?” Yoongi’s laugh vibrated against her. “No, it was fate.” He sucked faint marks on her collarbone. “You saved me. Now I'm saving you—from him and your pathetic attempts at romance.”

Her breath hitched, his long hair tickling her skin like a traitor’s caress. “You’re nothing to me,” but her body ached, chasing the warmth that Taeki never gave.

“If you behave,” he whispered, thick and sweet like syrup, lips brushing her ear. “He walks away alive.”

Y/N wanted to scream that she didn't care, that Taeki could rot in hell. She pictured him curling onto the floor, throwing up while Yoongi’s men tortured him to death. The thought of blood staining her hands—of a life ended because of her—choked her.

“For once, let someone actually look after you.” Yoongi reached behind her, pulling on the ribbon, freeing her wrists. The strain in her shoulders gone, replaced with a tension in her lower stomach.

He peeled her shirt off. Carefully laid her down, her bare back pressing against the icy sheets, the fabric a stark contrast to the heat radiating from Yoongi's body as he hovered over her.

“You silenced the voices once—let me worship you, or they'll consume us both.” Yoongi breathed, drawing a map down her chest with his tongue. A glistening path that cooled in the air. One hand cupped her breast, long fingers kneading softly, thumb circling her nipple until it peaked.

“Worship?” She breathed, “You think this is worship? You’re just a sick bastard playing god.”

“Maybe I am.” He hummed, “But you’re the cure. You feel it too, don’t you? This is where you belong.” His tongue flicked out, a single, deliberate stroke. Y/N jerked, involuntarily, a gasp escaping before she could choke it back.

If she fought, would he shatter? Would the gun by the bed find her? Or him? She'd given him water, nothing more—she wasn't paid to play the therapist with those drunk men. But he'd seen her as a glowing savior, the neon lights twisting his drugged mind.

Yoongi's tongue traced the outline of her areola, his saliva drying cold on her skin. She bit her lip to stifle the gasp, her hands—now free—clenching into fists at her sides, nails digging into her palms. His lips wrapped around her hardening nipple, giving it a short suck—gently pulling on it. Y/N's back arched, pressing her breast against Yoongi's mouth. His fingers ghosted down her spine, a faint touch that made her shiver.

This is wrong, she thought. But his touch was so different from Taeki's—he wasn't just kissing her, he was devouring her—like she was his sacramental wine.

Yoongi’s hand slipped lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of her leggings, tugging them down. His hands trembled; he needed her to validate his fantasy.

There, between her legs, she had a man who could make murder look like mercy—begging to please her. Yoongi laid down, his arms wrapping around her thighs while he nipped her skin. Blood dribbled from her lip, a self-punishment for failing her morals. The tip of his nose pressed against her underwear, he dragged the bridge of his nose through her clothed folds, stopping at the top above her clit. Y/N could feel his heated breath clinging to the wet spot on her panties.

“Fuck, Angel, look at you.” Yoongi rasped, a grin forming on his face. “Still going to act like you hate it?”

“Stop calling me t—that.”

His smile widened, eyes glinting with amusement and hunger. “Angel fits you too well.” He purred, lips brushing the damp fabric. Yoongi inhaled deeply, savoring her scent—the intimacy of it made her knees close. “You were sent to rescue me.”

Y/N’s nails dug deeper into her palms, her naked breasts moving with each inhale she took. “I’m not your fucking angel,” She kicked, aiming for his shoulder, but Yoongi caught her ankle with ease.

“Careful,” he murmured, pinning her leg down with one hand while the other traced lazy circles on her inner thigh. His touch was featherlight, teasing, a contrast to the menace in his eyes. “You would rather not make this harder than it needs to be.”

The gun glinted in her peripheral vision, taunting her with its closeness. One lunge, one moment of distraction, and she could end this. But his men were outside—she’d heard their boots in the hall. Even if she reached it, would she make it out alive?

She’d survived Taeki’s lies, her family’s absence—she’d survive this, too, and make Yoongi pay.

Yoongi’s fingers hooked under the edge of her panties, tugging them aside. “You’re fighting yourself, not me.” His nose brushed over her pubic bone.

“Fuck you,” Y/N spat with the heat pooling between her legs. His arms tightened around her thighs. Lips closed over her clit with a soft, sucking pressure.

Yoongi chuckled against her; he licked again, slower, dragging his tongue through her folds, savoring every twitch of her body. Y/N’s ankles hooked around his waist. He pulled back, eyes locked on hers, daring her to push him away. Her thighs trembled, torn between clamping shut and opening wider. He spat onto her clit before drowning in her again. It made her stomach twist—she couldn’t tell if more from disgust or desire. Her hand dropped on top of Yoongi’s head, her fingers raking through his, suprisingly—soft, silky hair. She tugged onto his roots. Not pushing or pulling, just holding. Her ragged breaths drowned his soft hums, a war of sound and shame.

She hated him. Hated how good he looked with her arousal coating his chin.

“Mmmrrhh~” Yoongi purred loud into her, the vibration pushing her closer. He parted her with a maddening precision. Her head fell back, the golden lights blurring into a haze.

“S-Stop—” she pleaded, but her body didn’t agree, hips rocking into his face. His touches were chains, but Taeki's betrayal was the lock that kept her here.

“Say my name.” Yoongi rasped, “Say my name, and I’ll give you everything. Say Yoongi.”

Two of his fingers slipped inside her, building up the rhythm as Yoongi teased her clit with his tongue. Each exhale of his was a slow torture that made her clench against her will. The noises grew louder—wet and squelching. Yoongi didn’t rush her, guiding her through the rise with soft licks.

“Taeki,” she moaned to wound him. His hand tensed, a punishing thrust inside her. Her arousal stuck to his palm. Yoongi sucked on her clit as if he sucked hard enough, he could drink from it.

“Say it.”

“Taeki!”

Then, he slowed, almost stopped—until her resolve cracked. His fingers almost slipping out of her, tracing her entrance. Y/N’s hand trembled; she grabbed his wrist, pushing it against her crotch.

“Yoongi—”

Fast and deep—unrushed—in the best way possible. Arousal dripped down onto the sheets below. Her hand frantically slapped the mattress, tears falling down her flushed cheeks.

“Oh my—Yoongi, Yoongi, Yoongi!”

Y/N rambled; her vision went white. She let her hips grind against his hand, not for him, but to steal something back, to make this moment feel like hers, even if it was a lie. His fingers curled inside her, pressing onto a spot that made her rise her hips up from the mattress. It was gentle yet overwhelming, a shuddering release that left her trembling. A stifled cry broke free from her lips, swallowed by the quiet of the empty room.

Yoongi removed his fingers, pressing kisses to her folds, like he was sealing a vow. He rose, hovering over her, his lips glistening. Y/N's body stilled, chest heaving. The gun sat inches away, mocking her weakness. The haze cleared, and nausea rolled through her.

“I’ll make you forget him.” Yoongi kissed her jaw, hand brushing her tears. “Forget everything but me.”

His lips crashed onto hers, desperate, cradling her face. Y/N straightened her arm, straining towards the weapon. Her fingers grazed the cold metal of the gun—she grabbed it. Hit the barrel against Yoongi’s temple, pulled the trigger—

Nothing.

The trigger was dead, no resistance, no sound, hollow, empty.

Yoongi drowned in it—watching the realization hit her. Her expression like a cornered stray cat with no escape. Pleasure coiled in his chest, hot and venomous, like savoring the finest whiskey. His smile slithered wider, exposing his fleshy gums. Eyes—unblinking, pupils shrinking.

“Beautiful,” he rasped, thumb brushing her trembling lip.

Her heart screamed traitor—at Yoongi, at Taeki, at herself.

01. 4.7k

02. 4.3k

03. 4.3k

04. 3.4k

05. 2.5k

Y/N startled violently, heart kicking hard against her ribs as she spun around. A woman stood a few steps away. Middle-aged. Short hair neatly pulled back. An apron tied snug at her waist. Hands folded in front of her like she’d been there longer than Y/N was comfortable imagining.

“Oh, I’m sorry!” the woman rushed, concern flashing across her face. “I didn’t mean to scare you. Are you alright, miss?”

“Yes. Yes,” Y/N breathed, palm pressed to her chest. “I’m okay. I just… I wasn’t expecting anyone.”

The woman smiled, gentle, apologetic. A smile that asked for forgiveness. “Of course. That’s my fault. I should’ve announced myself better.”

She turned toward the sink to wash her hands, movements efficient and unhurried. The subject changed as seamlessly as the water running over her fingers.

“Since you’re up early,” she said over the sound of running water, “what would you like for breakfast?”

Y/N crossed her arms, leaning her side against the counter. Her bare toes curled against the tile. “I’m fine with anything. I’m not picky.”

The woman glanced over her shoulder, considering “Pancakes?”

The word stirred something small and uncomfortable in her chest.

“Sure,” Y/N said, forcing a polite smile.

She climbed onto one of the tall barstools. The leather seat was cool under her thighs. She rested her elbows on the counter and let her gaze drift, cataloguing details she hadn’t noticed before. Knife block arranged by size. A green plant in a tall pot. Modern black-and-white artwork that didn’t make sense to her. A vintage-looking radio. Spice jars labeled in a minimalistic print. A coffee machine with a single dirty cup left behind.

“So…” Y/N hesitated, pitching her tone to sound casual. “Where’s Yoongi?”

The woman’s hand hovered over the refrigerator’s handle for just a beat too long.

“Mr. Min should be back before dinner,” she said, pulling it open.

Something in the woman’s voice was off. Sharper than everything else she’d said before. As if it was the only line she hadn’t had time to rehearse. Y/N nodded slowly, watching her move. Batter whisked smooth. A pan warming on the stove. A Smeg kettle beginning to pop.

The whole day.

Y/N rested her chin in the hollow of her palm, watching batter pour into the pan. It sizzled softly, bubbles rising and popping. What was she supposed to do with all this time? Yoongi hadn’t planned the day for her, and she didn’t know what to do with that absence. Back home, a day off meant cleaning, cooking, catching up on everything she never had time for. But here? There were no chores. Nothing that needed her hands. Nothing that gave her purpose.

Such emptiness wasn’t restful. It was suffocating.

Y/N shifted on the stool. “He usually tells me when he leaves.”

The woman hummed, noncommittal. “Mr. Min mentioned he had a busy day. Most likely didn't want to bother you.”

A finished pancake slid onto a plate. Round. Golden at the edges. Steam rising in soft curls.

“You look much calmer today,” the woman observed, flipping the next pancake with a smooth flick of her wrist. “Mr. Min will be happy.”

Y/N stared at her plate. Three pancakes stacked neatly. A pat of butter in the center, already softening.

“Did Yoongi tell you to watch me?” she muttered, eyes stuck on the melting butter.

The woman didn’t look offended. If anything, she seemed faintly amused the corner of her mouth lifting. She set a cup of tea to Y/N’s right, the handle turned outward, exactly where her hand would fall if she reached without looking.

“He worries,” she said. “That’s all.”

She turned back to the stove, wiping down the counter that didn’t need cleaning. The cloth moved in slow, careful circles, erasing nothing but time. Y/N picked up the fork. The metal felt heavier than usual. She cut into the pancake, steam lifting gently. The inside soft and airy. She took a bite. It was good. Better than the ones she burned at home.

“How long have you worked here?” Y/N asked, chewing slowly.

“A while,” the woman replied. The mixing bowl was rinsed, polished, set aside. “Long enough to know the house.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. “Is avoiding answers part of the job?”

The woman chuckled, shaking her head. “No, not at all.” She dried her hands, folding the towel into four squares. “I’ve been taking care of this house for many years. I don’t remember exactly when I started.”

Y/N nodded, a bit embarrassed at how sharp her tone had been. Out of politeness, she should have asked what the woman’s name was or what to call her—but she didn’t. It wasn’t like she was planning to stay here much longer.

Y/N nudged a piece around her plate. “Am I allowed to go outside?”

The woman blinked, genuinely surprised. “Of course.”

“Out of the house,” Y/N clarified.

“You’re not locked in.” she said calmly. “Just let someone know before you leave.”

“And if I don’t?”

The woman smiled, the same soft expression as before. “Then someone might worry.”

Y/N decided to test that.

She told one of the guards she was going for a walk. He stared at her for a moment. The same man who had chased her down the hallway that night. She waited for him to ask where. For how long. To remind her of something she forgot. Of what she owed.

Instead, he nodded.

“Of course, miss.” he said, stepping aside to clear the path.

No warnings. No conditions.

The front door resisted when she pushed it open, heavy under her exhausted, fragile body. When it finally gave, the wind bit into her cheeks immediately, sharp and dry. Freedom smelled like frost and pine. She zipped her jacket up to her chin and stepped outside, pulling the door shut behind her.

Was that it?

Was this how she would escape?

Her boots sank into the snow, leaving deep prints behind. The driveway stretched wide. At the far end, by the gate, a man shoveled. Metal scraped against stone in a steady rhythm.

“Good morning, miss,” he called, pausing to lean on the shovel.

“Good morning.” Y/N replied dryly, passing him without slowing.

The word miss followed her like a curse.

Did everyone here already know who she was? Or worse, what she was supposed to be?

Up close, the gate looked less ornamental than she’d thought. Thick metal bars. Old rust blooming at the hinges. Her fingers closed around one. Frozen metal bit instantly, numbing her muscles. The raised details had been smoothed down by time, by hands that had tested it before. The gate moved when she pushed it. Easily. Too easily. Almost eagerly, as if it had been waiting for her to try. Inviting. Daring. It swung open with a soft creak, wide enough to let her pass without squeezing through.

The first step beyond it made her breath hitch. The snow crunched louder there. She kept glancing back over her shoulder, expecting someone to run and call her name. To tell her she’d misunderstood. To laugh. To catch her. To punish her for being stupid enough to try.

Still, no one followed. The man at the driveway didn’t even look up.

The road stretched ahead of her. It sloped downhill, curving gently out of sight. On the opposite side, a forest stood dense and dark, conifers packed close together like they were conspiring. The uphil looked barely used, marked only by a few tire tracks already fading under fresh snow.

Only two cars passed. Both times, she stiffened, heart screaming, convinced Yoongi would step out and drag her back with that calm smile. Neither even slowed. Worse, they seemed to accelerate once they noticed her standing there alone.

Far below, tucked into the valley, the town sat quietly. Roofs dusted white, smoke lifting lazily from chimneys. Close enough to see. Far enough to feel untouchable.

Maybe she could make it before evening.

Y/N kept walking, hands buried deep in her pockets. Each step carried her farther from the gate. Farther from the house. And closer to the questions she’d been avoiding.

What would she do if she reached town?

She had no money. No phone. No idea where she was. No documents. No proof. No bruises that told a clean, convincing story. The police wouldn’t believe her. Not when everything looked so… reasonable. They would listen, nod, exchange glances. They would look at her the way Dr. Shin had.

Her pace slowed.

Maybe she was overreacting. Maybe Yoongi really was trying to help. Protect her. Help Taeki. The loan sharks were gone. Taeki’s debts erased. On paper, everything looked solved.

Maybe it had just… gone wrong.

Why had she even let that thought in? Why did that thought feel so tempting? She had been kidnapped. Sold. Reduced to a solution that fit neatly into someone else’s life.

The cold sank deeper into her bones, joints screeching. Snow soaked through her shoes, each step squeezing icy water from the soles. Her breath fogged thick in front of her, each exhale shorter than the last.

The gate wasn’t there to stop her. It was there to prove how pointless leaving was.

If she kept going, she’d freeze to death.

Or beg.

Or be returned gently, officially, with paperwork, sympathy and a diagnosis.

She pictured it too clearly. Standing in town, shivering, pockets empty. Explaining and explaining, words tumbling over each other, desperate to sound coherent. Watching phones get picked up. Names spoken.

Her throat closed.

If she stayed, she’d be safe. Fed. Warm. Protected.

Touched.

Y/N wrapped her arms around herself, the fabric of her jacket squeaking. She stood there until her knees locked.

Until the cold turned her feet into stupid, distant objects.

Until the thought of explaining herself to strangers felt more violent than anything Yoongi had done so far.

Until she hated herself so thoroughly that going back felt like mercy.

Water pooled beneath her shoes as she stepped inside, ice melting onto the wooden floor in dark patches. She slipped her boots off and left by the door like evidence of her failed escape. When she turned around, she flinched, pulse jumping—the housekeeper was behind her again.

“Miss, you're back.” The woman said, already reaching to help her out of her damp jacket. “You’re shaking.”

Y/N opened her mouth. When—? How—? The questions hovered, but she swallowed them down.

“Yeah,” she managed instead. “Thank you.”

The woman nodded, hanging the coat in the wardrobe, satisfied, as if Y/N had answered the right question.

“I prepared a warm bath for you,” she added. “It’ll help.”

Help what? Y/N wondered. The cold? The walk? The thinking?

Her steps felt heavy on the stairs, each one landing with a dull thud that echoed too loudly in the quiet house. In the bedroom, she paused long enough to glance at the clock. She’d been gone for over an hour. An hour of walking in circles. Of starting and stopping. Of standing at the edge of freedom long enough to feel foolish before turning back.

The bathroom was warmer than the rest of the house. The tub waited, already filled, steaming. The water faintly clouded with milk, still hot when she tested it with her fingers. Delicate yellow-white flowers floated across the surface, scattering like freckles, drifting apart and coming together again with the smallest movements. Her clothes peeled off slowly, fabric heavy and icy against her skin. She climbed into the bath carefully, one leg at a time, until the water rose around her hips, her stomach, her chest. She exhaled. Heat melted her from the inside out. Loosening things she hadn't known she’d been holding so tight. Shoulders dropped. Fingers unclenched. Stomach relaxed. Her head tipped back against the smooth edge of the tub. For a moment, there was nothing but warmth and quiet.

They knew she’d come back.

Not guessed. Not hoped. Expected.

The flowers drifted lazily around her, brushing her skin when she moved. The water stayed hot. Perfectly so. Like it had been waiting for her to stop pretending she wouldn’t return.

She sank deeper until the water kissed her chin.

A thin layer of body oil hugged her skin, leaving it soft and radiant. She should have felt calm. Instead, without him nearby, her anxiety climbed, restless and hungry. Waiting made her chew at her nails until her fingers bled.

She hated the mansion and what it did to her. She hated being alone even more.

Was Yoongi with Taeki now? Was Taeki even alive? Had Yoongi kept his promise? Or was it only ever meant to sound convincing? Something said to keep her obedient, pliable, grateful?

She told herself she let him touch her because it saved Taeki. Because this was the price. Because there had never really been a choice. At least not for her. As if her hips hadn’t tilted toward his mouth on instinct. As if her body hadn’t chased his attention faster than her mind could object.

Y/N expected cruelty. To wake up tied up naked and gagged in a moist basement. To be broken slowly, methodically, until there was nothing left in her to resist. Instead, she was treated like something fragile. Like a flower that bruised easily and required constant care. Watered. Watched. Never left unattended.

Yoongi hadn’t touched her since that night. Not like that. And still, she caught herself appreciating the occasional weight of his hand on her back. The low vibration of his voice against her ear. His lips lingering where they shouldn’t have. Being cared for felt good. Being loved felt even better.

The cage was too warm for what it was.

Later, she wandered around the mansion without purpose. Bathroom after bathroom. Guest room after guest room. Everything stripped of personality, cleaned into emptiness. She opened doors, looked inside, and closed them again with a quiet sigh. Empty. So many of those rooms were empty. What was the point of building a house this large just to let it echo?

She nearly passed the last door at the end of the corridor. Something tugged at her. Not curiosity, but instinct. The kind that makes your body pause before your mind understands why.

The handle didn’t move when she tried it. For a moment, she felt relieved. Then annoyed. Then unsettled by how much she wanted it open. She braced her shoulder against the wood and pushed harder. The metal resisted, then finally gave with a reluctant jerk.

This room was different.

The walls were white. A color she hadn’t seen anywhere else in the house, not even a bath towel. The air smelled of dust and old drying paint. Light poured through one massive window, falling across the floor in a sharp grid.

She closed the door behind her quietly, heart thudding like she’d done something wrong just by crossing the threshold.

A wooden bookshelf stood against one wall, packed tightly with books. A green lounge couch beside it, the fabric worn in the place where someone’s body had returned to again and again. Near the window, something large and rectangular rested beneath a gray cloth. More shapes along the wall, all hidden the same way.

Her hand trembled as she reached for the fabric. It was fuzzy with dust. She hesitated, fingers hovering, a strange guilt crawling up her spine. The cloth slid slowly, whispering as it fell away.

An easel.

And an oil painting.

Two lilies bloomed at its center. Pale and luminous. Petals catching a harsh light from above, surrounded by absolute darkness, flowers emerging from nothing. The contrast between light and dark was dramatic. Extremely detailed. The veins in the petals were mapped with the kind of care that hurt to look at. Someone had counted every ridge. Memorized the way one bloom curled protectively over another.

It wasn’t amateur. It wasn’t even hobbyist. This wasn’t talent.

It was obsessive. The kind of painting that took hours of staring. Of longing. Of wanting.

Something about it made her skin prickle in a way she couldn’t name.

Under the largest lily, nearly lost in black paint, there was a faint signature. Something delicate and unreadable. Dated three years ago.

She uncovered the rest. A small rolling table with a glass palette. Paint hardened like cracked skin. Brushes stiff with dried color. A drawing desk cluttered with sketches.

Flowers.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Lilies. Roses. Peonies. The same shapes repeated from different angles. Some blooming. Some rotting. They were the same flowers she’d seen in the garden. It wasn’t practice. It was prayer. Or punishment.

The bookshelf pulled her next. Romance novels. Self-therapy. Trauma recovery. Psychology. She pulled a random one and flipped through it absently, eyes skimming words without absorbing them.

A line near the center of the book stopped her.

This cycle will never end.

Handwritten in indigo ink, pressed hard enough to scar the page, bleeding slightly at the edges.

Outside, an engine growled.

Her fingers went cold. She slid the book back exactly as she found it, aligning the edges with military precision, the way Yoongi did. She moved fast now, not carefully. Urgent. She smoothed the cloths back over furniture. Pulling the gray fabric until the room erased itself again.

By the time she reached the stairs, Yoongi was already there, shrugging out of his long coat. The sleeves of his shirt rolled up to his forearms, as if he’d never quite finished leaving work behind.

“Hey.” He looked up and smiled. “You’re up.”

She nodded, fingers brushing the banister. “The housekeeper said you’d be back before dinner.”

A breathy laugh left him. He stepped closer, blocking her path without meaning to. Or maybe very much meaning to.

“I try to keep my promises.” His hand rose, knuckles grazing her cheek. “Did you eat?” he asked.

”Not yet.”

“Good.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, as if arranging her. “Let’s have dinner.”

With a hand resting on her back, Yoongi guided her inside the dining room. The table was already set. Gleaming under the glass chandelier. Every surface polished to a sterile shine. A single candle flickering at the center. Two plates sat opposite each other, pasta arranged with obsessive symmetry, green sauce spiraled. The wine glasses filled to a precise line. Not too much. Not too little.

Yoongi pulled out her chair. Waited until she sat before taking his own.

”How was your day?” he asked, wine already halfway to his lips.

“It was…good.” Her shoulders stiffened as she spoke. “I went outside. Walked around the house.”

His hand paused. Barely. Then the glass lowered and met the table with a soft click.

“I found a lot of empty rooms,” she added when he didn’t respond.

“Did you?” His tone stayed even. Almost bored. He twirled pasta around his fork, tangling the strands methodically. Holding the fork between his thumb and index finger.

“It’s a big house.”

He hummed. “It is.”

She watched his face closely. Nothing shifted. No flicker of alarm. No tension. Nothing.

“There’s a room at the end of the east corridor,” she pushed, biting the inside of her cheek. “It was locked.”

This time, he set his utensils down, completely pausing mid-meal.

”As it should be.”

“Why?”

He folded his napkin once. Then again. Smoothed the crease with his thumb.

“Some rooms are closed for a reason.”

His jaw finally sharpened, the vein under his jaw tensing. She imagined the air coming out of his nose in heavy, controlled bursts.

Her brows furrowed. “That’s not really an answer.”

A faint smile grew on his lips. “It is,” he said. “Just not one you’ll like.”

“What are you hiding in there?” She forced a dry laugh. “Something dangerous? A corpse?”

“You could call it that.”

She scoffed, arms crossing over her chest as she leaned back in her seat. “It’s just a room.”

“For you,” he corrected. “It should stay that way.”

The candle popped between them. Y/N stared at him, confusion tightening into dread. Why was he so defensive? It was only flowers. Not a torture room. Not weapons. Not chains. Not blood. Nothing worth hiding.

“Did you go inside?” he asked quietly when he picked up his fork once again.

Her throat tightened, heat crawling up to her cheeks.

“No.”

“Good.”

Her appetite was gone now, replaced with a new kind of tension in her stomach.

“You said I could explore the house,” she muttered as she played with pasta with her fork. “ You didn’t mention rooms I wasn’t allowed to enter.”

Yoongi exhaled slowly, sinking lower in his seat. “You’re right,” he admitted. “I forgot about it. That’s my fault.” He dragged a hand down his face, smoothing the tension away. “I should’ve been clearer.”

He leaned forward and reached across the table, closing her hand in his. His thumb traced slow circles on her skin, careful as if she might shatter if he pressed too hard.

“We’ll talk about it another time,” he said gently. “Finish your dinner.”

Y/N stared at their joined hands like they belonged to someone else. She couldn’t feel the heat or the pressure of his fingers.

She forced herself to eat. Twirled pasta. Lifted it. Chewed. Swallowed. Then repeated it, though the food started to feel like stones in her throat.

Yoongi didn’t push. He didn’t scold her for the half-full plate. Only watched her with that trained patience. He sipped his wine slowly, like the bitterness was something to savor instead of tolerate.

“You’re quiet.” He tilted his head.

“You told me to.“ she replied stiffly. “And I’m eating.”

His mouth twitched, amused. “I can see that.”

A heavy exhale fell from her lips. “What did you do today? “ she asked, trying to sound normal, like this was a dinner between lovers instead of… whatever nightmare arrangement this was.

“I dealt with some things.”

Of course. Skipping neatly over the subject.

“What things?” she pressed.

Yoongi’s eyes met hers. The shadows beneath them looked darker tonight. “Things that needed to be dealt with. “

Y/N huffed a short laugh that didn’t carry ny humor. “You talk like an edgy movie villain.”

His smile deepened slightly, “Do I?”

“Yeah.”

He leaned back in his chair, spine straightened, one arm resting lightly on the back of the chair next to him. “Then I should probably start giving longer speeches. Something about destiny and traumatic childhood. Maybe a monologue with thunder outside.“

She didn’t smile. Yoongi’s amusement faded once he realized she wasn’t playing.

“I walked outside.” she confessed. “walked past the gate.”

“And?”

Her fingers curled around her fork so tightly she felt the metal bend. “And nothing. I walked. I looked. And came back.“

She waited for his expression to change to rage. For the mask to crack. For punishment. For proof that he was a monster.

“Why did you come back?”

Her lips parted. For a second, she couldn’t speak. Because what answer could she give that didn’t humiliate her?

Because I’m scared.

Because I don’t know what to do once I get there.

Because even the idea of freedom makes me sick.

Because being safe in your cage feels better than freezing outside of it.

So she said, “It was cold.”

Yoongi nodded once with a hum. “It’s dangerous to walk out there without gloves. Or proper boots.”

Like she’d simply made a bad weather decision.

“You’re not going to… punish me?” Y/N asked carefully.

Yoongi blinked. Then he laughed, quiet and breathy.

“Punish you?”

“Yes!” she snapped. “Like this isn’t insane? Like you didn’t kidnap me?”

He leaned forward slightly, eyes heavy-lidded. “Did you want me to punish you?”

Her stomach dropped. Skin boiled.

“No.”

“Then why would I?”

At least twenty minutes early. Wrong rhythm. No jangle of frantic keys. No muffled curses bleeding through the walls. Instead, steady footsteps faded down the hallway. 

He was moving before the thought caught up. Shoes were shoved on untied. Door shut soundlessly behind him. He followed the fading trace of her perfume down the stairwell—floral cut with something sharper, almost bitter. It didn’t quite belong to the girl who had trembled beside him two nights ago.

Yoongi kept half a block between them, the distance a fragile lie he told himself made him invisible. Even from that far away, he noticed the difference immediately. The skirt riding high with every step, offering brief flashes of skin catching beneath the streetlights. The gray turtleneck that strangled her throat. Hair styled carefully, loose strands brushing against her cheeks whenever the wind shifted.

This wasn’t for class. This wasn’t random. And it wasn’t for him.

A figure stepped out from a side street. Tall. Loose-shouldered. Effortless in the way attractive people often were without realizing it. The man called her name once. She turned immediately, her face lighting up in a way Yoongi had never managed to pull from her himself. He brushed a hand against her shoulder in greeting. Casual. It lingered half a second too long, his thumb brushing the seam of her turtleneck.

“…still haven’t started the Harrington thing,” she admitted with that familiar thread of worry in her voice that Yoongi drank like wine. “I don’t even know where to start.”

Seokjin smiled. “If you want, we can go over it at lunch. My notes are actually decent.”

“I don’t want to waste your time,” she murmured, though relief had already begun to bleed through. Gratitude, warm and unguarded—the same tone she'd used with him when he fed her soup or when he comforted her after the bar.

“You’re not wasting anything.” Seokjin said, guiding her around a muddy puddle, his palm sliding lower along her back. “Besides, Bianca would kill me if I let you fail corporate law.”

She laughed, small and bright. “I’m pretty sure Bianca needs your help more than I do.”

“She does,” he nodded. “But you at least pretend to listen when I explain things.”

Yoongi’s nails pressed crescents into his palms inside his pockets. Eight meters. Five. Close enough to smell her shampoo. Close enough to imagine snapping Seokjin’s wrist like dry kindling. Yoongi swore her laugh was forced—it came too easily and too loud. It couldn't be real.

“Seriously, though,” she said, tugging the sleeves of her coat lower. “I opened the assignment and immediately closed my laptop again. Harrington genuinely hates students. There’s no other explanation.”

Seokjin snorted. “No, he hates weak arguments. He values confidence more than being right.”

“That sounds like something someone says right before becoming morally bankrupt.”

“I already am morally bankrupt,” he replied with a smile. “That’s why I got an A.”

She laughed harder this time, her head tipping back slightly.

“So your entire academic strategy is manipulation?”

Seokjin shrugged. “It’s worked so far.”

“You're awfully good at this.”

He tilted his head. “At law?”

“No,” she shook her head, smiling despite herself. “At sounding confident even when you're bullshitting.”

“But it's making you smile.”

She rolled her eyes. “Out of pity.”

“Mm.” Seokjin glanced sideways at her. “You say that now, but give it one year. You’ll be weaponizing tears for extensions like the rest of them.” 

“I would never.”

“You absolutely would.”

She pressed a hand to her chest. “That’s a horrible accusation.”

"Trust me, I've been there before."

Their pace had slowed without either of them seeming to notice. The backs of their hands brushed together between steps. Her hand twitched at the first touch, but then she seemed to reach for it. 

A pulse throbbed slowly in his jaw.

Yoongi imagined stepping forward. Imagined grabbing Seokjin by the collar and driving him face-first into the wet brick wall beside the alley. Imagined the sharp crack of bone. Her scream. The stunned confusion on Seokjin’s face right before fear finally replaced that calm expression.

Instead, he stayed where he was. Starving.

“You know what your problem is?” he continued.

“I have several.”

“You assume asking for help makes you annoying.”

“Doesn’t it?”

“No.” His voice softened. “It makes you human.”

A branch snapped under Yoongi’s shoe—sharp as breaking bone. Seokjin’s head turned. Their eyes met. Recognition flickered across Seokjin's face. A slow tilt of the head, eyes measuring the distance Yoongi had closed. Then something worse. Amusement. The corner of Seokjin’s mouth curved slightly, like he understood something Yoongi didn’t. He hasn't acknowledged Yoongi aloud. Instead, he leaned closer to her and murmured near her ear, which pulled another laugh from her throat.

Yoongi stopped walking. Rain slid cold beneath the collar of his jacket, connecting with his sweat. He watched them disappear farther down the street.

Fine.

If she insisted on walking toward wolves, he would simply have to become the better one.

Back in his apartment, the record still spun. Yoongi rested outside on the balcony with a cigarette hanging between his fingers. The space was barely large enough for the plastic chair and a narrow round table. Some mornings he sat there with coffee hot enough to burn his tongue while the icy air chewed through his clothes. The contrast kept him awake. Below, the city stretched in long grey lines. Roads slick with old rain. An endless forest of concrete blocks.

His gaze drifted automatically toward the balcony beside his. Same cheap flooring. Same black railing spotted with rust near the bolts. A tiny table pushed against the wall. One chair. Nothing special. Except it belonged to her. That changed everything. 

The balconies sat closer together than they should have. Yoongi leaned on the railing, eyes narrowing as he measured the gap. One careful step over the bars. A grip on the divider. Shift his weight slowly. It was manageable. Only two floors below him. If he slipped, he’d probably survive. Probably.

Same door handle as his. If she forgot to lock it—

His thoughts stopped abruptly.

No.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

Breaking into her apartment wasn’t just curiosity anymore. It wasn’t harmless. If she found out, everything he’d built with her would collapse instantly. Every careful conversation. Every moment she’d softened around him. Gone.

Still…

He wouldn’t steal anything. Wouldn’t touch anything. Just look. People visited each other’s apartments all the time. He simply happened to be doing it differently. That wasn’t dangerous. Was it?

He imagined the smell inside first. Vanilla candles. Maybe dusty textbooks scattered over the couch.

Yoongi exhaled through his nose.

No.

Absolutely not.

If he wanted something real with her, he needed boundaries. Trust. Self-control. Breaking into her apartment like some fucking psychopath was not a good start.

A moment later, he realized he’d already swung one leg over the railing. He froze. Cold metal dug into his palms as his grip tightened instinctively. Half his body leaned out into open air now, one foot balancing uncertainly against the narrow concrete edge outside the bars. Then he moved the other leg over. Now all of his weight depended on that narrow edge and the balance of his heels. The height hit him. From inside the balcony, the drop had looked manageable. From here, it looked endless. Wind rushed upward between the buildings, threading beneath his clothes and licking the sweat gathering along the back of his neck. His thighs trembled from the strain of holding himself steady.

Yoongi swallowed and stretched his right leg carefully toward her balcony. The tip of his shoe scraped concrete. For one hopeful second, he thought he had it. Then his foot slipped. His stomach dropped so violently he nearly puked. Yoongi jerked backward on instinct, clinging to the railing hard enough for the pain to explode through his wrists. A hot flash tore through his body before fading just as quickly, leaving him cold and shaking.

The railing had gone slick beneath his palms. He glanced down once and instantly regretted it. The pavement seemed farther away now. He squeezed his eyes shut hard enough to see static. Then tried again. Left leg first. The sole of his shoe landed against the floor with a dull scrape and held steady. He stopped breathing. Carefully, he reached outward with his left hand until his fingers wrapped around the second railing. His body stretched painfully between the balconies now, muscles shaking violently from the effort. One wrong shift of weight and…

Don’t think about it.

With one sharp movement, he dragged himself fully across. Both shoes slammed against the solid concrete. For several seconds, he could only stand there, bent forward over the railing while his lungs struggled to catch up.

“I did it.”

A laugh burst out of him unexpectedly.

“I actually fucking did it.”

“Excuse me?”

The voice nearly stopped his heart. A middle-aged man stood on the sidewalk below, plastic grocery bags hanging from one hand as he stared upward with open disbelief.

“… What exactly are you doing up there?”

Yoongi blinked once, suddenly looking far closer to death than he had dangling between the balconies.

“Hah—funny story,” he called down, forcing out a strained smile. “I locked myself out. Left my keys inside.”

The man frowned immediately, head tilting to the left as suspicion settled across his face.

He doesn’t believe this shit.

Then, unexpectedly, the man barked out a laugh.

“Jesus Christ.” He shook his head. “One slip and you’d crack open like an egg.”

Yoongi laughed weakly with him, though his knees still felt unstable.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Realized that halfway through.”

“Be careful, kid.”

The man disappeared inside the building lobby, still muttering to himself. Silence settled again. Yoongi looked up and carefully climbed through the last barrier and finally touched safe, steady ground. He held onto his knees, taking a deep breath before straightening and turning toward the door. 

Up close, he could see faint fingerprints clouding the handle. Tiny scratches in the paint. His heartbeat picked up again. This was real now. Yoongi wrapped his hand around the handle and pushed down.

His stomach sank.

She locked it?

He tried again, slower this time. The handle shifted slightly before catching halfway. Relief flooded him so quickly it almost made him dizzy. Not locked. Just stuck. Yoongi planted one hand against the glass and shoved his shoulder into the frame.

“Come on,” he muttered, pushing harder.

Muscles strained. Heat burned across his palms. The door suddenly gave way with a sharp crack. Yoongi stumbled violently forward, losing his footing as momentum threw him into the apartment. His elbow slammed against hardwood. Pain exploded up his arm instantly—white and electric, all the way to his shoulder.

“Shit—”

He curled, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Then the smell hit him. Her.

A slow smile pulled at the corner of his mouth before he could stop it.

Yoongi pushed himself upright, steadying his weight against the couch beside him. He moved like a ghost through her small life. Smaller than he’d imagined. The studio stretched in an awkward T-shape, every section bleeding into the next without real separation. To the left sat the kitchen—narrow counters, cream-colored cabinets painted, and an ancient stove with scratches near the burners. A fridge hummed unevenly in the corner beside a sink crowded with dishes. Near the outlet sat a kettle surrounded by scattered tea packets and a half-empty jar of sugar. Yoongi stepped closer to the fridge. Sticky notes covered the door.

wash the dishes!!!

buy oat milk

meet seokjin at 7:30

bake something for bianca

His eyes stopped on Seokjin’s name. The note had been written quickly, letters pressed too hard into paper. When has she planned this?

Across from the kitchen sat the living space. An open textbook rested beside the cushions, highlighted paragraphs bleeding neon pink across the pages. Beyond it, the sleeping area opened quietly into view. Makeup products crowded the floor around a tall mirror—foundation left uncapped, mascara tossed sideways.

Then came the bed. Yoongi moved toward it slowly. The duvet lay twisted near the center. One pillow still carried the faint impression of her head. Another textbook rested near the edge beneath a mess of charging cables and folded notes. Carefully, Yoongi sat down onto the mattress. The springs groaned softly beneath his weight. His hands moved over the pillow, and one long strand of hair caught on his finger. He wrapped it tenderly around his knuckle until the skin beneath it paled. The image came easily—her curled against his chest, half asleep while rain pressed softly against the windows. His fingers moving through her hair.

A faint vibration startled him. His head snapped up. Another buzz. Somewhere inside the apartment. Yoongi stood up, pulse jumping against his ribs. The sound led him into the bathroom. It barely had enough room to turn around comfortably. Skincare bottles crowded every inch of the sink. Half-used lip balms. A toothbrush left carelessly beside the faucet. A phone lit faintly beside it.

Bianca

how was the meeting with seokjin

8:32 a.m

did you survive novak’s show

9:24 a.m.

yooo

hello??

9:30 a.m.

where the fuck are you

did seokjin kidnap you or something

did you even go to class???

9:33 a.m.

Yoongi stared at the message before forcing himself to look away. The shower curtain hung partially open beside him. It was too easy to imagine her here. Steam clouding the mirror. Water sliding down her spine. Her hair darkened and clinging to bare skin while she hummed softly to herself, unaware. Him behind her. Both of them squeezing in this tiny space, accidentally elbowing each other while showering. Or pressing her against the wall, taking, owning—while she gasped his name like prayer or terror.

The bathroom suddenly felt smaller. Hotter. Yoongi dragged a hand down his face hard enough to burn. He looked away, on the floor, to think about—

Clothes. From last night. Or today. A t-shirt. Shorts. Black lace tangled between them.

It was ridiculous. Just clothing. Fabric. Nothing more. Just some material soaked in her smell.

The scent rose the second he brought it to his face—warm skin, faint soap, the ghost of her. Something strained escaped his throat. He was already aching. Shame and need crashed together so violently his vision blurred. His jeans dropped with a soft click of the belt hitting the tiles. Cock heavy and leaking. The first rough stroke pulled a low groan from his chest.

He closed his eyes. In his mind she was there with him. Pressed against these tiles but looking at him. Eyes soft and hazy. No hesitation this time. She wanted this. Wanted him. Her hands slid up his chest, fingers curling into his shirt like she was afraid he’d disappear.

“Yoongi…” she breathed against his mouth, half-laugh, half-plea.

He imagined kissing her slowly at first, then deeper, hungrier, tasting the small sounds she made when his hand slipped between her legs. He’d drop to his knees if she let him, worship every inch Seokjin had only been allowed to glance at.

His strokes turned faster, almost punishing. The lace dragged against sensitive skin, already soaked with him. He pictured her thighs tightening around his hips, her head falling back against the tile with a soft thud as he pushed inside her—tight, wet, his. She’d moan his name like she meant it. Like she’d been waiting for him to break. To finally stop pretending. Her nails digging into his shoulders, legs locked around him, hips rolling to meet every thrust because she needed this too. Needed him.

He could almost hear the way her voice would crack on a shaky “please”—not fear, just overwhelming want. The way she’d look at him after, flushed and ruined in the best way, whispering that she’d never looked at Seokjin like that. Couldn’t. Not when Yoongi saw her so completely.

The orgasm hit him hard and blinding. He came with a strangled groan into the black lace, pulse after pulse, knees buckling until his head rested against the cold tile. The pleasure ebbed fast, leaving only the wet mess in his hand and the heavy thud of his heart.

What the fuck are you doing?

He stared at the ruined fabric, sticky and warm. Hers. Now unmistakably his too. For a second the thought of leaving it for her to find flickered through his mind—dark and tempting. He crushed it. Stuffed the panties deep into his pocket instead.

At least he hadn’t smelled her socks.

Yoongi stared at himself faintly reflected in the dusty mirror. He looked insane. That thought should have stopped him. He left the bathroom and headed toward the balcony door. Halfway there, he paused.

The dishes.

Yoong hated dirty dishes. No—despised them.

Only two mugs. One plate. One fork.

He checked the time.

9:43a.m.

She would be back soon. Still…

The dishes bothered him more than they should have. Yoongi exhaled quietly and turned the faucet. Warm water rushed over his hands as he washed each dish carefully, drying them before placing them neatly on the rack. Once it was done, he peeled the sticky note from the fridge and crumpled it into the trash.

He stood in the center of her apartment for a long moment, breathing her air, listening to the faint jazz bleeding through the wall. His jazz. Playing for her, whether she knew it or not.

The balcony door shut more easily behind him than expected. And this time, crossing back didn’t scare him nearly as much.

He froze halfway to her, voice steady but eyes flickering. “You won’t.”

“You don’t know a damn thing about me.”

For the first time, his eyes cleared. The sultriness gone, pupils tightening as something awake surfaced.

Blood beaded where glass bit into skin, ruby drops sliding down her wrist.

He inched forward on his knees—unhurried, careful. As if approaching a feral animal that might bolt. Or bite.

“Put it down, you’re not thinking straight.”

“Oh, I’m thinking perfectly.” Her laugh snapped high, bright, all wrong—uneven bursts that scraped the back of her throat like a wire between a sob and a scream. “You said I silenced your voices. Let’s see if you can live with them aga—”

He lunged.

She twisted.

The glass bit deep. Sliced his forearm in a flash of red. Yoongi recoiled with a snarl, clamping the wound. He hissed sharply through his teeth. The shard embedded like a thorn. By the time his brain caught up—

She was gone.

The realization hit a second too late—like missing a step in the dark.

She rolled. Scrambled.

Hands slipped on silk, on sweat, on blood that wasn’t all his.

Her feet hit the floor wrong. Pain shot up her calf. She didn’t stop.

She ran.

Her shoulder smashed into the hallway wall, bone screaming. She used it to steady herself, pushed off again, kept moving. Crimson followed her, a trail she didn’t dare look back at.

Behind her—voices. A shout. Then another.

No time to think.

Just move.

Left. No—right.

Too many doors. Too many turns. Too much space.

Running outside was suicide. His men would have her before the night’s air could kiss her skin.

A window.

She lunged—hands clawing at the handle.

Locked.

Her lungs buckled. A sob almost broke loose. She swallowed it and spun—

Boots. Close.

A man rounded the corner. Before he noticed her, Y/N ducked under his arm and drove her elbow into his ribs. He hit the wall with a grunt. She didn’t look back to see if he stayed down. Her socks slid. She caught herself on the wall, smeared crimson across white paneling. Breath whistled out of her in ugly gasps. Every inhale burned. Heart pounded at her ribs like it wanted out.

Don’t stop.

Don’t stop.

Don’t fucking stop.

Footsteps behind her multiplied. Closer. Louder.

She cut left.

A dead end dressed up as hope.

A single door—open.

She threw herself inside and slammed it shut behind her.

Dark. Quiet. A guest bedroom soaked in moonlight.

Her palm throbbed. Open wounds screaming now that adrenaline had thinned. Sweat mixed with blood, tacky between her fingers. She wiped them down her thighs, leaving dark, drying streaks.

She opened the window, then dropped under the bed. Wood scraped her stomach. Dust filled her nose. The wind’s whistle brushed her skin. She pulled herself in, curling tight, trying to disappear. A game of hide-and-seek she always lost.

Footsteps passed her room.

Stopped. Went back.

A shadow swallowed the light beneath the door.

The handle turned.

Paused.

Turned again.

The door creaked.

Light spilled across the floor in a slow blade, stopping inches from her face.

She locked her jaw. Held her breath until black spots bloomed in her vision, until her lungs screamed louder than her fear.

The floor squeaked under the weight, dress shoes circling the bed. They stopped at the open window for a few seconds, then closed it.

Everything went quiet.

Her lungs burned. She pressed her forehead to the floor and dragged air through her nose, shallow, controlled, shaking. Her muscles tensed, then sagged.

Footsteps.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

The door closed again.

Fuuuck.

She finally pushed the air out of her lungs.

Seconds passed. Or minutes.

Blink.

Blink.

Sleep clawed up from somewhere dark and deep, dragging at her limbs, whispering promises of quiet. But she couldn’t sleep now, not when she was still inside his mansion.

Don’t.

Don’t.

A hand snapped around her ankle.

One brutal yank tore her out. Her shoulder blades scraped against the floor. Elbow cracked against the bed’s leg. Yoongi hauled her upright. Fingers crushed into her arms. Unyielding.

Got you.

A man passed him a silk robe—white with pink embroidery. Absurd. Yoongi draped it over her bare shoulders, tied it neatly, delicately—like dressing a porcelain doll.

When have they walked in? They left, they—

“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” He was calm. Almost amused. “There are cameras everywhere, Angel.”

Something in her chest snapped—the thin wire of hope she’d been hanging off finally giving way.

She was done. She wasted her only chance.

He wouldn’t let her go. He’d chain her. Cage her. Keep her alive on his terms.

“But I’ll admit—” He adjusted the neckline, grazing the swell of her breasts. “I’m impressed.” He flexed his injured arm, the wound still dripping. “Trying to kill me twice in under five minutes?”

A small smile.

“Your attempts were cute.” He leaned in, his nose brushing her jaw. “You lasted longer than I expected. Almost looked like you could make it.”

She pounded his chest with her fists. Weak. Pointless. “Can’t your genius brain just comprehend that I don’t want you?!”

“I know.” His fingers traced a lazy path from the hollow of her elbow to her shoulder. “You’re not capable of loving anyone right now. You’re projecting all your anger onto me.”

Yoongi leaned in, lips brushing her cheek. Not a kiss. A reminder. “You’re allowed to be angry,” he murmured. “You’ve been hurt.”

His breath warmed her ear. “That doesn’t make you right. Love isn’t always gentle,” he said quietly. “Sometimes it’s containment.”

“You kidnap me, hurt me, lock me in—and you call this love?!”

“Then what is?” He didn’t allow her to finish. “That thing with Taeki?”

A scoff.

“That parasite?”

His hands clamped around her shoulders, thumbs digging in, brows drawing tight.

“Sacrificing yourself for some numbers? Is that what you think love is?”

A shake—hard, impatient.

“You think he misses you?”

Another.

“Think he’s out there searching?”

Yoongi shook her once more, as if it could knock some sense into her.

“He’s drinking.”

“Gambling.”

“Fucking someone cheap.”

“Not losing sleep over you.”

She bit her lip, holding back tears—because every one she let fall only fed him.

“You’re a monster.”

“No,” Yoongi protested. “The real monster is Taeki. He dragged you into hell—I pulled you out.”

“Shut up!”

“You should be grateful I found you before he sold you off to whatever trafficker offered the best price.”

Her stomach rolled, acid burning her throat.

“I saved you,” he breathed. “Just like you saved me.”

“Shut up!”

Yoongi pulled her in, tucking her under his chin—her body colliding with his chest. His arms locked around her like a cage. The robe slipped off one shoulder as her hands curled into his shirt out of reflex—desperation, exhaustion. Something pinched her neck. Tears streamed, soaking the fabric of his shirt.

“It’s okay.” He stroked her hair—slow, rhythmic, enduring. “You’re safe now. I’ve got you.”

Her legs gave before she felt it coming. A chill wave rushed through her—shock and terror finally eating through her last defenses. Her body sagged in his arms, limbs loose, head swimming away.

Pain flared across her palm. Bright. Burning. Like touching a hot stove. She gasped, eyes snapping open to a blur of warm light and shadow.

“You scared me.” A faint chuckle. His thumb glided over her knuckles. “I’m sorry, I escalated too fast.”

“Shh…it’s okay…” The cloth in his hand dabbed at her torn skin—touches that made the split edges throb.

His gaze flicked to the blooming bruise on her elbow.

“Let’s shower first.” He threw the cloth aside on the floor. “Then we deal with the rest.”

She didn’t resist. Couldn’t. Her limbs felt unfamiliar, her head a weight she struggled to hold upright. Her mind hovered somewhere above them, watching, as though the moment belonged to someone else. His arms slid under her—one beneath her knees, the other curling around her back. She slumped into him, too exhausted to even stiffen. Her head lolled against his shoulder as the bathroom lights burned through her eyelids. He set her on a metal stool under the shower head. The robe slipped off her as he pulled it, catching briefly on her limbs. Instinct surged late—her arms crossed over her chest, thighs squeezed together, trying to hide what he’d already seen, claimed, torn open. A pathetic reflex.

Yoongi’s smile softened, unbearably tender. As if her modesty was shyness and not fear.

He stripped—cotton whispering against skin, belt clinking as it hit tile. His clothes lay tangled at his feet like discarded evidence. Water thundered as he turned the tap, steam blooming around them. He stepped behind her. His hands settled on her shoulders—broad palms, raised veins, nails clipped neat. His thumbs pressed small circles into her spine, easing and asserting.

“Close your eyes,” he murmured, lifting her chin. Tilting her head until water cascaded over her scalp.

Hot rivulets collected at her collarbones, sliding over her ribs, caressing her thighs before disappearing into the drain. His face smoothed beneath the water, lashes clumped together, round cheeks flushed warm. For a moment, he looked peaceful. Almost domestic—like a man bathing his lover. As if cleaning her washed the violence off him too. He lathered shampoo in his palms, fingers worked through her hair, nails grazed her scalp. The pressure was enough to relax her. Enough to remind her he knew exactly how her body reacted. Sweet, warm, vanilla-scented soap trailed down her back. His thumbs dug into the knots he’d carved into her muscles before; the pressure hurt, then numbed, then yielded. The water under her turned pink—diluted violence spiraling away.

“You don’t have to understand yet.” His hands slid over the curve of her waist. “Eventually, you’ll see what I mean.”

The mattress sank under her weight, the bedsheets changed—free of glass and crimson stains she had left earlier. He dressed her gently; the clothes weren’t provocative like she had expected them to be—a simple loose set made from beige cotton, shirt buttoned up to her collarbones. The bandage dug into her skin, tight, like a rope meant to tie her up to him. He settled behind her, arms coiling around her waist, her back pressed against the hard planes of his chest. Yoongi’s breath warmed her nape, forehead against her skull.

“I'll kill you one day,” she whispered into the dark.

“I know.”

His lips curved against her skin.

“That's why I need you.”

The familiar scent hit her—chamomile and honey, butter and flaky pastry. She blinked the room into focus, rubbing crusted tears from her lashes.

Yoongi sat at the edge of the bed. Slate-gray suit. Crisp collar. Ironed to perfection. His hair combed back, not a strand out of place—obedient as well. A man whose world never surprised him. A glass of water rested in his hand. On the bed’s platform, a breakfast tray waited: tea steaming, croissant split cleanly down the middle, butter on top of it shaped into petals.

“Good morning, Angel.” He handed her blister packs. The rough plastic scratched her skin. “Take those. They keep you stable.”

She flipped them over, as if the letters might mean something.

Antidepressants.

Birth control.

Her exact brands. Her exact doses.

As she kept staring mindlessly at the pills, Yoongi gently took them from her and popped the tablets free with a soft click into her palm.

She hesitated. He could have printed labels onto anything and have her swallow whatever he wanted her to. But if he wanted to drug her, he could have slipped something into the tea. Inject it into her veins. Force her mouth open and watch her choke.

“You’re thinking too hard. Just swallow.” Yoongi guided the glass closer. Not forceful. Expectant.

He didn’t need this spectacle.

Morning light filtered through sheer curtains—gold and utterly indifferent. Birds chirped outside. Snow covered the garden in a fluffy, white blanket.

Maybe the pills were real. Maybe they weren’t.

Maybe it didn’t matter.

Because the question wasn’t whether he could drug her.

The truth was simpler—he didn’t have to.

She raised the glass. The pills rested on her tongue—chalky and bitter, already dissolving. Yoongi admired the way her throat worked as she swallowed—skin pulling tight over bone. His smile came slow and satisfied, like a man watching a clock strike exactly when predicted. Like the day was unfolding exactly as he’d written it.

Once the pills were gone, Yoongi simply…continued. As if this morning was one of a hundred others that never existed.

“Your clothes are in the wash.” He stood, smoothed his jacket, and adjusted his cufflinks. “There are clothes in the wardrobe that should fit you. We can go shopping later if you'd like something different.”

Yoongi walked toward the window. “You can stay in bed if you want.” He pulled the curtains wider and opened the window, the morning air sneaking into the warm, sleep-heavy bedroom. Ice grazed her skin—biting. “But you’ll feel better if you move a little—that’s what the therapist said.”

“You can explore the house and the garden.”

Therapist?

As if he was certain she wouldn’t try running again.

“Oh, right.” Yoongi turned around, facing her, hands in his pockets. “I scheduled you an appointment. Today, two o’clock. She’ll come here.” A small sympathetic smile. “You’ve been through a lot recently.”

Not a single word left Y/N’s mouth since she woke up. It didn’t seem to bother him.

Yoongi glanced at his watch—sleek, expensive, maybe worth more than the money Taeki wanted.

“I have a meeting at eleven. I’ll be home before three.”

He leaned down and left a soft kiss on her temple.

“I love you, Angel.”

Yoongi looked at her like he expected her to say it back. When she didn’t answer, his brows furrowed. A deep sigh. His palm settled on her head, gentle, possessive, fingers curling in her hair. After a few long seconds, he opened his eyes with a soft smile. Calm. Forgiving. The look you give a misbehaving puppy when you don’t have the heart to scold it.

She wasn't free. But she wasn't locked either.

She could walk anywhere she wanted—the basement, the office, the bedrooms, the garden. But wherever she went, someone was always watching. A guard coincidentally nearby. A camera quietly tracking her movements. Never truly alone.

Safety, Yoongi would say.

She was technically free. Just kept on a short leash.

The therapist was real.

Licensed.

A woman in her thirties. Warm eyes. A straight posture. Curly hair tied in a bun, a few strands framing her face. She sat across from Y/N on a couch, legs crossed, notepad balanced on her knee. Dr. Shin smiled—small, professional, and rehearsed. The kind of smile meant to reassure without promising anything.

“Tell me what’s been happening.”

A short laugh escaped her.

“What’s been happening?”

Y/N’s fists clenched in her lap.

“He kidnapped me.”

Dr. Shin nodded once. No shock. Not concern. Only a tilt of her head.

“Kidnapped,” she echoed, tasting it. “That’s a strong word. Tell me what you mean by that.”

“What can I mean? He took me. Without consent.” Y/N scoffed, arms crossing over her chest. “I woke up here. There are cameras. Men. He—” Her throat tightened, voice thinning. “He hurt me.”

“Hurt you how?”

The room dimmed at the edges.

Glass, heat, skin on skin, sore thighs, a click that echoed empty.

“He touched me.” She gulped, as if she could swallow the memory from her head by it. “When I said no.”

Dr. Shin tilted her head. Not alarmed. Interested. “Just once?”

The room felt slightly out of focus, like her eyes refused to settle on anything solid.

“…I think.”

Dr. Shin wrote something down, the pen briefly scratching the page. A sentence, maybe two. Long enough to make Y/N squirm in her seat.

“Were you on your medication at that time?”

Y/N blinked. “I—what?”

“Your antidepressants,” Dr. Shin clarified, tone even. “Yoongi mentioned you’d stopped taking them before all this.”

“That doesn’t—” Y/N shook her head. “He fucking kidnapped me.”

“Mhm.” Another nod. “And how long had you been off them?”

“I don’t see how that matters.”

“How long?”

Y/N swallowed. “…A few weeks.”

The pen moved again. Longer this time.

“Stopping abruptly can stir things up,” Dr. Shin explained carefully. “It doesn’t mean nothing happened. But your brain may have filled the gaps to keep you safe.”

“This isn’t paranoia.”

A pause. Long enough to rot. Y/N could smell the sour bitterness of it. Dr. Shin looked like she was analyzing every breath Y/N took, thinking how to twist it into something that fit her story.

“Yoongi said you were spiraling when he found you. Self-destructive. Suicidal ideation.” She said, leaning in. “You put a shard of glass to your throat, Y/N.”

“Because I was trying to get away from him!” Y/N surged forward in her seat.

“People in crisis often believe that.” Dr. Shin’s sigh was soft, almost maternal. “They want release. An end to pain. But they don’t actually want to die. They want containment.”

Containment.

“You attacked him. Twice. With a weapon.”

“He was going to—”

“—What?” Dr. Shin cut in, still brutally gentle. “Kill you?

“N-No, but…”

“Rape you?”

Not a yes. Not a no. Something that didn’t fit cleanly into the box of consent or force. Everything blurred into one hazy memory of heat.

“He already—” The word caught. Stomach twisted. Her body remembered things her mouth refused to shape.

“So your body didn’t register immediate danger.”

Y/N bit her lip. “I—I don’t know. I froze. I didn’t really fight.”

Dr. Shin watched her struggle with clinical interest, as if she were discovering a new species.

“Did you want him to stop?”

Y/N’s lips parted.

Nothing came out.

“Fear doesn’t cancel desire.” She flipped the pen once. Caught it. “You see the problem. Your memories are fragmented. Heightened stress can do that.”

“That’s not…”

“You injured him,” the therapist continued. “Severely. You endangered yourself. You ran naked through the house. You assaulted staff.”

“They were chasing me!”

“I know it felt like that.” Dr. Shin shifted. She put the notebook down beside her, rested her hands on her knees. “I also know they believe they were preventing you from hurting yourself.”

Tears brimmed in Y/N’s eyes. “You’re not listening!”

“I am.” A beat. “I’m listening beneath the panic.”

“No,” Y/N whispered. “That’s not what happened.”

Dr. Shin didn’t look skeptical. Her face was relaxed, as if nothing surprised her.

“And afterward, he did not retaliate. He didn’t punish you. He didn’t turn you over to authorities. He bandaged you himself while his own arm was bleeding.”

Her elbows dug into her thighs. Pupils shadowed by her long lashes.

“Does that align with the profile of a kidnapper—or a man terrified of losing you?”

Every word made her even more helpless.

Dr. Shin straightened her spine, the bone cracking. “Y/N…have you ever felt disconnected from yourself? Like things happening around you instead of to you?”

Silence screamed.

“You’ve been through prolonged stress. Exploitative relationships. Emotional neglect. Fear. In those conditions, the nervous system can reinterpret safety as a threat.”

Taeki’s name hovered unspoken. Y/N trembled. She couldn’t tell if it was rage or the fear eating her alive.

“You’re twisting this…” She leaned down, hiding her face in her palms with tears clinging to her lashes. “I didn’t make this up!”

“Strong reactions often mean we’re close to something important.” Dr. Shin crossed her arms. “Let me ask you something difficult.”

Dr. Shin inhaled, slow. Y/N’s throat tightened. The room felt suddenly smaller, the air stale, used.

“If he truly wanted to harm you—”

She waited.

“—why are you alive?”

Y/N’s stomach dropped, sudden and sharp.

“He could’ve killed you,” she went on. “Drugged you. Locked you. Instead, he called me. Scheduled care. Made sure you were medicated. Fed.”

“Because he’s insane!” Y/N shot up, her cheeks burning, wet paths dripping from her chin. “He says I’ll understand one day! That I’ll thank him!”

“And part of you is afraid he might be right.”

Nothing.

Not because it was true—

—but because the thought had crossed her mind, unwanted and poisonous, at three in the morning when her body still shook and the world felt too big to survive alone.

“It’s easier to call him a monster than to face how badly you needed saving—from Taeki, from yourself.” She exhaled through her nose. “It’s easier than sitting with the fact that you might be safer now than you’ve ever been.”

“I didn’t ask for this.”

“Of course not,” Dr. Shin soothed. “No one asks to break.”

“You don’t believe me,” Y/N whispered. “Please, you have to help me...”

Dr. Shin held her gaze. Didn’t answer right away.

“I think you were found by someone unwilling to abandon you when you become dangerous to yourself.”

The word echoed.

“Love can feel violent to someone used to neglect. I think you’re scared of being cared for without conditions.”

The session ended with a click of Dr. Shin's pen.

She rose, smoothed her skirt, and left a card on the table.

“Call if you need to. We'll meet again next week.”

The door clicked shut. Y/N didn't move. Her hands lay dead in her lap, nails bitten raw, the bandage on her palm itching. The air hung heavy, laced with the therapist's perfume—lavender, meant to calm, but it choked her. Outside, the garden snow had begun to melt under a weak sun, sliding down the bare branches and struck the sill, drop by drop. She watched one fall. Break. Vanish.

He didn't ask how it went.

Footsteps approached. She knew the rhythm of him. He never rushed. Never needed to. The door opened, and there he was, abandoning his coat on a couch like an afterthought.

“You ate?” Yoongi hummed, already at the window. He adjusted the curtain just so, letting in more light. Or exposing her more. Hard to tell. She shook her head. Her mouth felt lined with paper cuts. Words stuck there, sharp and dry.

“She's wrong,” Y/N whispered finally, not looking at him. “About everything.”

Yoongi paused, fingers lingering on the fabric.

“Is she?” His voice was soft, almost curious, like poking a bruise to see if it still hurt.

“You paid her to say that.” Y/N's laugh cracked, bitter and brief. “To make me doubt myself.”

He turned slowly. Didn’t deny it. He crossed the room and knelt in front of her chair, closing the distance with intention. Close enough that his cologne—clean, woodsy, with an undercurrent of something metallic—invaded her space.

“I chose someone qualified.” he said. “I hired her because you need help. Real help. Not whatever Taeki gave you.”

“Don’t you dare say his name.” Her voice cracked, fists clenching at her sides. Nails bit into palms, reopening the faint sting under the bandage. “You don’t get to use him as your excuse. You’re no better—you’re worse.”

A breath left Yoongi, slow and heavy, like disappointment settling in.

“I’m not him—Taeki needed to take something from you,” he said. “I didn’t take anything.”

A pause.

“That’s what scares you.”

“Because it’s a lie!” She surged to her feet, paced around the room in short, frantic steps that craved a path in a rug. “You twisted it all.” Her eyes met his—dark pools that swallowed light, reflecting nothing back but her own fractured self. “I’m broken, maybe, but mine to fix. Not yours.”

Yoongi didn’t stand. Stayed where he was. He watched her pace instead and exhaled through his nose.

“Do you hear yourself?”

She moved too fast. The room tilted—just enough to make her grab the back of the chair. Yoongi stepped forward then, closing the gap she’d fought to maintain. His hands cupped her face and tilted it up to meet his gaze.

“If I hadn’t stepped in,” his thumb grazed her jaw. “You'd still be standing exactly like this. hoping he’d wake up one day and finally choose you.”

Yoongi’s lips ghosted over her lips, lightly pecking hers with his heat.

“And you would have stayed. Would have called it love.”

“Mmh.”

The sound left her without a thought, dull and automatic. Not quite agreement, not quite refusal. Just enough to fill the space. It was all she had given him lately.

“Do you need anything?” Yoongi asked, softer now, hesitation threading through his words. “Anything I can do to make this easier?”

This? You mean the kidnapping?

The thought came sharp—then thinned, like it had been stretched too far.

It would take effort to hold onto it.

More than she had.

Instead, she shook her head once. A light movement that made the pillow whisper against her cheek. Behind her, he exhaled—slow, like he was emptying something heavier than air.

“You can stay in bed if you need to.” His thumb found a loose strand near her face, easing it back, lingering at the edge of her cheek. “You don’t have to push yourself. We’ll take it slow.”

She didn’t scoff. There was no point. Naming it wouldn’t change a thing.

His fingers drifted lazily—almost thoughtless—tracing her belly button, then drew a line up to her sternum. Somewhere else the touch might have been comforting. Here, her muscles tightened under it. She wondered if he felt it—if he knew what he was doing to her.

“Yoongi?” She called, he replied with a low hum behind her ear. “How did you find me? After the bar?”

His fingers stilled where they rested on her stomach. Then spread, testing the space beneath. For a moment he said nothing, then his arm tightened, pulling her back until her spine settled firmly against his chest. Something inside her answered, a slow clench deep in her belly that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with the weight of him behind her. Heat flushed up her chest, prickling across her collarbones before she could stop it.

“Why are you asking?” He murmured.

“I just… ” She pulled a pillow up to her chest, pressing her mouth into it. “I want to understand.”

She could feel him thinking, the quiet shift of his breath against her neck. Three seconds in, four out.

It was a stupid question. Some things only stayed bearable while they were unnamed.

“I bought his debt.”

The words landed without weight. Too simple for what they carried. Almost careless. She frowned, turning her head just enough to catch the edge of his expression. Eyes closed. Brows smooth. Mouth parted, breathing like this was nothing.

“You bought… a debt?”

“Mhm.” The sound brushed warm against her skin, making her shiver. “His name came up in a portfolio.” His thumb drifted along the curve of her ribs, tracing the shallow hollows between them. “One line among many.”

“You didn’t know him.”

“I knew what mattered.” He paused, shifting back. “Age. Employment history. Payment habits. Risk profile.”

“And you decided to… what?” A quiet scoff caught in her throat. “Collect?”

“They extended him credit more than once, and he failed to repay. Repeatedly.” His leg slid over hers, anchoring her without force, yet without leaving room to move. “They didn’t want the trouble of collecting it themselves.”

“So they sold him.”

“They sold the obligation,” Yoongi corrected gently. “Not the person.”

The distinction lingered between them—fragile as glass.

“And when I reviewed the accounts,” he said, “I noticed something interesting.” His lips brushed the shell of her ear, faint stubble rasping against her skin. “A familiar name.”

“Yours.”

Something shifted behind her. Not movement exactly. More like satisfaction. Her thighs pressed together, muscles clenching around the shameful ache that had no right to exist her. She wanted to vomit. She wanted to arch into his hands. Both truths existed at once, and the war between them left her shaking.

“And I’m supposed to believe that just…happened?” She turned, swallowing as she pushed herself up on her hands to face him fully now. “That you found him by accident? That no one was watching me?”

She examined him. Hooded eyes, gaze dulled beneath the weight of his lids. Lashes brushing his cheeks with each blink. Even like this—too close—there was something precise in him. Composed down to the smallest detail. It would have been easier if she felt nothing at all. Instead, something in her leaned toward it. She hated that.

“Taeki wasn’t the first one I handled,” Yoongi explained. “Your name appeared in his account and I recognized it. That’s all.”

Then he leaned in, lips brushing her skin.

“He had nothing left. No savings. No property. Nothing worth taking,” Yoongi murmured against her shoulder. His lips traced lower, heat ghosting over skin that had already gone cold. “People like to believe there’s always an easy way out. But creditors don’t wait forever,” he said, his mouth hovering at her shoulder, not quite touching, “and you were the last valuable thing he had.”

No matter how many times Yoongi reduced her to something small and forgettable in Taeki’s hands, it never dulled. The words struck the same—clean, cold, like ice water poured straight into the lungs. She choked on them, suffocated until what Yoongi had done sounded like the lesser evil.

“You’d be surprised what people offer when the numbers stop making sense,” Yoongi chuckled. “You were already becoming leverage. The gambling house would have sold his marker to someone less patient.”

“And you’re patient?”

“With investments.” The corner of his mouth shifted against her. “Very.”

Her throat worked. She wanted to laugh—or scream—but the sound wouldn’t come.

That was what she was now. Or maybe this wasn’t new. Maybe it had always been this simple.

“You could have just cleared the debt,” she whispered, “and left.”

He hummed. Thoughtful, like he was entertaining it for form. “I could. But now, every morning you wake up breathing clean air instead of debt and fear.” His hand slid along her waist, possessive without pressure. “I’m not keeping you because I want to own you. I’m keeping you because I want to stop you from becoming what they would have made of you.”

He spoke like everything was simple. Like there was a version of this that made sense. She tried to follow it, to arrange his words into something solid. Like it could be understood. It couldn’t.

The air felt thinner in his arms. She sat up on the edge of the mattress, the movement unsteady. The room tilted immediately, balance slipping out from her. His hand tightened at her waist, just enough to steady her.

“Dizzy?”

She blinked. The fog beyond the glass seemed to seep into the room, blurring the edges of everything. Dark spots crowded her vision, blooming and collapsing in uneven pulses.

Bitterness crept back into her throat.

The pills had finally settled.

Later—how much later, she couldn’t say—she woke curled into the corner of the window lounge. A book lay open in her lap, spine strained, one corner softened by too many hands and too little understanding. Beside her, a cup of tea had long since gone cold. A thin film clung to the surface, dull and trembling—a fragile skin threatening to split at the slightest shift. It held. Barely. Everything here held. Barely.

Across the room, the housekeeper moved through her quiet, endless rituals: cloth drawn over polished wood in slow, deliberate strokes, fingers aligning objects that had never dared to fall out of place, perfectly folded clothes lifted, adjusted, folded again. Precision required maintenance. Left unattended, it might have decayed into something human.

The words in her lap had begun to bleed. Letters softened at the edges, black ink dragging downward across the page, slow and viscous, until it touched her skin.

“Miss, you’ll ruin your eyes like that.”

A lamp clicked on behind her. Warm light spilled forward, settling over the pale pages and erasing the dark stain from her hands.

“They’re already ruined.” Y/N muttered, eyes still fixed on the page. She closed the book at last, fingers lingering on the embossed title.

A Guide to Domestic Harmony

She wondered if Yoongi had chosen it for her. Or if the housekeeper had. Or if this was simply another of their immaculate coincidences.

“Mm.”

The housekeeper crossed the room, her steps swallowed by the dark walnut floor. She moved with the patience of someone who had learned that haste leaves marks. She lifted the blanket from the bed, gave it a single, efficient shake, then draped it over Y/N’s legs. Her palm smoothed the fabric once. Then again—slower this time—pressing flat as though searching for something hidden beneath.

“Still,” she hummed, “no need to make it worse.”

The older woman stepped back, looking briefly at Y/N as if checking something. Finding nothing to correct, or nothing she was allowed to correct, her gaze drifted to the abandoned cup. She lifted it with care, tilting it just enough to test the surface. The skin held for a stubborn second.

“Miss, you didn’t drink it.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose, her patience straining. “I forgot.”

The cup turned once more in the woman’s hand, as though something might change at a different angle.

“It’s gone cold.”

“I don’t mind.”

“It’s better warm.” A gentle smile touched her mouth, already fading before it could become anything real. “I’ll make you another.”

“It’s fine.” Y/N’s fingers tightened along the edge of the book. Not enough to tear the page, only enough to feel it resist.

The woman had already turned anyway. Her footsteps softened down the hallway until they vanished entirely, leaving behind only the distant, delicate clink of porcelain from somewhere below.

Her gaze dropped to the margin instead, to the faint impression her thumb had left behind. A shallow bend. Proof of pressure. Something still there. She pressed again, harder this time, and watched the page give under it.

That, at least, made sense.

More than the house ever did. The dusty art room still haunted her—lilies struck by thunder, a ghost of shades and pigments that refused to leave. She could smell the faint mineral sting of old paint in the back of her throat.

Minutes slipped. Or maybe only seconds. Time stopped existing the moment she got here. The book grew heavier in her lap, the words starting to blur at the edges again. She closed her eyes. The house answered with its own small sounds. A low hum of water running in pipes, creak of wood, porcelain that never quite stopped. Everything here moved with intention. Everything except her.

In this quiet, something inside her chest tightened—not quite fear, not quite anger, just a dull, persistent ache that had no name and no permission to speak. Worst of all was the shame that bloomed soft and treacherous whenever she caught herself sinking deeper into the silence. Because some part of her was learning to rest here, learning to let the house hold her when she no longer wanted to hold herself. The urge to run no longer burned. It flickered. Then dimmed, buried beneath routine and doubt

“Miss?”

The door opened without a sound. The housekeeper stepped in and set the fresh cup down with a click. Y/N didn’t look up right away. She flipped a page instead, paper whispering under her skin.

“Yes...?”

“I was wondering… ” The woman hesitated, a small tremble slipping into her voice. Like she was stepping slightly outside a line she wasn’t supposed to cross. “About the flowers for the dining room. The usual arrangement didn’t arrive this morning. I thought…” Her throat tightened around the thought before she forced it through. “…perhaps you’d like something lighter? With the season changing.”

Y/N let her eyes linger on the page a moment longer, waiting for the words to settle into meaning. Flowers. The art room. Sketches. Why was the whole house so obsessed with them? Slowly, she lifted her gaze. The woman stood a few steps away—spine straight, shoulders set, hands folded at her front.

“For the table?” Y/N asked, voice still distant, eyes narrowing.

“Yes.”

“Anything is fine.” Her gaze dropped again, already retreating into the safety of her own hands. “I don’t think it matters.”

“Mr. Min usually prefers something more… structured,“ the woman said carefully. “White lilies, most often. Or orchids. “

“Then do that.” Y/N shrugged and lifted the steaming cup up to her lips.

The woman swallowed. Her fingers found the gold band at her ring finger and began to turn it. The metal catching warm light against skin that remembered labor even at rest.

“I thought,” she murmured, voice lowered, “that you might like something more colorful, Miss Rosalie.”

Y/N stilled. Steam brushed her lips, but she did not drink. Her eyes rose and locked onto the woman.

“What did you call me?”

The housekeeper’s eyes widened, realization blooming too late to be useful. Her mouth parted, breath catching on the edge of something irreversible.

“I’m sorry—I meant—”

Y/N set the cup back onto the saucer without breaking eye contact.

“Say it again.” Her voice came out wrong. Emptied. Whatever that softness used to live there was gone. “Repeat it.”

The woman's throat worked. “I’d rather not.”

“Say it.”

“I can’t—please, it was a mistake—”

“Who’s Rosalie?” The blanket slid from Y/N’s legs as she sat forward. It pooled at her feet, taking its warmth with it.

“N-No one. I’m so sorry, miss. I…” Her voice faltered, splintering under the weight of what she wouldn’t say. Tears gathered along her lower lashes, threatening to fall but not yet permitted to. “Please, don’t tell Mr. Min.”

“Why?” Y/N asked, almost gentle. “What would he do?”

“Nothing. Just… “ The woman’s gaze dropped to her own hands, to the ring she kept turning as if it might still anchor her. “There’s no need to upset him.”

“Why would he be upset over a name?”

The housekeeper's shoulders curved inward by a fraction. Her fingers stilled on the ring, knuckles whitening.

“He… doesn't like reminders,” she said at last, so softly the words barely disturbed the air. “Of past.”

Y/N's pulse ticked in her throat. “What past?”

The older woman shook her head once, small and final. “It's not my place, miss. Please. Let it be.”

She took one careful step backward, then another, as though any sudden movement might shatter the fragile treaty they had never agreed to. At the door she paused, hand resting on the frame.

“The lilies,” she added, almost as an afterthought, voice steady again. “I'll bring white ones. Mr. Min will be pleased.”

The door closed with the same soundless obedience it had opened with. Y/N remained perfectly still, the name still burning behind her teeth.

She picked up the book again. A Guide to Domestic Harmony. The embossed title felt mocking now, letters like tiny scars under her fingertips. She opened it to a random page and began to read aloud.

“A well-kept home is a well-kept heart…”

Rosalie.

It scraped against the inside of her skull. A demanding nail dragged across bone. Her steps came too fast down the hallway, sharp against the polished walnut, each one louder than the house allowed.

She found him in the study an hour later. The lamp cast a low, amber pool across the desk. Yoongi sat with a glass of something dark in his hand, shirt unbuttoned at the collar, thin glasses resting low on his nose. When she appeared in the doorway he looked up, eyes dark and unreadable, the way they always were.

“You're still awake?”

Y/N stepped inside without invitation. The door clicked shut behind her. She crossed the room until she stood on the other side of the desk, the polished wood a barrier that suddenly felt necessary.

“Rosalie.”

The name dropped between them like a stone into still water. No ripple yet. Just the weight.

For a second he didn’t breathe. It was small—almost nothing—but she saw it. The way his fingers stilled against the keyboard. His jaw locking, muscle tightening under skin. Eyes sharpening before slipping away from her entirely.

“Where did you hear that?” he asked. Each word placed down carefully, as if it might detonate.

“Does it matter?” Y/N's hands rested flat on the desk, palms cool against the wood. She leaned in slightly, refusing to let her voice tremble the way the housekeeper's had. “Who is she?”

He stared at the monitor. Nothing on the screen moved. “No one.” His voice cooled further, flattening. “Stop asking.”

“Then why did you react?”

“I didn’t.”

“You did.”

A small click in his jaw. Irritation. Or restraint. It was difficult to tell the difference with him. Maybe there wasn’t one.

“Why is it such a big deal?” she pushed, her voice rising now, breaking the careful quiet the house worked so hard to maintain. “Why won’t you just answer me?”

“It isn’t.” His teeth ground together, the words slipping through them like gravel. “You’re looking for something that doesn’t exist.”

“I’m not!” Her voice rose. “The art studio, the name… You’re not going to convince me that I’m imagining stuff!” Then, she drew a breath, sharp and deep. “Is she some—what—some girl you buried? Or someone you bought and got bored of?”

The sound came before she could take it back.

His hands slammed against the desk. Wood groaned under the force of it. Everything rattled violently. The monitor flickered, light stuttering. A glass tipped dark liquid spilling in a slow, glossy tongue across polished grain.

Y/N flinched.

He was already standing.

“Enough.”

No softness left. No restraint dressed up as patience. For one frozen moment, neither of them moved. Then, he exhaled. His hand dragged down his face, fingers pressing into his skin trying to reshape it back into something human. He turned away, reached for his jacket. Quick. Like staying even a second longer might crack something open he could never force shut again.

“Yoongi.”

He didn’t look at her. Didn’t slow.

“Yoongi…”

Her voice cracked on the second syllable.

Nothing.

“Yoongi!”

Still nothing. He kept walking, close enough that she felt the heat of his body and the faint brush of fabric against her arm.

“Yoongi! Are you seriously not going to answer me?”

His hand paused on the door handle. For a second. Hope sparked—

Pathetic.

Then the door slammed hard enough to shake the frame.

The sound tore through the sleeping house.

Rosalie.

The first conversation happened on a rainy Thursday.

Keys slipped in her wet hands as she muttered curses under her nose, rain pooling beneath her like a trap.

He opened his door at just the right moment—timing so precise it could not have been a coincidence.

“You never look up when you unlock your door.” 

Her shoulders jerked. “Oh—yeah, I guess I don’t.” She laughed it off, a sound meant to ease the moment. But he felt the cold prickle along her spine before she could.

“You should.” His voice low, casual, but it hung heavy between them. “You’d be surprised how much trouble starts from not paying attention.”

For a moment, it was only the rain—soft and steady, tapping against the thin glass like a second pulse. Her hand froze on the key, heart quickening. She couldn’t tell if it was a warning or a threat.

Her smile faltered, unsure whether to laugh again or run. “Oh. Well… Thanks for the tip.”

Yoongi leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. “You’ve lived here long?”

“No, just moved in this semester,” she answered, keys jingling. “You?”

“Three years.”

She hummed. Yoongi’s gaze drifted past her—to the trash bag slumped against the hallway wall. The same one that had been sitting there since Monday.

“Forgot to take that out again?” he asked, a corner of his mouth lifting as he noticed her eyes widening.

“I—” she gulped, wiping her damp palms on her darkened jeans. “Yeah. I keep forgetting…”

“You’re always in a rush,” he said with a faint smile. “I get it.” Her gaze was everywhere but on him. Keys inches from safety, yet she lingered.

“Can I ask you a favor?”

“Sure…?” She furrowed her brows—those faint frown lines he already memorized.

“I cooked too much tonight. I hate wasting food. You should come eat.”

It was mechanical, Rehearsed.

She hesitated, smiling politely. The kind of smile people use when already planning to decline.

He thought Y/N hesitated because she was shy.

In truth, her pulse was hammering with something colder.

“Thank you, but I just ate.”

Her stomach growled. Embarrassingly loud.

He watched the tips of her ears turn red. Yoongi couldn’t help a small, chest-deep laugh. “You’re a terrible liar.”

He tilted his head, face softening. “Come on. You’re shivering. And I have a pot full of steaming soup.”

“I don’t want to be a bother—”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” He stepped aside, leaving the door open. “You’ll hurt my feelings,” he said. “Please, don’t make me eat it all alone for the rest of the week. I’ll go crazy.”

He saw the conflict in her eyes, the way she worried about propriety even while her body was screaming for warmth. It was that precise quality—that gentle consideration for others over herself—that he found so utterly captivating.

So exploitable.

There was a cat bed near the radiator. A small, harmless detail that screamed normalcy, drowning her doubts.

She told herself it was fine—he was her neighbor, not a random man. Students did this in dorms all the time.

She stepped forward, the floor creaking in betrayal. Somewhere deep inside, an instinct whispered not to cross that line.

He guided her in with a hand at her back.

She flinched.

That detail pleased him more than it should have.

The apartment was immaculate, every surface spotless. Too sterile to be a home—more like someone living in a display.

No trace of life—no shoes kicked off in a hurry, not even a dirty cup in the sink. Everything arranged like an exhibit: a chessboard precisely centered on the coffee table, books alphabetized, a blanket on the couch folded with military precision.

The soup glowed on the table, a red flare against all the gray monotony of the room. It had been simmering for an hour, though he hadn’t felt hungry until now.

The air smelled faintly of bergamot and bleach.

It was a space that begged to be filled—with her.

“You’re completely soaked,” he said, eyeing her from head to toe. “You’ll get sick.”

“I’ll be fine,” She forced a chuckle that trembled slightly. “I’m used to walking in the rain.” She bent to untie her sneakers; he was already rifling through his wardrobe, movements smooth and unhurried.

He returned, holding a clean hoodie. “Here”

“You really don’t have to—”

“You can return it later.” His tone was gentle, but there was something off about it—a quiet command dressed as care. “I insist.”

As much as the thought of wearing her neighbor's clothing made her uncomfortable, it wasn’t as bad as the feeling of a cold, soaking material clinging to her skin.

He turned, though not far enough to miss the subtle sigh she made when warm cotton met her skin. The hoodie carried a clean, comforting scent—creamy, musky, powdery.

“Oh my god,” she gasped, delighted. “Gamjatang? It’s my favorite!”

“Really? That’s funny.” Yoongi chuckled. The tiny pleasure in her voice was like a reward.

Of course it was her favorite.

He’d memorized the trash she tossed out every Wednesday, the stained paper containers from that specific Chinese-Korean fusion place.

She didn’t notice his eyes. How they tracked the small things—her lips wrapping around the spoon, the gentle hum of appreciation she made, the steam softening her features, the drop of broth that rolled down her lip, and how her throat worked as she swallowed rice.

“You seem tense,” he said after a while. “First-year?”

“Yeah,” she nodded. “Business major.”

“I thought so. You have that look.”

“What look?”

“The look of someone still pretending sleep is optional.”

She laughed—a restrained version of a laugh he already knew by heart.

He slid a dish of kimchi toward her. “Business school is brutal to first-years. They try to weed people out early.” His intonation was calm and matter-of-fact, positioning him not as a peer but as someone with experience, someone who understood the system she was just beginning to navigate. “Who are your professors?”

“Uh—Park for accounting, Novak for marketing, Delgado for behavioral management…” She paused to swallow, “and Harrington for corporate law.”

Yoongi took a slow, deliberate bite of his pork, chewing thoughtfully while she listed her professors. His mind worked like a high-end processor, cross-referencing names.

Park the drone.

Novak, the showman.

Delgado, the wannabe therapist.

Trivial.

None posed real concern. Only one did.

Harrington.

A professor every female student fell for.

Yoongi set his chopsticks down beside his bowl with a click. His expression a carefully constructed mask of serious consideration.

“Park and Novak are predictable,” he began, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “Just turn in the work on time and regurgitate their lectures; you’ll be fine. Delgado’s psychology class is more of a joke than science, so don’t take it too seriously.”

“But Harrington…” His tone deepened slightly. “You should be careful with him. He’s a brilliant legal mind, but he has a particular…reputation.”

Yoongi took a sip from his glass, resting his elbows on the table. “He likes to take a special interest in his students. Especially first-year girls who are bright and…eager to please. His class is notoriously difficult to pass without his favor, though.”

Her hand froze, spoon hovering before her parted lips. “You’re serious? How do you know?”

She tried to laugh, but it came out wrong—too breathy, too delicate. Something about the way he said it didn’t sound like gossip. It carried authority, certainty.

Yoongi didn’t answer immediately. He let the weight of her question settle in the space between them. Slowly, he stirred the crimson broth. It gave him an excuse to look down, to hide the flicker of triumph in his gaze. She couldn’t know how much he enjoyed this—how her worry validated the effort he’d put into watching, waiting, and learning.

“This school is a business before it’s an institution,” he said finally. “Students talk. Last year, one girl… a bright, sweet girl ended up expelled. Harrington took advantage, got her pregnant. And she paid the price.”

He looked up, brows furrowed, faint concern etched across his face, as if he were burdened by the knowledge she was too innocent to possess. “He calls it mentorship, but everyone knows what it really means.” Yoongi scoffed. “He has a type. Ambitious, a little naive, someone who won’t make a scene when they realize his help isn’t free.”

“God… that’s…horrible.” Color drained from her cheeks; fingers clenched around the spoon. She realized how exposed she felt, how vulnerable she was—and how solid Yoongi’s calm presence was in contrast.

He nodded slowly, deliberately mirroring her unease.

“Unfortunately, yes,” he continued, “it’s a shameful part of the university’s history. Power protects itself. Harrington brings in money, and the university closes its eyes.”

Her stomach clenched—not just from the spicy soup, but from the unwavering certainty in his tone. There was a rhythm to his words, a practiced cadence that left no room for doubt. She sensed the warning was intentional, crafted.

“That’s why you need to be careful,” he leaned slightly forward. “Stay in a group when you can. If you ever need help with the assignments…” His voice softened, almost protective. “I still have my notes. You can come by anytime.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, almost afraid to speak. “I didn’t know.” Her eyes lingered on his, searching for confirmation, comfort, and, unknowingly, permission.

“You don’t need to thank me. I just don’t like seeing others get hurt.”

He’d been right about her.

About the way her kindness was almost instinctive, spilling into every interaction.

About the quiet hunger—for comfort, for guidance. For someone to make sense of the surrounding chaos.

He’d already begun memorizing her eyes—how they opened when she believed him.

The soup cooled between them.

Fridge hummed to her right; outside, rain tapped against the window like a metronome.

“Most first-years underestimate how fast it all piles up,” he said, edged with quiet authority. He chewed deliberately, letting her feel the patience in him. “Deadlines, group projects, trying to keep up appearances.”

He smiled faintly. A second too long. “You look like someone who tries to do everything right.” The words were casual but silently poking at her insecurities, her self-doubt.

She let out a soft, reflexive laugh, lowering her head as if trying to hide from scrutiny. “I don’t know about that.” She murmured, absently nudging an onion around her bowl with the chopsticks.

“You do.” He swallowed slowly, the sound filling the tight space between them. “You apologize even when you don’t need to.”

A nervous smile tugged at her lips. “I… guess I do that sometimes.”

“It’s not exactly a bad thing,” he said, a velvet reassurance. “But it makes people think you’re easy to push around.”

Manipulate. Mold as they please.

“You need to know how to stand up for yourself.”

She nodded unconsciously. Not sure how to respond, and he didn’t push. Silence was as valuable as agreement—she would think about it, consider his words.

“Do you have a cat?” she asked finally—desperate to shift the subject, nodding toward the empty bed under the window.

“I do.” The chair scraped on the tiled floor as he stood. “She should be asleep,” Yoongi added before vanishing into his bedroom, leaving her in the hum of his apartment.

He returned holding a small, black fur ball. The moment she saw it, her lips twitched upward; eyes lit with unguarded delight as he set the cat into her arms.

“Oh my god… so adorable.”

“Her name is Rat.”

“… Rat?” She bit the inside of her cheek to stop a giggle from escaping, and he caught how the corners of her lips twitched.

“I found her near the dumpsters when she was a kitten. Even the rats there were bigger than her. She still sticks her head in my trash sometimes.”

Rat purred, kneading softly against her chest.

“Oh… she’s not usually this friendly.”

“Really?” she asked, tilting her head.

“Usually she either bites or hides under my bed,” he replied with amusement.

“What?” She lifted Rat, tilting the tiny head toward her face. “Impossible.”

“Maybe she knows something I don’t.”

He watched how quickly fear could turn to affection.

He’d learned not to rush these things.

The trick was always timing.

“Honestly… I already feel like I’m falling behind,” she admitted, sighing as she set Rat gently on her lap. Her fingers brushed through the soft fur, grounding herself in the cat's warmth.

Yoongi hummed, leaning back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. “Don’t worry. I burned out my first year. Thought I could handle everything. Didn’t sleep, didn’t eat right… ended up failing two classes.”

“You failed?” she asked, her tone a mix of shock and disbelief.

“Yeah. It’s easier than people think. You stop paying attention for a second, and it catches up to you.” He smiled quietly, a practiced self-deprecating gesture. A lie, of course—he’d never failed—but the truth didn’t matter. Her trust mattered.

“I’ve been scared of that,” she whispered, petting the cat. “That I’ll mess everything up before I even start.”

“Luckily for you, I live next door.”

“I don’t want to bother you.”

“You could never bother me.” He smiled, “Besides, I could finally cook without having to eat one meal for the whole week.”

As they talk, she started to feel foolish for the suspicion she’d felt earlier.

He was just… kind. Attentive. Considerate. She hadn’t expected him to be like this. Not with his overgrown bangs that covered his eyes, not with his pale skin against the black that made him look like a vampire.

She hadn’t expected to like him, to find calm in the carefully arranged apartment, but she did.

Her gaze flicked to her phone.

7:43 p.m

“Ah, I should get going,” she murmured, shifting uneasily. “It’s late, and I still have a ton of stuff to finish.”

“Of course, I understand,” his voice a low, smooth murmur that seemed to wrap around her like a warm blanket. “You must be exhausted after a long day of classes.”

He stood up, walking into the kitchen. She carefully set Rat on the floor, the fur ball padding away. Yoongi opened a fridge, taking out a plastic container.

“There,” He handed her the leftovers he prepared earlier. “Take some. You need to start eating actual food—fast food is horrible for your brain.”

“You’re talking just like my mom…” She muttered, half-amused and half-resigned. “Thank you,”

“No worries,” he replied. “Next time I’ll make something else.”

He stayed up late, propped against the headboard, laptop balanced on his thighs. The blue glow painting his face in cold light. He scrolled through his old law notes with methodical precision, each page a piece of her salvation he hadn’t yet offered.

She’d need guidance soon—that project with Harrington’s class would break her.

The quiet hum of his laptop fan was interrupted—by a laughter leaking through the wall.

Her laughter.

He froze mid-scroll, thumb suspended over the touchpad. The cursor blinked on the screen.

Then came another voice—a man’s. Deep, slurred, and heavy with arrogance.

A thud against the door jolted him. Her giggle followed by the wet sound of mouths meeting.

“Wait—” she gasped, breathless and laughing, “let me open the door—”

Keys jingled. The lock clicked.

Yoongi’s gaze shifted to the wall beside his bed that separated his space from hers. It felt thinner than it ever had.

The door slammed. Footsteps.

Heat from the laptop burned his thighs, but he barely noticed. His mind was elsewhere, twisting and replaying, counting, analyzing every noise. He pressed his thumb hard against the touchpad, the pressure whitening his nail.

Then—the headboard from the other side thudded against the wall. It struck him like a warning, each impact a cruel punctuation to the images forming in his mind.

And it began—the rhythm. A sloppy, drunken stumble. A sharp exhale of a man’s amusement. Mattress squeaking. Her cries of pleasure. The sound of skin slapping against skin.

He imagined their shadows overlapping—her fingers tangling in someone else’s hair, her mouth forming someone else’s name.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Not with someone else taking what was meant to be his.

She was supposed to see him—the one who knew her every habit, who quietly protected her routines, who noted the tiny twitches of her nose. Not this—some random boy with liquor on his breath who wouldn’t even remember her tomorrow.

The crescendo hit like a storm—her sharp moan, breathless. The silence after was worse. A few murmured words, a lazy kiss, the metallic scrape of a zipper. The click of the door closing.

Yoongi exhaled slowly, forcing calm into his chest. In his mind, she was still there—soft and trembling, unsatisfied and wrong in the way she clung to people who would only ruin her.

This wasn’t jealousy—just disappointment, he told himself.