#psycopath

But recently, something else has crept into your algorithm. A rookie group called Young Posse. The algorithm pushed their debut stage onto your feed one bleary 3 a.m., and you clicked out of curiosity. Then you saw Doeun.

Kim Doeun isn’t conventionally pretty like the girl-next-door idols. She’s handsome—sharp-jawed, deep-voiced, with heavy-lidded eyes that hold shadows beneath them. She moves with a quiet, coiled tension, like a switchblade folded into a velvet sleeve. On stage, her rap parts are delivered with a controlled snarl, but between takes, when she thinks the cameras aren’t watching, her face goes soft and distant. You screenshot those moments and store them in a folder labeled “Possum,” after the group’s fandom name. It’s not an obsession. It’s just a crush. You tell yourself that a lot.

You follow both groups faithfully. ITZY concerts, Young Posse fanmeets, the endless cycle of music show pre-recordings where you stand in line at 4 a.m. with a packed breakfast and a heart full of devotion. You’ve seen Ryujin twice from the barricade, close enough to see the mole beneath her eye. She’d looked over the crowd with a lazy, satisfied smile, and for a heartbeat you’d thought her gaze had snagged on you. But of course that was impossible. You’re just a face in a sea of light sticks.

And Doeun—you’ve never been more than twenty feet from her. At a fansign, you managed to say, “Your rapping inspires me,” and she’d looked up with a small, crooked smile, and your brain short-circuited. She signed your album with a little possum doodle. You still have it in a plastic sleeve, unsullied by air.

You tell yourself this is how it will always be: you, behind the screen, loving from a safe distance. That fantasy shatters on a rainy Tuesday in October, when you’re walking home from your part-time job at a convenience store in Sangam-dong, and you hear a woman scream.

The alley beside the old DVD rental shop is slick with rain and the iridescent shimmer of oil puddles. At first you think it’s a couple fighting—a man’s voice, slurry with alcohol, and a woman’s voice sharp with fear. You freeze. Your brain runs through the calculus of intervention: you’re not a fighter, you’re five-foot-nine and built like a paperback novel. But then you hear the wet slap of flesh hitting flesh and the woman cries out again, a sound that bypasses your brain and yanks directly on your spinal cord.

You grab the only weapon you have: a heavy metal thermos, still half-full of lukewarm coffee. You round the corner and see a big man in a stained windbreaker pinning a girl against the brick wall. Her bucket hat has fallen to the ground. Her mask is torn, dangling from one ear. She’s wearing a black hoodie with the hood down, and even in the dim yellow light of the security lamp, you recognize her face. It’s Doeun. Kim Doeun. The girl whose rap verses you mutter under your breath in the shower.

The man has one hand clamped over her mouth and the other fumbling with her belt. There’s blood on her split lip, and her eyes are wide, white-rimmed, furious and terrified at once. She’s fighting—she has her nails dug into his wrist—but he’s twice her mass, and he’s drunk enough that pain doesn’t register.

You don’t shout a warning. You just swing. The thermos connects with the side of his skull with a hollow thunk that vibrates up your arm. He stumbles sideways, releasing Doeun, and you see the glint of a box cutter in his other hand. He slashes wildly, and the blade opens a line of fire across your forearm before you can pull back. The pain is a white-hot zipper, and you hear yourself make a sound—half grunt, half scream.

Then Doeun moves. She doesn’t run. She steps forward, plants one platform boot on the man’s knife hand, and stomps down with a force that makes something crack like a bundle of dry sticks. The box cutter clatters onto the wet asphalt. He howls, and she kicks him in the face—once, twice—with an efficiency that suggests she’s imagined doing this to someone before. He crumples, moaning, blood streaming from his nose.

She grabs your wrist—your bleeding wrist—and pulls you away. “Come on,” she says, her voice hoarse but steady. “Come on, come on, move.”

You run together through the maze of backstreets, rain plastering your hair to your forehead, your blood mixing with the water and leaving a faint pink trail. She doesn’t let go until you’re in an underground parking garage, the kind with flickering fluorescent lights and the stale smell of exhaust. A black van is parked in the corner, unmarked but new. She fumbles with the door, shoves you inside, climbs in after you, and slams it shut.

The silence inside the van is deafening after the chaos. Doeun is breathing hard, her chest heaving. Her lip is still bleeding, a thin rivulet tracing her jaw. She reaches up and touches it, then looks at the blood on her fingers. Then she looks at you.

“You’re the possum charm guy,” she says.

You blink. “What?”

“The year-end festival. You had a light stick with a little possum charm. I saw you. You were in the third row, left side.” Her eyes, dark and intense, are fixed on you with a focus that makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope. “I remember faces. You’ve been to, like, four of our music show recordings.”

Your brain is struggling to catch up. You’re bleeding in the back of a van with a girl whose photocard is literally in your wallet. “You… you recognize me?”

A small, almost shy smile flickers across her face despite the blood and the adrenaline. “You’re hard to miss. You always look like you’re about to cry when I’m on stage. It’s cute.” Then her expression shifts to concern. “Your arm. Let me see.”

Before you can protest, she’s peeling back your jacket sleeve. The cut is deep but clean, running from mid-forearm to near the elbow. She winces. “That’s going to need stitches. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry—this is my fault.”

“It’s not,” you say, because it isn’t. “That guy—”

“A sasaeng. He’s been following me for weeks. He found out our dorm address, so I’ve been staying at a hotel. Tonight I thought I could just walk to the convenience store alone, like a normal person. I was wrong.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and she presses her fingers to her eyes, hard, like she’s trying to physically push the tears back in.

Your heart does something complicated and stupid. This isn’t the cool, princely idol from the stage. This is a girl your age, terrified and furious and trying desperately to hold herself together. You reach out with your good hand and touch her shoulder. “Hey. It’s okay. We’re okay.”

She lowers her hand and looks at you. There’s a beat of silence, and then she does something unexpected: she pulls off her hoodie—underneath, she’s wearing a tank top, her arms slim but defined—and she tears a strip of fabric from the bottom hem. She starts wrapping it around your wound, her movements quick and practiced.

“I’ll take you to my company’s dorm,” she says. “There’s a medic. We’ll say you’re a backup dancer or something. You need stitches. And you’re not going back out there alone tonight.”

“I can’t just—”

“You can.” Her voice firms up, the way it does when she commands a stage. “You saved me. Let me save you back. That’s how this works.”

That’s how this works. You don’t know it yet, but those words are a contract. A blood oath, sealed with the red soaking through the improvised bandage.

The medic at the company building is discreet, the kind of woman who’s seen enough idol injuries to know not to ask questions. She stitches your arm with neat, efficient movements while Doeun hovers at your side, still wearing the ruined tank top, her split lip untreated. You try to tell her to get her own face looked at, but she waves you off.

“You’re more important right now,” she mutters.

Afterward, she walks you to the elevator. Her manager is somewhere down the hall, arguing on the phone. The dorm is quiet, the other members likely asleep or at a late schedule. Doeun stops you with a hand on your chest.

“Give me your phone.”

You unlock it and hand it over. She types in her number, then texts herself so she has yours. She saves her contact as “🦦 Doeunie” and hands it back.

“I’m going to check on you tomorrow,” she says. It’s not a question. “If your stitches get infected, I’ll never forgive myself.”

“They won’t get infected.”

“I’ll make sure.” She reaches up and, very gently, brushes a strand of wet hair off your forehead. Her fingers linger a moment too long. “Thank you. I mean it. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’d do it again,” you say, and you mean it.

She smiles—a real smile, tired but warm. “I know. That’s what scares me.”

And then the elevator doors close, and you’re descending into the lobby with your arm stitched and your phone full of a new contact that shouldn’t exist.

The messages start the next morning.

Did you sleep okay?

Change your bandage before noon. The medic said every 12 hours.

I can’t stop thinking about last night. Not the bad part. The part after.

At first, it’s just concern. You reply politely, grateful but awkward. She’s an idol. You’re a fan. The power differential is a canyon. But she doesn’t let it stay that way. She sends voice notes—short ones, thirty seconds or less—just chatting about her day. A new choreography she’s struggling with. The terrible food her company gives them. How she saw a cat on the way to practice and thought of you, because you “have the same eyes, like you’re always a little bit sad and a little bit curious.”

You try not to read into it. She’s probably just lonely. Being a rookie idol is isolating; you’ve read about it, the sixteen-hour days, the constant surveillance, the way friends become competitors. You’re a safe person because you exist outside that world. That’s all.

But then she starts asking about your life. Your university classes. Your convenience store job. Your hobbies. You mention, in passing, that you’ve been a fan of K-pop for years, and she says, “I know. I saw your room.”

You freeze. You never told her about your room.

“You posted a photo once on your fan account,” she adds quickly, as if reading your mind. “I reverse-searched your username. Sorry, that’s probably creepy. I just wanted to know more about the person who saved me.”

You laugh it off, but a small, cold pebble of unease settles in your stomach. You brush it aside. It’s just Doeun being Doeun—intense, grateful, maybe a little too invested. It’s fine.

Two weeks later, she shows up at your apartment.

You live in a one-room officetel near the university, a shoebox with a kitchenette and a bathroom the size of a coffin. It’s messy—you’ve been putting off laundry—and the walls are plastered with girl group posters. You’re in your pajamas, eating instant ramyeon straight from the pot, when the doorbell buzzes. You check the intercom screen and see a girl in a baseball cap and mask, a backpack slung over one shoulder. She looks up at the camera, pulls down her mask for a split second, and you see that sharp jaw and those heavy-lidded eyes.

Doeun.

You buzz her in, heart hammering. By the time you open your door, she’s already standing there, breathing a little hard from climbing the stairs. She’s in civilian clothes: ripped jeans, an oversized hoodie, platform sneakers. She looks like any other university student, except that she’s Kim Doeun.

“Surprise,” she says, and walks past you into the apartment without waiting for an invitation.

She takes in the room in a sweeping glance—the Ryujin poster, the light ring on your desk, the scattered albums—and her expression flickers. Something cold. Something possessive. It’s gone before you can name it.

“Nice place,” she says, setting her backpack on your floor. “Cozy.”

“What are you doing here?” you manage.

“I had a few hours off. Management thinks I’m at a study café.” She pulls out a plastic bag from her backpack. Inside: containers of homemade kimchi jjigae, side dishes, rice. “I cooked for you. You said you’d been eating ramyeon every night. That’s disgusting. Sit down, I’ll heat it up.”

She moves around your kitchenette with an unsettling familiarity, finding your pots, your chopsticks, the clean plates stacked behind the dish rack. Like she’s been here before. Like she’s studied the layout.

You sit at your tiny table, arm still bandaged, and watch her cook. She hums under her breath—a melody you recognize as Young Posse’s latest B-side. When she sets the food in front of you, her fingers brush yours, and she holds the contact for a beat too long.

“Eat,” she says. “I want to watch.”

The food is good. You tell her so, and her smile is so bright, so genuinely happy, that you almost forget the cold flicker from before. Afterward, she does your dishes. Then she curls up on your bed, scrolling through her phone, as if this is the most natural thing in the world. You sit stiffly at your desk chair, not sure what to do with your body.

“Doeun-ssi,” you start, but she cuts you off.

“Just Doeun. I told you.” She pats the space beside her. “Come here. I won’t bite.”

You hesitate, and her expression clouds. “You’re afraid of me.”

“No, I just—you’re an idol. I’m a fan. This is…”

“Weird?”

“A little.”

She sits up, hugging her knees. “You saved my life. I don’t have a lot of people in my life who would do that for me. Most people want something from me—my time, my body, my fame. You just swung a thermos at a guy twice your size and got stabbed for it. That means something to me.” Her voice goes quiet. “You mean something to me.”

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. You don’t know how to respond, so you don’t. Eventually, she lies back down and falls asleep, still in her street clothes, her breathing slow and even. You cover her with a blanket and spend the night on the floor, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how your life became a drama script.

She starts coming over more often. Once a week becomes twice, then every other night. Your apartment begins to accumulate her things: a toothbrush in the bathroom, a hoodie draped over your chair, a pair of slippers by the door. She eats your food—or rather, she brings her own and cooks for you, leaving containers of side dishes in your fridge with little notes: Eat me or I’ll be sad. – D. She sleeps in your bed, and you’ve long since given up the pretense of the floor; she always pulls you in next to her, wrapping her body around yours like a human seatbelt.

One night, you wake at 3 a.m. to find her not asleep. She’s propped on one elbow, watching you. The streetlight through the window casts her face in pale orange, and her eyes are so dark they seem to swallow the light.

“You’re so pretty when you’re asleep,” she whispers. “So vulnerable. Anyone could just… come in.”

“Doeun, that’s creepy.”

“I know.” She doesn’t sound sorry. She traces a finger down your cheek, your jaw, the curve of your neck. “But I’d protect you. You know that, right? No one’s going to hurt you. Not while I’m here.”

You think of the sasaeng’s fingers cracking under her boot. You believe her.

But even as Doeun’s orbit tightens around you, a different kind of gravity is pulling from the other side. The university announces its spring festival lineup, and the headliner is ITZY.

You’ve waited for this since the moment you enrolled. ITZY performing on your campus, on a stage you can walk to in five minutes. You buy a new light ring and charge it fully. You plan your outfit: a black shirt, comfortable sneakers, Ryujin’s photocard tucked into your phone case. You don’t tell Doeun about the festival. She’d only get upset.

The day of the performance, the air is crisp and electric. The festival grounds are packed, a sea of students pressing toward the stage. You manage to get near the front, close enough to see the sweat on the backup dancers’ faces. And when ITZY walks out—when Ryujin stalks to center stage in a black cropped jacket and cargo pants, hair slicked back, eyes hooded with that feral confidence—your chest does something painful and bright.

They perform “WANNABE.” “LOCO.” “SNEAKERS.” Ryujin is a live wire, every move sharp and deliberate, her charisma a physical force that pushes you back on your heels. During “Kill Shot,” she prowls to the edge of the stage, scanning the crowd, and then—she stops. Her eyes find yours. You know it’s impossible, you know it’s just a trick of perspective, but the way her gaze hooks into you feels like a fishhook in your sternum. She tilts her head, that lazy smirk spreading across her face, and then she drags her thumb across her own throat in a playful, slicing motion. The crowd screams. Your blood freezes.

After the set, as you’re trying to process what just happened, a staff member with an earpiece touches your arm. “Are you Y/n? Ryujin-nim would like to see you backstage. She says she remembers you from a fansign.”

You’ve never been to an ITZY fansign. But your feet are already following the staff member, because what else can you do? Shin Ryujin wants to see you.

The backstage area is controlled chaos: stylists, managers, the other ITZY members peeling off their in-ears. Ryujin is in a small private dressing room, perched on a makeup counter, one leg swinging. She’s thrown a leather jacket over her stage outfit, and up close, the heat of her presence is almost unbearable. The smirk is still there, softened at the edges, but her eyes are sharp. Surgical.

“There you are,” she says, and her voice is lower than you expected, rougher, like she’s been smoking. “I’ve been waiting to meet you properly.”

“You… know me?”

“I know a lot of things.” She slides off the counter and walks toward you, each step measured. “I know your name. Your fan account. How many concerts you’ve been to. You’re a loyal one, aren’t you? Sticking with us since debut. And lately…” She stops close enough that you can smell her perfume, something dark and floral, with an undertone of metal, like old coins. “…you’ve been hanging around with that rookie, haven’t you? Doeun? The one with the possum thing.”

Your throat closes. How does she know that?

She sees the question on your face and laughs, a silvery, unsettling sound. “I have my ways. I like to know who’s watching me. And you’ve been very interesting to watch.”

“I’m just a fan,” you manage.

“Just a fan,” she repeats, as if tasting the words. Her finger lifts and traces the air an inch from your scar, the one healing beneath your sleeve. “Doeun gave you that, indirectly. I could’ve given you something better. I’m thinking about giving you something better now.” She meets your eyes again, and that playful smirk sharpens into something hungry. “You remind me of someone I loved. Someone I lost. Same eyes. Same nervous little pulse.” Her fingertip lands on the hollow of your throat, cold as a scalpel. “I’m going to know you better, Y/n. That’s a promise.”

Then she steps back, all business. “My manager will get your contact details. Don’t ignore my messages. I’d be very disappointed.”

And you’re ushered out, your skin tingling where she touched you, the ghost of her perfume clinging to your clothes.

You don’t tell Doeun about the backstage encounter. But Doeun already knows. The moment you walk into your apartment that night, she’s sitting on your bed, her phone in her hands, her face pale as bone.

“She talked to you,” Doeun says. It’s not a question.

You freeze in the doorway. “How—”

“I have friends. Staff. People who owe me favors.” She stands up, and for the first time, there’s something dangerous in her posture, a coiling tension. “What did she say to you?”

“Nothing. She just said she remembered me from a fansign. It was weird.”

“She’s never seen you at a fansign.” Doeun’s voice is flat. “She’s been stalking you. I’ve been tracking her. Shin Ryujin has a… history.”

“What kind of history?”

She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she pulls up a file on her phone—a collection of news articles and forum posts, dated across the last three years. Missing persons. Five of them. All young, attractive, mostly androgynous-looking. All last seen in entertainment districts or near music show venues. The articles don’t name any suspects, but the threads, buried deep in obscure corners of the internet, connect dots that police never publicly confirmed. Several of the missing people had been romantically linked in rumors to Shin Ryujin. Secret boyfriends. Secret girlfriends. Exes no one ever knew about until they vanished.

“She collects people,” Doeun says, her voice trembling with something that might be rage or terror. “She falls in love, and then she kills them. I don’t know why. Maybe she can’t stand the idea of them leaving. Maybe she wants to keep them forever. But I know the one she keeps mentioning—the one you remind her of—his name was Jaehyun. He went missing two years ago. The last person he was seen with was her.”

Your mind reels. It’s insane. It’s impossible. Shin Ryujin is a top idol, a household name, a woman who sends coffee trucks to her juniors and posts cute selcas with her cats. But you remember the scalpel-sharp look in her eyes backstage, the metallic smell beneath her perfume, the casual way she’d spoken of “losing” someone she loved. And you believe it. The cold pebble of unease in your stomach swells into a glacier.

“She’s going to try to take you,” Doeun continues. “She’s probably already watching you. You can’t be alone anymore.” She crosses the room and takes your face in her hands, her grip just shy of bruising. “I’m not going to let her. You’re mine. You saved me, and I claimed you, and I don’t share.”

That night, she installs a chain lock on your door and a small camera over the entrance, connected to her phone. She starts sleeping with a chef’s knife under her pillow. The apartment feels like a bunker, and Doeun is the warden. You’re not sure if you’re being protected or imprisoned.

The stalking begins in earnest. Ryujin can’t wander the city freely—too famous, too recognizable—but she finds ways. Late at night, you wake to the faint scent of that dark, floral perfume. Once, you find your window cracked open when you know you locked it. Another time, a single black cat hair on your pillow, though you don’t own a pet. Doeun rages when you tell her, checking the camera footage, but the cameras always glitch between 2 and 4 a.m., showing nothing but static.

Then the polaroid appears. You find it one morning on your kitchen counter, propped against the kettle. It’s a photo of you, asleep in your bed, taken from the foot of the mattress. The flash bleaches your face into a skull’s hollows. On the white border, in elegant handwriting: You look so peaceful. I watched you breathe for an hour. – R.

You show it to Doeun, and she goes utterly silent. Then she takes the chef’s knife from under the pillow and starts sharpening it on the whetstone she bought specifically for this purpose. The sound of metal scraping against stone fills the apartment, a grinding lullaby.

“She’s been inside,” Doeun says, not looking up. “While we were both here. She’s playing with us.”

“We need to call the police.”

“And say what? That Shin Ryujin is leaving love notes in my boyfriend’s apartment? They’ll laugh. She’s untouchable.” Her jaw tightens. “The only way to stop her is to catch her in the act. And when I do, I’m going to do to her what I did to that sasaeng’s hand. Except I won’t stop at her hand.”

The violence in her voice should terrify you. It does. But there’s another part of you, a part that’s been living in this cage of obsession for weeks, that feels a twisted kind of relief. Doeun is brutal and possessive, but she’s on your side. Ryujin is something else entirely—a predator wearing the skin of your ultimate bias.

You start helping Doeun. You take shifts staying awake, watching the camera feed. You leave decoy pillows under the covers and sleep on the floor behind the couch. Doeun kisses you at odd moments, desperate and biting, leaving marks on your neck that she stares at with dark satisfaction. “She needs to see you’re claimed,” she murmurs.

The final confrontation comes on a night when the city is slick with rain, just like the night you met Doeun.

It’s 3:17 a.m. when the camera feed on Doeun’s phone flickers and dies. She’s awake instantly, knife in hand. You both hear the soft click of the front door lock, the one Doeun reinforced, turning smoothly, as if the key were made for it. The door swings open with a whisper of wet air.

Ryujin steps inside. She’s dressed in black—tight jeans, a hoodie pulled low, a silk mask around her neck. She doesn’t look like an idol. She looks like a wraith. In one gloved hand, she holds a scalpel, small and precise, the kind used in surgery. Her eyes find you in the dark, and she smiles.

“Did you miss me?” she breathes.

Doeun doesn’t give her a chance to say more. She lunges, the chef’s knife slicing through the air. Ryujin sidesteps with a dancer’s grace, and the scalpel flashes—catching Doeun’s forearm, opening a red line from wrist to elbow. Doeun screams and swings again, wilder, slamming Ryujin against the wall. The whole apartment shakes. Plaster dust rains from the ceiling.

You scramble for something, anything, but you’re frozen in the doorway of the bedroom, watching the two women you’ve loved from afar tear into each other. Doeun is strong, fueled by months of possessive fury, but Ryujin moves like someone who’s practiced this choreography a hundred times. The scalpel finds Doeun’s side, a quick in-and-out jab that makes Doeun crumple with a choked gasp. Blood soaks through her hoodie, dark and spreading.

Ryujin kicks her aside, the knife clattering from Doeun’s hand. She’s bleeding too—a gash on her own forearm from one of Doeun’s wild swings—but she’s still standing, still smiling. She steps over Doeun’s panting body and walks toward you.

“There,” she says, voice gentle now, almost loving. “Now it’s just us. I’ve waited so long for this. You’re even more beautiful up close, with all that fear in your eyes. Jaehyun’s eyes. I’m going to take you somewhere private, Y/n. A place where we can be together forever. I’ll keep pieces of you—your fingers, maybe that scar on your arm. I love scars. They’re stories carved into skin.”

She reaches for you with her bloody, gloved hand, and something behind her moves. Doeun, dragging herself up on broken glass from a shattered picture frame, drives a shard into the back of Ryujin’s calf. Ryujin stumbles, snarling, and spins. The scalpel comes down in a vicious arc, sinking deep into Doeun’s shoulder, pinning her to the floor. Doeun screams—a raw, animal sound.

And you see the chef’s knife. It’s lying on the floor near your feet, dropped in the chaos. You pick it up. The handle is slick with blood, but your grip is steady.

Ryujin is hunched over Doeun, her back to you, breathing hard. “You don’t deserve him,” she hisses at the younger girl. “Love is consumption. Love is making someone a permanent part of you. I’ve perfected it over years, over bodies. You’re just a temporary obstacle.”

Doeun’s eyes find yours over Ryujin’s shoulder. She’s pale, losing blood, but her gaze is fierce. She mouths a single word: Now.

You step forward and drive the knife into Ryujin’s back, just below the ribs, angling upward the way you read about once in a self-defense article. The blade sinks in with a wet, giving resistance, and Ryujin’s body goes rigid. She makes a small, surprised sound—almost a laugh. She turns her head, and her eyes, those dark, lovely, terrible eyes, meet yours.

“Oh,” she whispers. “You really are the one.”

She collapses sideways, the scalpel slipping from her fingers. Blood spreads beneath her, a dark tide that creeps toward the posters on the wall, staining the corner of the ITZY CHECKMATE photo. It drips down Ryujin’s own printed face, tracing a red tear from her eye.

Doeun drags herself up on her good arm, gasping. She crawls over to you, leaving a smear of blood on the floor, and grabs your ankle. “Is she dead?” she rasps.

You kneel and press your fingers to Ryujin’s throat. The pulse is there, fluttering, then fading, then gone. Shin Ryujin’s eyes are still open, still fixed on you, still holding that expression of terrible, possessive love.

“She’s dead,” you say, and your voice sounds like it belongs to someone else.

Doeun pulls herself into your lap, ignoring the wound in her side, and wraps her good arm around your neck. Her lips find your ear, sticky with blood. “You did it,” she whispers, and there’s a horrible, reverent pride in her voice. “You chose me. We’re bound now. Blood and death. You can never leave me, Y/n. Never. I’ll never let you go.”

Outside, the sirens are starting. Someone must have heard the screams. Doeun tightens her grip, her body trembling against yours, and you hold her because there’s nothing else to hold onto. The apartment reeks of iron and sweat and the bitter incense of obsession.

Your phone buzzes on the floor, face-up. The screen is cracked, but you can still read the notification. It’s from an unsaved number, a message that came through just before the camera died. The preview reads: You can’t kill what’s already part of you. See you soon, Y/n.

The screen flickers, glitches, and goes black.

Doeun kisses the corner of your mouth, tasting of salt and metal. “Whatever it is,” she murmurs, “I’ll protect you. You’re mine. From blood to bone. Forever.”

The imposing blonde woman was leaning over a beige faux-wood desk, her attention fixed on a stack of files arranged with almost obsessive neatness.

Her brows were furrowed, a faint wrinkle creasing her forehead—a clear sign that she was struggling to make sense of something she was reading. Her blue eyes scanned the pages, pausing longer on certain lines than others.

When the woman finally looked up, their eyes met.

“Y/N, how lovely to see you,” Dr. Weems said with genuine enthusiasm. “And I’ve told you before, you can call me Larissa. We’re friends by now,” she reminded her, using a tone of mock reproach.

Y/N smiled faintly, her arms relaxed at her sides as she absentmindedly wiped her palms on her light blue uniform pants — more out of habit than nervousness. Larissa’s blue eyes remained fixed on her, her expression softening.

“I called you because I wanted to ask you… a favor.” She hesitated before finishing, her lips parting into a picture-perfect smile.

Y/N frowned slightly.

“Would you like a cookie?” Larissa asked in a friendly tone, deflecting the conversation, and offered Y/N the basket of cookies that sat in the corner of her desk, still wearing that plastic smile.

It must be something awful if she’s offering me her favorite cookies, Y/N thought to herself.

She hesitantly reached for the basket, smiling politely as she picked up one of the cookies and took a small bite. Larissa watched her carefully, the silence between them heavy with anticipation, as if she waiting for the right moment to reveal whatever was coming next.

“Well…” Larissa finally broke the silence, setting the basket back in its usual spot on the desk before turning toward her employee with a hint of unease. “I’m short-staffed and need someone to work in Wing D — the psychiatric ward.”

The smile on her face faltered, her eyes settling on Y/N with a nearly imperceptible plea.

Y/N almost choked on the cookie.

“The psychiatric ward?!” she exclaimed, eyes wide with horror.

Larissa’s gaze was steady, her tired expression saying more than words ever could.

“You’ll be well compensated,” Dr. Weems added quickly. “No night shifts, unless there’s an emergency. And you’ll only be responsible for one patient. The usual things: bringing her meals, making sure she takes her medication, and running routine checks.”

She paused. “You’ll also assist the head doctor of the ward.”

“One patient?” Y/N repeated, curiosity creeping into her tone as she raised an eyebrow.

Larissa glanced down at the file before her, then back up.“Her name is Wednesday Addams. She’ll be twenty-three in a few months.”

“Didn’t Caroline go to Wing D a few days ago?” Y/N asked, brushing a crumb from her lip.

“Yes,” Larissa replied with a casual shrug, “but she complained, so they gave her some time off.”

Y/N narrowed her eyes slightly, suspicion flickering across her face. She sighed, biting her lower lip — she knew she couldn’t afford to say no. Rent, bills… and now this offer that sounded more like an ultimatum.

“All right, I’ll take it,” she said flatly.

Larissa’s smile returned instantly, revealing her perfect teeth. “Wonderful! I’ll prepare the paperwork and you can start tomorrow,” she said with relief.

Y/N rolled her eyes upward.

(...)

The sharp scent of disinfectant and cleaning products filled her nose. Most people found it nauseating, but to Y/N it was oddly familiar — almost comforting.

She walked down the corridor of the psychiatric hospital, her footsteps echoing against the polished tiles. The white, bare walls were lit by a harsh fluorescent light that made the air feel sterile, amplifying the chemical smell. She caught the eye of a patient sitting on his bed — he smiled at her, too wide, too cheerful for the atmosphere of the ward. A shiver ran down her spine, but she kept walking.

Turning a corner, she exhaled in relief when she saw Bianca — the head doctor of the ward, and her friend.

“Good morning, Bianca,” Y/N greeted, smiling, genuinely glad to see a familiar face.

Bianca looked up from the chart she was filling out and smiled, both surprised and relieved. “Y/N! What are you doing here?” she asked, pressing the pen’s clicker and slipping it into the pocket of her white coat in a mechanical motion.

“I’ve been transferred,” Y/N said casually. “I’m supposed to take care of someone named Wednesday Addams.”

Bianca’s eyes widened.

“You know her?” Y/N asked, puzzled by her reaction.

“Yes,” Bianca said quietly, her tone almost sympathetic. “Don’t be fooled by her Hollywood looks. That psychotic little bitch is manipulative — and very, very dangerous. Be careful, and don’t get too close.”

She gave Y/N’s arm a comforting squeeze before walking away toward her office.

Y/N swallowed hard.

The hours passed slowly until it was time to bring lunch to her new patient. Her fingers clutched the tray so tightly her knuckles turned white. Her stomach twisted, her heartbeat pounding violently in her chest as she tried to keep calm.

A bead of sweat rolled down her forehead, tracing a path along her cheek before falling from her chin. She bit the inside of her mouth, stopped in front of door number 77, and took a deep breath through her nose. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she steeled herself.

She opened the door carefully, making sure not to spill the soup and the slice of meat — neither of which looked particularly appetizing — and stepped inside.

The room was larger than the others: white walls, a messy bed in one corner, a door leading to the bathroom, a nearly empty desk with a black-bound book on top, and two barred windows.

Her gaze immediately caught a figure perched catlike on the windowsill, knees drawn to her chest, chin resting atop them.

Wednesday’s skin was pale, her jaw sharp enough to carve marble and her long black hair framed her face, falling partly down her back. Her bangs nearly brushed her eyes.

Y/N swallowed hard and stepped toward the desk and the metal tray rattled just a little as she set it down.

“Good afternoon, Wednesday,” she said, her voice calm but careful.

From the windowsill, a slow, even voice replied “It’s never a good afternoon in here.”

Then she turned.

Those eyes — black, deep, unreadable — locked onto Y/N’s, and for a heartbeat, the nurse felt as though she were being studied, not simply seen.

Wednesday slid down from the windowsill with the graceful silence of a cat. Her bare feet touched the floor without a sound as she walked toward the table. She stopped in front of the tray, head tilted slightly to the side.

“This is lunch?”

“It’s what the diet plan requires,” Y/N answered, keeping her tone steady.

Wednesday examined the tray for a moment, then grimaced. “It looks like dog food. Except dogs don’t have to pretend they enjoy it.”

Y/N bit back a nervous smile. “I could ask the cook to add a sprig of parsley next time, if that helps.”

For the first time, something flickered in Wednesday’s expression — amusement, maybe. A faint, slow smile curved her lips, carving a small dimple into her left cheek.

“You have a sense of humor. I wouldn’t have guessed.”

“It helps. In places like this,” Y/N replied, crossing her arms, more for confidence than comfort.

Wednesday took a step closer.

She was smaller than Y/N expected — barely five foot three — yet somehow her presence filled the room. Up close, Y/N noticed the delicate freckles across her nose and cheeks, also the ink-black tattoo of a raven spread across her forearm, wings unfurled.

“Are you afraid of me?” Wednesday asked softly, her tone almost curious.

Y/N swallowed but didn’t move back. “No.”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m just doing my job,” Y/N said, steady this time.

Wednesday tilted her head, her gaze cutting through her like glass.

“That’s what they all say. Before they get scared.”

“I don’t scare easily.”

Wednesday’s lips twitched — not quite a smile. “We’ll see.”

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy. Then Wednesday turned her head, glancing back at the tray with visible boredom.

“You can leave it. I’m not hungry.”

Y/N hesitated, then stepped back, her throat dry. “As you wish.”

She left the room without looking back, only realizing once she was outside that she’d been holding her breath.

Wednesday Addams hadn’t yelled. She hadn’t threatened her. She hadn’t even raised her voice.

And somehow, that was what terrified her most.

Because the unhinged ones — the loud, violent ones — could be contained.

But the calm ones…