⸻

You were a psychologist.

When you first met Phi Han Wool, he was an inmate at a juvenile detention center. Charged with assault, murder, and organized crime. But he didn’t look terrifying anymore. His shoulders were slouched. His head slightly lowered. He didn’t meet your eyes. Didn’t look around. He’d been escorted in by two guards, but he hadn’t resisted. It was as if he didn’t have the strength to.

When you said, “We're gonna have sessions every saturday.” he only gave a faint nod. His gaze was fixed not on you—but on the corner of your desk.

He didn’t say a single word the entire session. But even though his voice never came out, his silence screamed.

There were deep shadows under his eyes, scars on his knuckles—and above all, that unbearable silence that wrapped itself around him like a second skin.

Still, you kept talking. Soft voice. No pressure. Empathy. Patience. Nothing came back.

At the end, you simply jotted down a few notes in your file and ended the session.

But when you left the room— you saw his face in the window. And for a moment, he was looking at you.

For the first time.

As if something had cracked inside the silence. Small. Barely there. But it was real. And behind that crack… you could sense something beginning to stir.

You didn’t know what it was just yet but maybe—just maybe—he already knew that day, you’d end up being more than just a psychologist.

There was still a spark beneath all that ruin and you were the first to see it.

⸻

First came familiarity.

Familiarity didn’t mean trust—not for someone like him but he got used to your voice. To the sound of your pen scribbling notes. To the way you always pulled your chair back two fingers before sitting.

And slowly… he started talking. But only to you. Not to the guards. Not to the other inmates.

Only you.

Every time he came in, his eyes searched for you. When you were late, he stared at the door—unblinking.

You thought it was connection. But it wasn’t.

It was an addiction.

You had become his greatest mental obsession.

And eventually, under the quiet weight of his twisted fixation— you would either become his, or disappear into the silence with him.

⸻

One day, he didn’t want to talk.

When he walked into your office, his eyes flicked up to yours—just for a second—then dropped to the floor. You asked, “Are you okay today?” No answer. Just a small shake of the head. Not bad. But not good, either.

If you pretended nothing was wrong, he would too. So you stayed quiet with him.

You sat side by side. Not close, but not far either.

Minutes passed.

No words. Just breathing.

Then—suddenly—he turned. Leaning in quietly. Slowly.

He laid his head on your chest. Didn’t ask. Didn’t explain. He just… did it.

You froze.

But when he pressed into you— he exhaled. Deeply. As if he’d been holding that breath for weeks. Maybe months.

You slowly raised your hand, resting it on his back. And he shivered—just once.

Your fingers slipped into his hair, brushing gently. Like he’d been waiting for this closeness for years. Like he’d needed it, but never dared to ask.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t open his eyes. He just stayed there.

And you didn’t say anything either.

Because words weren’t needed.

⸻

Everything changed after that.

In the next sessions, he listened to you more closely. His eyes lit up—just for a second—when he saw you.

He started sitting closer.

He talked. But still—only to you. He smiled. But only when you said something.

And one day, he asked:

“What did you do to me?”

“Because no one’s ever made me feel like this.”

⸻

The office was quiet that day. The session had gone on a little longer than usual.

But it wasn’t a session anymore. It was tension. It was two people who had wanted each other in silence—finally breaking.

You were leaned over your desk, fingers wrapped around your pen, but your mind was on nothing but him.

He took one step toward you. Then another. And suddenly—he was right in front of you.

He reached out and cupped your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your lips.

“Just for a moment,” he said. “Forget everything.”

He leaned down to your neck, and when his lips touched your skin, your breath spilled out like a secret.

He kissed you slowly. Then deeper. Then—like he’d wanted this for years—he pressed his mouth into your neck and didn’t let go.

Your hands instinctively found his back. You gripped his prison uniform, your lips parting—but no sound came. Because your body had already given him permission.

He pulled back just a little, locking eyes with you. He reached for the buttons on your blouse. One by one. Slow. Intentional.

And with each one he undid—he kissed the newly exposed skin. Your collarbone. The slope of your ribs. The curve of your waist.

And each kiss was a quiet confession.

When he laid you down on the desk, you didn’t speak. Your feet barely touched the ground. One of his hands cradled your head. The other settled on your hip—pulling you to him.

His body pressed down on yours, heat radiating between you.

“Han Wool… this isn’t right…” you whispered against his lips.

But he didn’t back away. He didn’t even flinch.

“No, this is the only right thing I’ve ever done.”

Then he kissed you. Not rough. Not hungry.

But like he owned you and maybe he did.

Your hands slid down his back. Your mouths lost all distance. He stripped off his uniform. Your skin met his. Your heartbeat brushed against his chest.

And in that moment, there were no rules. No ethics. No guilt.

Just him. Just you. And the sound of two people coming undone.

His weight pressed into you. Every breath between you deepened. All that remained were touches.

For the first time, truly, there was no going back.

He slid his hand down your chest, to your stomach, lingering—then stopped at the band of your underwear.

Eyes locked with yours, he whispered: “I’m asking one last time.”

You nodded.

And he began pulling them down—slow, delicate—like he was memorizing every inch. Like he wasn’t touching you for the first time—but the last.

He moved lower. Kissed beneath your collarbone. Your breasts. Your stomach. Your hips.

Each kiss made you breathe harder. Each kiss made you tremble more.

And then—his lips found your most intimate place.

His tongue started slow. Then deeper. Wet. Hot. Addictive.

You grabbed his hair. Tried to pull him back—but he pushed deeper.

Eyes locked on yours, his tongue never stopped. Neither did his fingers.

One inside. Then two.

Every thrust made you shudder. Made your body scream one name—

Han Wool.

He finally pulled back, wiped his chin, but never broke eye contact.

He unzipped his pants and when his cock sprang free, your body arched involuntarily.

“Are you ready?” he asked.

You couldn’t speak. Just nodded.

His hands gripped your thighs. And he slid in—slow, deep, like he was carving himself into you.

You gasped. Your body lit up from the inside out.

He pulled out. Thrust again. Heavy. Precise. Claiming.

He leaned down and bit your neck—not hard, just enough to leave a mark.

He moved faster. The sound of the desk creaking. Skin on skin. His breath ragged. Your moans muffled.

You said his name. He said yours.

Then—he stopped using it.

Because now, your name was “mine.” Your name was “only for me.”

Your name… was the only light in his darkness.

When you both came—together—his hands gripped your waist like he’d fall without you.

He collapsed against you. Your chests heaving.

He pressed his forehead to yours.

“Finally,” he whispered.

“Now we’re both free.”

⸻

You were still trembling. Still pinned to the desk. Still covered in him.

The office was dark now. You didn’t know how long had passed.

You sat up. He was still watching you. Like nothing else mattered.

“Session’s long over,” you said quietly. “They’ll suspect something. You need to go.”

He didn’t blink. Just reached up, cradled your chin, tilted your face to his.

“You let me touch you…” he said—low, dangerous. “And now you want me to leave?”

You opened your mouth—but he kissed you. Hard. Tongue, teeth, breath—everything. He devoured your answer.

And then, he pulled back. Eyes locked.

“See you.” he said softly.

Then turned.

Right before opening the door—he glanced over his shoulder.

“This isn’t over.”

And left.

But you knew, in your bones—this was just the beginning.

the building feels abandoned. and something in your gut squeezes tight when you hear it — footsteps that aren’t yours. you slow. the footsteps don’t. they multiply — two, three, four — heavy, unhurried. like wolves who’ve already cornered their prey.

your breath turns thin. you turn the corner and freeze so abruptly that your shoes squeak against the tile. a group of boys stand in the middle of the hall — seniors. the kind who live off boredom and bruises. they look up, and the way their expressions sharpen is slow, deliberate, hungry.

one grins. “didn’t think anyone was still here.”

your throat closes. you take a step back— but another boy slides subtly to the side, blocking your retreat. the hall feels too narrow. your heartbeat feels too loud. he steps forward. “relax. we’re just—”

but he doesn’t finish. because the air shifts — someone else is here. not walking. not talking. just appearing. a shadow separates from the darker shadows at the end of the corridor, and pi han-ul steps forward like the hallway belongs to him.

his uniform is half-buttoned, tie loose, jacket hanging off one shoulder like he didn’t bother to put it on properly. there’s a thin scrape along his knuckle that catches the fluorescent light as he pushes a strand of hair off his forehead. he looks exhausted. irritated. like he’s coming down from a fight he didn’t want to stop.

but when his eyes find you — he goes still. his entire posture sharpens, focusing, grounding. like someone hit a switch inside him. 

the boys notice him too late. han-ul doesn’t speak. doesn’t smile. doesn’t move fast. he just looks at them like they’re inconveniences blocking his path.

then his gaze returns to you. and when he speaks, his voice is soft enough that it shouldn’t scare anyone. but it does. “come here.”

you inhale like you’ve been underwater. the boys stiffen. “what? she mean some—”

han-ul lifts his chin a fraction — the action isn’t a threat. it’s a promise.

“move,” he demands.

just one word. the hallway holds its breath. the boys exchange glances — but there’s no bravado to save them here. something in han-ul’s eyes makes them look away first.

“whatever,” one mutters, shoulders hunching. “we were just talking.”

han-ul’s eyebrow twitches like he finds the excuse pathetic. they step aside — too fast to be nonchalant, moving as one unit.

as you pass them, han-ul shifts, placing himself slightly between you and them — a small, deliberate angle, like a shield he refuses to name. he doesn’t touch you yet. not until you’re out of their reach.

then his fingers graze your wrist. barely. but the touch is warm. steady.

“let’s get out of here,” he murmurs. you nod, even though your pulse is sprinting.

─────

outside, the evening has deepened into something colder, heavier. streetlamps cast pools of yellow light across the courtyard, and dried leaves skitter along the pavement in thin, restless spirals. you expect han-ul to say something sharp. or smug. or teasing. he doesn’t.

he walks next to you in silence — but it’s not the cold kind. it’s the type that’s tuned to you, hyper-aware of every shift in your breathing. his hands are in his pockets, but his eyes flick sideways every few seconds. checking you’re still there.

you stop at the edge of the courtyard. “i’m okay, now. really.”

he stares at you for a beat too long. “you don’t have to pretend.” the words are low, almost quiet enough to miss. but they hit directly.

“i’m not—”

“you’re shaking.” his voice is soft. but not gentle.

you look down at your hands. he’s right. he steps closer — so subtly that you barely notice the distance closing until he’s inches away. the faint smell of soap and cold air clings to his jacket. you swallow, and the sound feels too loud in the quiet courtyard.

his eyes flick down to your hands again, then up to your face — slow, deliberate, assessing. he’s not asking if you’re scared. he already knows. the wind picks up, tugging his hair across his forehead. he doesn’t move it. doesn’t break his stare. his jaw is locked tight enough that you see the muscle ticking near the hinge.

“they scared you,” he says plainly. it isn’t a question. it’s a quiet accusation against the world.

“i’m fine,” you try.

his lids lower half a millimeter. on anyone else, it would look like blinking. on han-ul, it looks like restraint.

“don’t lie,” he murmurs.

there’s no heat in his voice — not the kind that burns. it’s the kind that simmers under steel, the kind that lives in a fighter who trains himself not to explode even when every instinct tells him to.

“i’m not lying.”

“you are.”

the words land like a stone in water — heavy, certain, unshakable. he exhales through his nose, slow, controlled, like he’s trying to wrestle down something that wants to claw its way out of him. anger, maybe. fear. something sharper than both. he takes another step toward you. you don’t move.

his presence is overwhelming in the low light. tall. broad-shouldered. coiled under his skin like a storm he refuses to let break. everything about him is deliberate control — from the way he squares his shoulders to the way his boots scrape the pavement as he closes the last bit of distance.

the courtyard lamp flickers overhead, casting him in a halo of uneven gold. when he speaks again, his voice is flat and steady — but the steadiness only makes it more dangerous.

“if i hadn’t shown up,” he says, “what would they have done?”

your breath catches. he sees it. his eyes darken — not with rage. with something colder. something scarier. his hands are still in his pockets, but his shoulders tighten like he’s holding them there on purpose.

“don’t answer,” he says. “i don’t want to hear your guess.”

you swallow. “han-ul—”

“no.” the word is quiet but final.

he steps even closer, until you feel the warmth of him cut through the cold air. his shadow merges with yours on the ground. your heart is sprinting now, and he notices — you see it in the way his gaze dips to your throat, watching it work with each shallow breath.

“i’m not angry at you,” he says, voice low, roughened. “you do know that, right?”

you nod.

“good.”

he looks away for a second, jaw clenching once, hard, like he’s trying to bite down words he doesn’t trust himself to say. when he looks back, there’s something new in his eyes. not softness. not gentleness. focus.

“i’m angry because someone else thought they could touch you,” he says. “look at you. talk to you. corner you.”

the wind rushes past, lifting leaves and hair and tension all around you — but he doesn’t blink. “i don’t like that.” his voice drops an octave — quiet, razor-edged. “i don’t like anyone thinking they can get close to you.”

your breath stutters. he sees that too.

for the first time, he breaks his own rule and takes a hand out of his pocket. his knuckles are still scraped, the skin raw from some fight he probably didn’t even bother to mention. slowly — deliberately — he lifts that hand. his fingertips hover near your cheek. not touching. not quite. the heat of him brushes your skin like a warning.

“you’re still shaking,” he says again, softer now.

“because you’re scaring me,” you breathe.

that gets him. his jaw tightens, and he drops his hand instantly — as if touching you would set off something he isn’t ready to face. he steps back half an inch. not much. just enough to breathe.

“i’m not trying to scare you,” he tells you. the controlled fury is still there — banked embers under calm ash — but it shifts, cooling, redirecting. “i’m trying not to.”

you stare at him. and for a fraction of a second, you see it — the boy beneath the chaos. the one who watches every hallway you walk through. the one who gets angry when he’s worried. the one who feels safer in fights than in moments like this.

the courtyard light flickers again, then steadies. han-ul’s shoulders rise and fall with a slow breath, and his voice drops to a rumble you feel more than hear.

“come with me,” he says. not a demand. not a command. a request. quiet and taut and impossibly vulnerable beneath all the steel.

the city is a bruise-colored sprawl beneath you. han-ul didn’t say where he was taking you — he just hooked a finger in the strap of your backpack, tugged once in silent instruction, and walked. not fast. not slow. just with purpose. like if he stopped moving, the anger simmering under his skin would finally boil over.

you follow him across empty streets and past shuttered storefronts, the cold air stinging your cheeks. he doesn’t look back, but you can feel him checking on you in every sharp exhale, in the way he slows half a step when you stumble over a broken bit of pavement.

the rooftop is old — the kind of building that probably used to be something important twenty years ago. now it’s forgotten. a place no one looks at twice. perfect for someone like him.

han-ul pushes open the metal door. it groans in protest, its hinges shrieking. the air up here is colder, thinner, carrying the scent of exhaust, rain-soaked concrete, and the metallic tang of city night.

the skyline glitters in uneven lines — neon signs blinking, windows glowing like fractured stars. the wind whips at your clothes, pulling hair across your face. han-ul walks to the edge.

you hover several feet back. he braces both hands on the railing, head bowed. his shoulders rise and fall in slow, uneven breaths. he looks like a storm trying not to tear itself open.

you wait. you know better than to speak first.

his voice comes out rougher than you’ve ever heard it. “they shouldn’t have been near you.”

you swallow. “i’m all right.”

he laughs — not a real laugh. a sharp, humorless breath. “don’t say that right now.”

you blink. “han-ul—”

he turns.

the wind shoves cold air between you, but his expression makes everything inside you go still. his jaw is tight, eyes too bright under the flickering rooftop light. anger coils through every line of him — but it’s not the wild kind you’ve seen when someone pushes him in the hallway. this is quieter. heavier. almost frightening in its restraint.

“i almost hit one of them.” the words scrape out of him. “i wanted to.”

you step closer. “they didn’t touch me.”

“that doesn’t matter.” his voice cracks — barely, but it does. “the way they looked at you—”

the sentence closes in on itself. his knuckles flex.

he drags a hand through his hair, pacing once like he can’t stay still. “i’m good at fighting. that’s all i’m good at. i know that. but i—” he grits his teeth. “i lose it when it comes to you.”

your heart presses hard against your ribs. “han-ul.”

but he’s spiraling — quietly, controlled, but unraveling all the same. “i shouldn’t care this much. i shouldn’t feel—” his breath stutters on the cold air. “—this angry. this afraid.”

afraid. that word settles in the air like frost.

you walk toward him slowly, each step cautious, intentional. he doesn’t move, barely breathes, like he’s afraid he’ll snap if touched too suddenly.

you reach for his hand. at first, he doesn’t give it to you — his fingers hold tension like steel cables. but when your thumb grazes his knuckle, something in him softens. not much. just enough. his fingers curl around yours, tentative but desperate.

you squeeze his hand gently — but before you can say anything, he pulls it away and turns his back to you. not in rejection. in self-defense.

his shoulders are bunched tight beneath his jacket, muscles shifting like he’s wrestling with something you can’t see. the city wind lashes at him, tugging at his hair, his clothes, but he stands rigid, unmoving.

“don’t…” his voice breaks off, thin and ragged. “don’t look at me right now.”

you take a small step closer. “why?”

“because,” he says, breath shuddering out of him, “i’m barely holding it together.”

the confession hits harder than any shout would have. han-ul has always been the type who thrives in motion — in chaos, in adrenaline, in the wild crackle of a fight. but standing still in front of you, with no one to swing at and nothing to focus his fury on, he looks… lost. cornered.

his hands grip the railing again, knuckles pale in the cold. when he speaks, it’s a low, shaking whisper.

“when those guys had you there… when i heard them—” he swallows, voice fraying. “i saw red. i didn’t think. i didn’t even feel like myself.”

you step close enough that your coat brushes his back. “han-ul. look at me.”

he freezes. for a moment, the rooftop goes impossibly quiet — just the distant rumble of traffic far below, the hum of neon lights, the metallic rattle of a loose billboard chain shifting in the wind.

finally, slowly, he turns. and that’s when you realize he’s not angry anymore. he’s terrified. his eyes are glassy under the rooftop light, but not with tears — han-ul doesn’t cry. it’s something rawer. sharper. like he’s been stripped down to nerves and bone.

“you said i was scaring you,” he whispers. “and you were right. i could feel it. i was… too much.”

you shake your head instantly. “you weren’t—”

“i was.” he steps closer, voice quiet but fierce. “i’ve scared people my whole life. i just…” his breath catches, “…i never wanted to scare you.”

the wind curls around you both, tugging at loose strands of hair, pushing the scent of rain-soaked concrete between you.

“han-ul,” you say softly, “you’re not scaring me anymore.”

his jaw works, but he can’t seem to find an answer. so you take the risk — you reach up, gently, fingers brushing his cheek. he goes still. absolutely still. like the slightest movement would shatter him. his eyes close, lashes trembling.

his voice comes out small — too small for someone who fights the way he does. “i don’t know how to be… gentle,” he admits. “not with how i feel when it’s you.”

your thumb sweeps along his cheekbone. “then let me teach you.”

his breath leaves him in one quiet, broken exhale. he leans forward — not all the way, just enough that your foreheads nearly touch, enough that you feel the heat of him mixing with the rooftops’ cold, enough that the electric hum of the city slips away until there’s only this. only him. only you.

“don’t walk home alone,” he murmurs, voice barely there.

“then stay with me,” you breathe.

his hand comes up — slow, hesitant, like he’s afraid he’ll scare you again — and he cups the side of your neck, his thumb brushing your pulse. you feel him tremble.

“okay,” he whispers.

han-ul’s thumb is still resting against your pulse when he finally lifts his eyes to yours — dark, storm-warm, searching. the rooftop wind tugs at his hair, pushing a loose strand across his forehead. you reach up without thinking, brushing it away. your fingers skim his temple, soft, careful.

he inhales sharply. not because of the touch — but because of the tenderness in it, something he’s not used to surviving.

his hand flexes at your neck. “don’t…” he whispers, but the word dissolves before he can finish it. his gaze flickers down to your mouth. just once. just long enough.

your breath catches. he notices — of course he does — and his jaw tightens like he’s trying to swallow the urge right out of himself.

“han-ul,” you murmur.

that’s all it takes. he moves in slow, as if giving you every chance to pull away — but you don’t, and that last bit of restraint inside him finally gives. his forehead presses to yours first, a warm, quiet anchor. he breathes you in. you feel the tremor in him, subtle but real. then he tilts his head the slightest angle, brushing his nose against yours — a soft, searching nudge that makes your heart stutter.

something in him unravels. he leans in, and his lips meet yours — not rough, not wild, but careful. impossibly careful. the kind of caution that feels more intimate than any urgency could. his hand slides from your neck to your jaw, thumb stroking your cheek, as if grounding himself in every second of the kiss.

you rise onto your toes, fingers curling into the front of his jacket. he responds with a quiet inhale against your lips — like he didn’t realize he’d been starving until now.

the kiss deepens just a little, slow and warm, the city wind circling around you both while the rooftop lights flicker above. when he finally pulls back, it’s only by a breath — his lips still brushing yours, his hand still cupping your face.

you open your eyes. he’s already watching you. and the storm in him? gone. in its place is something steadier. quieter. terrifying in its honesty.

“this,” he whispers, thumb sweeping your cheekbone again. “this is what scares me.”

you lean into his touch. “it doesn’t scare me.”

Minhwan. Leaning casually against the wall like he’d been waiting. That crooked, gleaming smirk cut across his face like a knife, and in his hand, his gun. Waving it around like a toy. “Surprise!” he called, sing-song and delighted. Panic surged. You whipped around, but it was too late, Hanwool had rounded the hallway, eyes locked on you, lips parted like he was tasting the chase. You were cornered.

Adrenaline surged as your eyes scrambled for escape. Your hand shot out and grabbed the nearest doorknob. please please please not be locked and a god you didn’t believe in answered. The door opened with a gasp. You slipped in and slammed it shut, twisting the lock with trembling fingers just as BANG! A fist slammed into the wood behind you.

“You think that lock’s gonna stop me?” Hanwool’s voice was a low snarl. “Open it, and I might leave your legs unbroken.” Another pound. Then another. The door shuddered like it could splinter. Your breath hitched.

You spun, eyes searching the room for something, anything to barricade the door.

There was nothing. Just students tables. Useless. A joke against the two psychopaths waiting outside. You pressed your back to the door, as if your weight alone could keep the monsters out. Another bang. Another scream. Another whisper of metal against metal, like Minhwan running the barrel of the gun along the door frame.

You didn’t know how long the lock would last. But you did know something: They were going to get in and when they did, they won’t hold back.

Your legs couldn’t keep up with the weight of their pounding. Each slam against the door sent a jolt through your spine, a slow collapse spreading from your knees. Your shoes began to slip on the slick tile just the sweat, fear, you couldn’t tell anymore.

And then, it stopped. Just silence, the kind that doesn’t feel like peace, but a warning. Like the world holding its breath before something terrible happens. You held your breath, spine still pinned to the door like your body alone could hold it shut. You didn’t trust it. You didn’t dare trust it.

You heard the footsteps walking away from the door. Like they wanted you to hear it. Like they wanted you to think it was over. Your heart slammed against your ribs, screaming don’t believe it. Every cell in your body buzzed with warning. You stayed pressed against the door, muscles locked, waiting for a sign. Anything. A breath. A shuffle. A shadow under the crack of light. Something to confirm they were still out there. But nothing came.

Five minutes passed, each one stretched thin with dread. Finally, you peeled your back off the wood, slow and careful, like movement alone might trigger something. You stepped away, just a little, just enough to feel your lungs work again. Shaky breaths. Numb limbs. You were calming down, but only in pieces.

Your eyes didn’t leave the door. You waited. Expected it to burst open at any second, both of them tumbling through with a grinning Hanwool and Minhwan dragging his stupid little gun. But still, nothing. Maybe they got distracted. Maybe whatever Gamin was doing downstairs finally pulled their attention. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? The only reason you were even in this school after hours.

But thinking about Hanwool, the shit he was doing inside these walls and the way the school board pretended none of it existed. It made your stomach twist. That’s why you joined Gamin’s study group. Why you agreed to be part of his plan. All you had to do was distract Seonho. Just a simple diversion. But somehow, some way, you got the wrong person’s attention. Hanwool. And his fucking sidekick.

Your legs moved before your brain could catch up. Instinct took over, raw and breathless. You pressed your ear to the door, straining for a sound, a whisper, anything that would tell you what waited on the other side. Nothing. The silence felt stretched too thin, like skin ready to tear. You exhaled, slow and trembling, and curled your fingers around the knob. The door creaked open just a sliver. You leaned forward and peeked out, your heart punching the inside of your chest.

Empty. The hallway stared back at you, blank and cold. No footsteps. No shadows. No one. You didn’t think. You ran. Feet slapping the tile, breath snagging in your throat like barbed wire. You barely made it ten steps before something yanked you backward so hard your neck cracked. A hand in your hair. Tight. And his voice, soft and too close to your ear. "Thought you could leave without saying goodbye?"

Hanwool’s voice cut through the silence like glass shattering in the not so empty hallway. Just sharp, sudden, and impossible to ignore. You flinched at the sound, every muscle in your body locking into place. Then came Minhwan. Whistling. Casual and off-key, like he wasn’t the type to hold a gun, like this was just another game he already knew he’d win. He circled around you slowly, steps lazy, eyes gleaming with that sick amusement he wore like perfume.

The cold metal pressed under your chin. He tilted your head up with the barrel, forcing your eyes to meet his. His smirk widened when he saw the fear. “That’s better,” he murmured, voice smooth like poison. “You should’ve just stayed put.”

Behind him, Hanwool watched without blinking. No rage. No mockery. Just that terrifying calm he wore when he was deciding how much pain to hand out. The kind of calm that came right before someone stopped being a person and became a problem to solve and you couldn’t breathe. Because this wasn’t about a warning anymore. It was punishment.

"Let’s head back to class," Hanwool said, voice soft, almost coaxing. You didn’t move. You weren’t walking into that room with those two psychopaths. You weren’t playing their game. In a single breath, you twisted.

Your elbow slammed into Hanwool’s gut, and as he staggered back a step, you swung a punch into Minhwan’s jaw. His head snapped to the side, and he collapsed with a grunt. You turned to run.

But Hanwool recovered too fast. His hand lashed out, fingers grazing your arm, trying to catch you like a spider pulling its web tight. You jerked away, body coiled with adrenaline. Minhwan, still on the floor, snarled. "Where the fuck do you think you’re going?"

His hand shot out and grabbed your ankle. You hit the floor hard. Your ribs knocked the breath from your lungs, and before you could crawl away, he was dragging you back. You twisted and kicked, your foot connected with his face. A sick crack followed. Blood poured from his nose as he screamed. "You bitch!"

His grip loosened. He tried to get up, but he was dazed. You scrambled forward until something heavy landed in the middle of your back. A boot. Pressed hard. Forcing you into the cold, filthy floor.

"Tsk, tsk, love," Hanwool murmured, his weight pinning you down. "Thought you could get away?" You thrashed beneath him, teeth clenched, but it was useless. "You can’t," he whispered into your hair. His breath was hot against your scalp. "You were never going to." Minhwan staggered up behind you, wiping at his bleeding face, gun back in his hand. His expression was pure venom.

"She fucking broke my nose," he spat. "That was a wrong fucking move." Hanwool yanked you upright by your hair so hard your vision went white at the edges. You couldn’t even scream. He twisted you to face Minhwan, who raised the gun, the metal flashing under the hallway lights. Then he brought the barrel down.

It smashed into your cheek with a wet, blunt crack. Your head whipped to the side. Blood dripped from your nose, warm and steady. The hallway spun. “Still think you’re going anywhere?” Minhwan sneered, breath thick with rage.

Hanwool gripped your arm like it belonged to him. His fingers dug into your skin, bruising on contact. You kicked and twisted, but it only made him more amused. “Keep struggling. Makes it more fun,” he said, voice low and flat, like he was bored and entertained at the same time. You clawed at his arm, at the walls, at the air. None of it mattered. 

He dragged you down the hallway, your shoes squealing against the tile, back toward the classroom. The one that had been your safe haven. Your hiding place. And when he opened the door and flung you inside, that illusion shattered. You hit the floor hard, palms burning against the cold linoleum. The door slammed shut. You heard the click of the lock. Hanwool. Minhwan. You. No way out.

You scrambled to your feet. “Stay the hell away from me,” you said, but your voice cracked halfway through. Minhwan laughed, wiping dried blood from under his nose. “Still got fight in her,” he said, tossing the gun back and forth between his hands like a toy. “You’re lucky I don’t break your jaw.”

“You already tried,” you spat. “Didn’t even knock me out.” He lunged. You dodged, barely, and shoved over a desk to block him. It crashed to the floor between you with a bang that echoed through the empty building. Hanwool stepped forward. He didn’t rush. That was what made it worse. You threw a chair at him. He caught it. Like it was nothing.

Minhwan moved first. He jumped the desk, grabbing your wrist. You drove your knee into his stomach, twisting to break free, but Hanwool was already behind you. His hand wrapped around your neck not tight enough to choke, but enough to control.

“You should’ve stayed quiet,” he said. His breath brushed your ear. “Should’ve been a good girl. But no... you wanted to play hero.” You elbowed him again. This time, he grunted and stepped back. You turned, fists up, blood smeared across your face, heart thudding like it wanted out of your chest. “You gonna hurt me?” you said, breathless. Hanwool smiled. Not wide. Just enough to show his teeth. “No,” he said. “Not yet.”

Minhwan circled you like a predator, slow and pacing, jaw clenched. “Gamin’s downstairs, right? Think he’s gonna save you?” “You idiots are gonna regret this,” you said, though your voice was shaking now. “He’s coming.” Minhwan chuckled. “Then we better hurry.” Hanwool nodded. “Let’s begin.”

You didn’t wait. As soon as Hanwool’s voice cut the air “Let’s begin” you moved. You lunged at Minhwan first. He was closer. You caught him off-guard with a punch to the side of his face. His head snapped to the left and he stumbled into a desk, cursing through gritted teeth.

Then you turned on Hanwool, blood rushing in your ears. You swung once, twice but he stepped back just enough to avoid both. He was watching you like a wolf letting its prey wear itself out. “You done?” he asked, voice quiet and unreadable. You didn’t answer. You ran at him, fists clenched, rage blind.

That was your mistake. He caught your arm mid-swing. His fingers closed around your wrist like a vice. Then, without even blinking, he twisted. You screamed. A sharp, raw sound that cracked the air. Your wrist bent at an angle it wasn’t meant to. Pain flooded your body, hot and instant, like fire under your skin.

You dropped to one knee, cradling your arm. “Looks broken,” Hanwool said calmly. “You’ll have trouble writing after this. Shame.” Minhwan recovered behind you. He was bleeding again lip split, nose leaking but the smile he wore now was ugly with satisfaction.

“You’re scrappy, I’ll give you that,” he said, wiping his mouth. “But scrappy doesn’t mean strong.” You tried to get up, teeth clenched against the pain, but Hanwool shoved you backward. You crashed against a desk, your broken wrist slamming the edge. You saw white for a second. Then everything pulsed black.

“Thought you’d be smarter,” Minhwan said, kicking the chair beside you out of his way. “You think your lover boy is coming to save you.” Hanwool leaned over you, eyes unreadable. “Is this the part where you start begging?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” you gasped, holding back tears, holding back everything. He knelt beside you, tilting his head like he was studying something. “You should be.” Then he backhanded you once, sharp and fast. Your head snapped sideways. You tasted blood in your mouth.

“I warned you,” Hanwool said, standing again. “This didn’t have to be personal but you made it personal. Running your mouth.” You tried again to stand. 

Hanwool loomed over you, his shadow swallowing you whole as he pushed you down, the impact jarring your bones. His lips curled into a cruel smile, eyes glinting with something unreadable, something that made your stomach twist.

"Well," he mused, fingers toying with his belt buckle, the click of it unfastening too loud in the suffocating silence. "Look at you, right where you belong. Now, let’s see if that mouth can do something worthwhile." Your breath hitched, panic clawing up your throat. "Hanwool—please, don’t—"

Minhwan’s laughter cut through your begging, sharp and mocking. He righted the chair he had kicked over and dropped into it, leaning forward with predatory interest. "Oh? The begging’s started already?" His grin widened, all teeth. "This is gonna be fun."

You lunged, teeth bared, aiming for Hanwool’s wrist but Minhwan moved faster. A fist tangled in your hair, yanking you back so hard your scalp burned. His lips grazed your cheek, breath hot and sickly sweet against your skin. "Ah, ah," he tutted. "None of that."

Hanwool’s fingers traced your jaw, tilting your face up. His thumb pressed against your bottom lip, smearing the blood from your nose. "Open." The command slithered down your spine, icy and inescapable.

Your mouth opened, trying to make this easier, even though it only made the tears well faster.  "Good," Hanwool murmured, as the world narrowed to the gleam in his eyes and the weight of his touch. "Now let’s see how good that mouth really is."

His length pressed against your tongue, the rhythm brutal as he set a punishing pace, his words slicing through the moment. "Yeah, that’s it. Take it. Choke on it, pretty bitch. That’s what you’re good for, huh? All that attitude, and this is where you belong on your knees, drooling all over me."

Minhwan’s hand, still twisted in your hair, yanked your head back slightly, just enough to control the angle. "So fucking messy already. Look at you." His free hand drifted down, trailing over your shoulder, sliding under your shirt, knuckles grazing your skin like he owned it.

He inhaled deeply, his nose buried in your hair. "You smell so fucking sweet like this. Like fear." His hand slipped lower, popping open the buttons of your skirt, sliding it up with infuriating slowness until it bunched around your hips. "Don’t stop," Hanwool growled above you, his grip tightening on your jaw as he fucked your throat harder, watching the tears spill down your cheeks.

Minhwan dragged the cool barrel of his gun across your stomach, then higher, the metal tracing lazy circles around your ribs, up to the swell of your breasts. He flicked the tip across one nipple through the thin fabric, the contrast of cold steel and heat making you shudder. "Sensitive, huh? Fuck, you’re just made for this," he whispered in your ear, his voice dripping with mockery as the gun slid lower, trailing down your abdomen, stopping at the damp heat between your thighs.

He pressed the barrel against your clothed clit, grinding it in slow, deliberate circles. "Look how wet you are. Acting like you don’t want this, but this cunt is telling me the truth." He laughed, soft, mean. "You love this, don’t you? Love being our little toy."

Hanwool’s pace stuttered, a growl rumbling in his chest. "Bet she’s gonna come just from this. Aren’t you? Gonna make a mess all over Minhwan’s gun while choking on my cock?" Minhwan licked the shell of your ear, his hand pressing the barrel harder against your throbbing clit.

Minhwan’s fingers hooked into the waistband of your panties, his breath hot against your ear as he tore them away with a sharp, careless rip. The fabric gave way too easily. His laughter was low, dark, curling around you like smoke.

"Look at that," he murmured, dragging the barrel of the gun down, tracing the slickness between your thighs. "Already dripping for us. Pathetic." You flinched as the cold metal pressed against your entrance, the contrast of steel and heat making your muscles clench instinctively. Minhwan tutted, gripping your hip hard enough to bruise. "None of that," he warned, before pushing the gun inside with one brutal thrust.

The stretch burned but he didn’t stop, didn’t let you adjust. Just buried it deeper, his fingers tightening in your hair as he leaned in, lips brushing your ear. "Fuck, you take it so well. Like you were made for this."

Hanwool’s grip on your jaw tightened, his cock hitting the back of your throat with every snap of his hips. "She’s gagging," he mused, voice rough with pleasure. "But she’s still sucking me like she needs it. Look at her, Minhwan. Look at how fucking ruined she is."

Minhwan pulled the gun out slowly, just to shove it back in, the rhythm cruel. The ridges of the barrel dragged against your walls, the cold metal warming with your body’s betrayal. "You feel that?" he whispered, twisting it just to hear you whimper. "That’s what happens when you act like you’re too good for us."

Hanwool’s breath became rougher. "Gonna come down her throat while you fuck her with that," he gritted out. Hanwool’s thrusts grew erratic, his fingers digging into your cheeks. "Gonna come down this pretty throat," he growled. "And you’re gonna swallow every drop, aren’t you?" 

Minhwan’s free hand slid around your waist, pressing the gun deeper as his other hand yanked your head back by your hair, forcing you to meet his gaze. His eyes were black with something hungry, something vicious. "And when he’s done," he murmured, "I’m gonna make you come on this gun. Gonna make you scream while you do it."

The barrel twisted inside you, hitting a spot that made your vision blur. Somewhere, Hanwool was groaning. Somewhere, Minhwan was laughing.  You were falling apart between them, their names like a prayer and a curse on your lips. 

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and something darker like cruelty given flesh. Hanwool’s breath came in ragged bursts as he forced himself deeper down your throat. His hips stuttered, his voice a rough growl against the damp silence of the classroom.

"That’s it," he gritted out, "take it. All of it." You choked, tears burning hot tracks down your cheeks, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. His grip tightened, his other hand digging into the hinge of your jaw, holding you open as he groaned, low and filthy. "Gonna come down this pretty throat, take it" he snarled. And you did. Because you had no choice.

Minhwan watched, his dark eyes gleaming with something feral as he pressed the gun deeper inside you, the cold metal a brutal contrast to the heat of your own body. "Good girl," he purred, thumb swiping over your bottom lip, smearing spit and tears. "Now let’s see you come for me."

The barrel twisted, hitting a spot that made your vision splinter. A broken sound tore from your throat, half-sob, half-scream, as your body betrayed you, shuddering around the unforgiving steel. Minhwan’s laugh was soft, almost tender, as he slowly pulled the gun free. He brought it to his lips, tongue flicking over the glistening metal, his eyes never leaving yours. "Tastes like victory," he mused. "Or maybe just desperation."

Hanwool finally pulled out of your mouth with a wet sound, his hand patting your cheek too hard to be affectionate. "Next time," he said, voice dripping with false sweetness, "pick the winning team."

Minhwan stood, putting the gun away with a smirk. "Yeah. Might save you the broken wrist." Your injured hand throbbed in time with your heartbeat, useless at your side. They left you there, a wrecked, trembling mess on the classroom floor, their laughter echoing down the hall like a promise. This wasn’t over.

But for now, you were just another casualty in their game. And you did. Because you had no choice.

pi han-ul might've sounded kind, gentle- but anger was seeping through his voice.

three months.

three months was the day you graduated, as well as how long pi han-ul, the top dog of your previous school, has kept you in this golden cage he calls 'your home'.

you still remember crying with your friends as you took pictures in your graduation outfits.

the taste of chloroform before you blacked out.

three sharp knocks on the white bathroom door followed after, making you flinch. your palms were soaked in sweat, your eyes and throat burning from the stress.

"do you want me to break this door down instead?" he enquired as if he was asking how the weather was.

you looked down, shrivelling up into a ball on the floor as if that would protect you. your forehead hit your knees- get me out of this nightmare.

outside the bathroom, you could hear a faint scoff and footsteps that slowly faded into underwater silence.

'is he gone?' you thought, but still not daring to look at the door.

after a beat, you decided to crawl infront of the door and press your ear against it. the cool surface squished your cheek as you tried to make out any sounds from outside. you could barely hear anything-

BANG!

the door boomed with a loud vibration, as if someone was punching it. you yelped and jumped back, but it didn't stop.

BANG! BANG! BANG-

your body flinched hard as the wood splintered against the frame, making you return back to your original curled up form. your hands flew to cover your ears.

the warm, orangey-yellow colour that crept into the bathroom conflicted with the fluorescent lighting. it brought a kind of comfort that was wrong- like you knew something was odd, yet you couldn't quite place where it was off. like an uncanny valley of a feeling.

your eyes burned a hole through the tiles of the floor, staring at the impossibly intimidating shadow that loomed over your figure- like a predator that found its prey in the dark. tears stung your eyes as your heart pounded against your ribcage like a wronged prisoner sentenced to death row.

despite your obvious displeasure, the shadow moved closer and closer until a pair of fancy, black dress shoes stopped infront of your blistered feet (your consequences of running).

you hadn't even noticed when you started shaking.

han-ul bent down to your level as if to comfort you, but the difference in authority between you two was deafeningly evident.

his hand reached out to your hair first. he stroked it, even though you almost jumped away.

"y/n, why don't you listen to me, hm?"

you stared at the blurry image of his expensive suit, unable to respond.

his fingers interlaced with your hair gently before tugging on it. not hard, but enough to snap you out of it.

finally, your eyes met his.

the impeccably dressed man gave you a small smile. his fingers travelled to your tear-stricken face, thumb tracing your cheek and wiping your tears.

"you made this hard for yourself..." his eyes wandered to your trembling hands, taking them into his bloody ones and giving your wrist a small peck, "and now you're crying over it?"

he pondered genuinely, not a single trace of mockery in his question. or maybe there was.

"either way...you understand that you have to get punished, right?"