(Yandere M! Idol Patient X Nurse Kidnapped F! Reader - Ch XXVII from my novel 𝕊𝕖𝕔𝕣𝕖𝕥. | 비밀)
(Can also be read as a standalone oneshot I think ^_^;;)
Trigger warning: mentions of substance abuse, corruption, blood, mental decline, brainwashing, heavy gaslighting, mental confusion, imposter syndrome, dehumanization of K-pop idols, power abuse, bullying, commodification, sociopathy, death, attempted murder, blood, non-con, kidnapping, tragedy, heavy angst, and manipulation. (I hate to say this but tags won't be able to justify the torment here :''))
𝔼veryone deserves a little break from time to time.
Especially as a couple—where one of them happens to be far too obsessed with the one they claim to love, making it their life mission to infect them with the same sinful craving of wanting more and more,
Until what can be left in the end is just them and their all‑consuming need,
Far away from the reach of the grubby hands of the cruel, oblivious world.
But one can’t simply rush the process, you see.
The intermittent wait held the promise of ensuring the blue‑eyed Devil’s favorite fruit, born of restless patience and sinful devotion, would not just ripen to perfection—but would carry a deep, rich flavour so addictive in every bite that, in its delirium awake all that sweet, spilling juice he’d try to lap clean—would smear all over his greedy lips,
His insatiable, voracious appetite finally having met its match and been satisfied in the end.
By you, of course—his only way to reconcile with his broken sense of humanity that resembled an annoying, flickering tubelight.
(Back to the past, because that’s where all the buried secrets remain asking to be uncovered—)
The flickering, broken humanity had brought the ‘imposter’ no good—only one betrayal after another—for he fell prey to the obvious promising lies of ‘love’ and ‘family,’ where there were none to be.
“I… should have finished what I started that night.”
“I’m sorry that you are still alive and breathing.”
Oh, if only it were him saying those fleeting words to someone he couldn’t care less about.
But of course, it had to be the other way around.
Because imagine how ridiculous it must have been—to witness and hear the catatonic, ‘loving’ mother on her deathbed, whom he had visited all these years, speak just before her passing—to remind and leave him with the ice-cold truth that put his turbulent glacial blues to shame in that very moment.
The utter disbelief on his face came with the realization that he had been turned into the biggest fool by his own fragmented mind—a mind that had never felt like home, yet remained painfully familiar—one that ignored the obvious signs and fell prey to a pure delusion born of an alien sense of nostalgia, promising the impossible.
Love.
Something he had never known since being reborn as a cold-blooded monster.
But alas, it was, of course, too good to be true.
Turning him into the scariest prey alive—who had been just played by fate and the universe.
Yet revenge was, surprisingly, the last thing on the blue‑eyed Devil’s mind then.
In fact, he only had a vague recollection of what he did next—hours slipping by before he finally got up to take his leave, planting a tender kiss on her cold forehead, rigor mortis already having set into the dead body.
It felt like an out‑of‑body experience, forced upon him.
He had no idea why his body had done that—his mind too preoccupied, in the meantime, with wondering whether he had just witnessed a final farewell to the first victim who had the foresight to see the pure evil existing within him…
Or if she had been the source of it all.
But as he wiped his shocked lips with the cuff of his hand, disgust curling through him, he brushed the thought aside—discarding any urge to investigate further.
She was long dead.
And no longer of any value to him in curing the growing void.
It was that simple—at least when weighed through the lens of a psychopath.
Too bad he was about to taste the humiliation of his first catastrophic failure at being one.
Because soon enough, it all started to crumble.
The dam broke.
He was overwhelmed—taken hostage by unwanted, intense emotions he refused to call his own.
What…
What was happening to him?
And why?!
Blurry, intense old memories muddled together just to torment his infiltrated mind.
He felt weak—disgustingly pathetic—for having no control over the tears spilling from his eyes, yet he was still on the way to reaching his weakest point then.
Nonetheless, he couldn’t understand why the fuck the unwanted crocodile tears were spilling down his clenched jaw when there was nothing but pure rage inside.
He felt so empty yet nauseously full at the same time—so much so that, in that moment, his only cure felt to be being validated and taken by someone else’s need for him.
But alas, that someone else couldn’t simply be anyone.
His fans, and the whole parasocial aspect of being an idol, were nothing but that.
*A**job*—one he was told he was the best at, born with the star quality and the perfect talent to complement it with…
…but for him, it was just a way to secure and safely keep the things he already had in a world that ran on money and fame. Things that had felt more real, tangible then, and made him feel alive—unknowingly still stuck in a vicious loop that tied him back to his damn old memories, invariably drawn to latch harder onto the deeper, more invasive one after having lost the weaker link.
Nex.
However he was, his brat couldn’t live without his hyung, could he?
He still needed him, didn’t he?
Wrong.
Lies everywhere,
No truth to be seen until—he said something to trigger the boy.
He didn’t remember what exactly he’d said in his paranoia to push him away, but desperate insecurity clung to his skin soon after as he saw the strange look on the maknae’s face.
A look of pure hatred, of wanting to have nothing to do with him.
And if it wasn’t clear enough, the ghastly low murmur—without a stammer to be heard—spilled the obvious.
“Why can’t you just take the hint that I don’t need you anymore?”
── Huh…?
What was that?
Suddenly, the one who looked afraid wasn’t Nex but him.
’Cause the momentary shock of silence only made the timid boy braver, almost apathetic.
“Haven’t I destroyed myself enough to make you want to give up on me?”
“Or are you waiting for me to just fall to my knees and beg you to kill me****so I can be set free? Because I never wanted to be part of any of this. This idol life. This madness. You—of all things—are what I hate the most.”
── Where…Where’s all this coming from?
── No…it can’t be true…I must be hearing things—
The words weren’t done ringing in Asher’s ears before more came, jabbing the knife of disbelief deeper into his chest, forcing it to stick on its weight.
“I wish I had never met you again. I wish I hadn’t made the mistake of putting you on this high pedestal all my life, just for me to suffer under your sickening control. It’s so suffocating that the only time I feel like I can truly breathe is when I do a line of **** in peace. I hate what I have become because of you. I hate you so much that it hurts to even say it aloud, for I am scared you will slowly torture me before the kill—so why can’t you just fucking disappear and never come back?!”
The grey‑eyed one had said it with all of his chest—his eyes dull yet furious, vaguely resembling how they’d looked the night he overdosed in the studio, hollow chuckles from that night echoing alongside the ringing words like a broken record in Asher’s ears as he blankly stared at him.
The tremble and hue in Nex’s grey eyes eventually returned, though it seemed he had used up all his energy just to give his piece of mind—his posture slumping, eye contact breaking as he stared at the ground, yet his feet remained glued to the same spot, appearing far too tired to move or speak another word.
A pitiful glance up before looking down again, blinking slowly as if asking for an easy death—because he genuinely believed his cold-blooded hyung would not be merciful after the little stunt he had pulled.
Oh, how had things turned out this way, for them to be standing at a crossroads of no return?
── So, he’s been that desperate to see me gone, huh?...I see how it is.
...Or so it seemed to him, of course.
Perhaps Asher was struck with a rare feeling of shame and generosity—something unlike himself—or perhaps he was simply too fed up to deal with the complaints, defeated inside.
Because before he could even register what had happened, he was no longer standing in front of the maknae, but in his apartment bathroom, a full bottle of sleeping pills clenched in his hand, ready to take.
Wait.
What?
But why?
Someone as prideful and egoistical as the blue‑eyed Devil choosing a self‑sacrificial way out seemed a bit off, didn’t it?
And you’d be right to think so—because so was Asher himself.
Stuck in a dilemma.
Wanting to silence the annoying, inconvenient noise feeding into his delusion: that the maknae needed to be locked up and all “fixed,” that he was merely playing hard to get.
*── He’s just upset right now… that’s right… he can’t do anything without me…
── He’s just a child… he needs my help… he can’t live without his hyung—argh! Stop it already.
A strange pull rooted in a corrupted sense of responsibility—once pure—toward the one who had been too naïve to know better than to try to eat or feed him bugs caught in tiny hands as an infant. Blurred memories snapped into perfect clarity, tugging painfully at the strings of nostalgia—as he screamed at the top of his lungs, trying to drown the loop out with his raw voice.
To no avail.
Oh, how he utterly despised being a slave to his own fragmented mind—a mind that felt more like a ‘host’ as he dissociated—flickering beneath the harsh light of shame and utter humiliation as he, the Devil, wished to escape with what little remained of his great pride.
── Right. This isn’t working at all.
A moment of cold self‑awareness seized him—his broken psyche caught, after being picked apart, and re‑drowned in pure delusion and homicidal noise for the nth time.
How had someone as mighty and cruel as him been reduced to becoming the universe’s favorite doll to play with?
Why couldn’t he crave something far more useful—something that could be bought with money and fame—to yield the kind of power someone of his calibre could wield with ease?
Instead, the creator of it all had decided he would only crave very specific things.
Things he couldn’t have so easily.
Chasing desires that were starting to feel near impossible, given his god‑awful personality.
── How meaningless.
── An utter waste of my time.
── I should have chosen better ‘anchors’ to rely on.
The unwarranted thoughts and the whirlpool of chaotic emotions—ranging from pure wrath to shame and angst—made his head and chest pound as he cursed the normalcy he would never truly know.
Yet his refusal to admit something was wrong with him remained intact.
His superior mentality wouldn’t allow it—framing his ‘unusual’ tendencies not as defective, but as frustratingly ‘different.’
Someone who had to keep himself from getting bored—because boredom meant more blood would have to be spilled to quiet the ramping, buzzing noise within.
Someone who was physically aroused by the heinous act of killing, even before he was old enough to fully grasp the meaning of the word “aroused”—a sensation later followed by unwanted shame and disgust once puberty hit him. Perhaps the only ‘ick’ he shared with others not of his kind.
And of course, the most frustrating difference of them all:
He was someone who couldn’t even commit to being a fully functional sociopath—blindsided entirely by his core weakness.
His desperate need to be needed by the select two—who were gone.
Abandoned.
Betrayed.
As he felt cheated by old, almost implanted—memories meddling with his sense of judgment, sentencing him to the fate of the ultimate sore loser.
It was at his weakest that the regret of rolling his eyes at the word ‘romance’ came back to mock him.
Not entirely unexpected.
Aside from being part of an industry that cashed in on the concept, he had given the real thing little thought before shelving it somewhere deep inside—concluding he lacked the right kind of motivation or interest to pursue a ‘stranger’ that way when he already got his obsessive fill from the killing, the work, and micromanaging Nex’s life.
But of course—with his source of motivation to go to work having passed away, and the empty‑nest syndrome beginning to sink in for his baby brother, layered atop the betrayal’s theme song—it was almost funny how a small seed of doubt was sown at his lowest point.
Born from a very human yet selfish need to self‑preserve.
To cling to the myth of someday being accepted for who he was.
And be loved.
An audacious belief rejected by all of him—except for that small voice of delusion that refused to let go.
Whispering how nice it would be to have a lover—no, a wife—who would hug him, kiss his cheek, and tell him she loved him regardless of anything.
Someone he could feel comfortable being loyal to—because she wouldn’t have a single bone in her body capable of betraying him, even if she wanted to.
Someone so pitiful and kind.
Yet the terribly perfect fit for him to be matched with.
Because he would show her that the only better option was him.
Right there.
At her fingertips.
Hm…?
Does that ring a familiar bell?
Perhaps not yet at least.
Since you turned out to be much more than what he could have asked for.
The Devil’s stolen Goddess.
A reach for salvation that was damnation in disguise.
Or both.
Who knows.
But of course, back then—he had only a vague idea of ‘the one’ he assumed to never actually possess.
He would be Antichrist himself if he dared to proclaim some self‑fulfilling prophecy about you, about how he would remove all the unnecessary obstacles in the way to make you all his—for there were no compelling signs of a path to salvation existing out there, somewhere in the wild.
Since he hadn’t even tried to actively look for you before.
Not that he had to, since you found him each time starting from the first.
And perhaps he was a bit of a traditional man in that sense, wanting a wife.
Or perhaps he simply liked the way the word rolled off his tongue.
“Wife.”
“Wife?”
“Wife\~”
“Wife—ha.”
He couldn’t tell.
Empty chuckles followed—before he popped the pills one by one into his mouth and swallowed them like hard candy.
Perhaps all that suffocating had taken a toll on him as well.
Since he was seriously losing his mind.
Suffocating the one he loved the most out of a fear of being abandoned.
Oh, the irony of it all.
And how fed up it made him feel.
Fed up with the delusions.
Fed up with the uncontrollable urges he barely understood himself.
Fed up with the uncalled‑for memories of his old world—things he could do without—yet only death seemed capable of swallowing them whole into the void that existed within him.
And even then, it refused to listen without a little external push.
But alas, had he known just how excruciatingly slow and unnecessarily sluggish he had made the entire ordeal of reaching death for himself, as he lay there staring at the bathroom ceiling with vacant eyes, he would have risked slitting his wrists to accelerate the ordeal—despite the arousal he’d get from seeing all that blood when found.
For patience was never his strongest suit to wear, and more so then.
Add to that the second regret.
Not burning himself alive.
For he wished not to be manhandled by several people who wouldn’t know what they were doing—but by then, it was already done.
The void seemed to finally silence it all.
To claim him.
But that lasted only for a short while.
After all, he still had to meet you.
His dearest,
Future wife.
Asher’s first few days after waking up in the hospital were a complete blur.
He had become far too obsessed with the idea of dying—to stop any older memories from resurfacing.
Memories about that woman, with no smile to offer.
And the grey‑eyed baby whose little hand had curled around his one finger.
Every time they came back to haunt him, to reclaim space in his mind, the blue‑eyed Devil would go completely berserk.
One crash‑out after another.
Acting like someone fit to be locked away in an asylum for good—yet he was kept in the same hospital where his mother had died.
Oh, the karmic torture of it all.
No escape from it at all.
Only being dragged closer to the hellish nostalgia he so desperately wanted gone.
Every day was torment—for him, and for the people forced to restrain him.
But he had his ways to slip.
Lucid one moment.
Lividly insane the next.
He wasn’t thinking straight—behaving like a feral beast, or a possessed man—someone everyone avoided at his worst, reluctant to come too close.
Yet his “Ahjusshi”, his sole benefactor had both influence and money, enough to hold the hospital hostage and insist they keep trying to “fix” him without resorting to any experimental or so‑called “invasive” procedures.
After all, his mind was deemed near “perfect,” not to be touched again.
Too bad the man to whom that so‑called “brilliant” mind belonged thought otherwise.
He was far more willing to perform a self‑lobotomy just to make the broken tape of looping memories finally shut up.
Too self‑destructive to swallow whatever toxins he could get his hands on during escape attempts.
Clever enough to nearly fatally wound himself beneath heavy blankets and sheets—a plan that would have worked, if not for his aroused, flushed face giving everything away before the end came.
Eventually however, even he slowed down on the idea of breaking his own record of failed suicide attempts. Hard to do that when all eyes were on him.
In a hospital, of all places.
Whenever the CEO came to reason with him during his more ‘awake’ moments, Asher spoke of only two things.
Wanting to die.
Or wanting to kill.
The perfect recipe to stir fear and dread in others—to make them hesitate, to keep their distance. Yet the older man, without ever dirtying his own hands, still tried to encourage him to see things differently.
Too bad any mention of the maknae’s name—or that woman’s—only stripped away what little restraint remained, turning Asher into more of a distressed wild animal than a man.
If he had ever been one.
Those conversations always ended sooner than expected.
The only silver lining, they said, was clinical.
Doctors claimed that someone like Asher—a high‑risk mental trauma patient showing such extreme rejection of grief—would eventually dissociate entirely.
Or develop a form of ‘emotional amnesia.’
Translation: He would erase the feelings tied to his past actions. Rewrite them. Allow his mind to restructure the tainted memories into something cold, calculative—something designed to protect his ego.
A win‑win, in the CEO’s book.
Since it meant getting his son back in one piece nonetheless.
Without the inconvenience of ‘family matters.’
So, the older man chose patience.
Not that the businessman had much choice to begin with, in all honesty.
Depending on who you asked, Asher was more of a danger to the medical staff than to himself.
Slipping out of restraints while half‑conscious. Stabbing with whatever was close enough—a syringe, a scalpel, anything sharp or blunt—sending some staff into comas, others fleeing the room, until someone realized that maybe slow‑inducing, non‑hallucinogenic sedatives weren’t cutting it.
Finally switching to heavier ones.
The kind to knock someone completely out in seconds.
Who knew, right? Gosh.
Took them only a week, twenty people injured and three in coma to correct the mistake.
But hey, at least no human died at his hand, right?
There was also the part where they underestimated his need for nightly hunts.
They began sedating him before nightfall.
At doses strong enough to knock out an apex predator in the wild for a solid seven hours for his vitals were unlike anything they’d seen before.
So they thought it was better safe than sorry letting the entire hospital security go hunting for him after dark.
Oh—if only they had known.
He wasn’t blabbering nonsense but simply letting them know what would happen otherwise.
For there was only so much he could take to keep the noise at bay.
The pent‑up static screaming inside his head every time he woke up unfulfilled.
Until one morning, he couldn’t take it anymore.
And so, the lush green hospital garden became a bloody, red massacre.
Panic followed.
People scattering indoors for safety after witnessing the gory shitshow firsthand.
And he just kept going.
Until red covered everything.
Animal carcasses strewn everywhere.
Only the buzzing of flies left to interrupt the dreadful silence.
Blood splattered across his flushed face—fallen angelic.
Across his hands.
And there he sat.
Breathing.
A shuddered sigh of relief escaping him at last.
The ‘noise’ had finally quieted.
Lulled into silence.
He looked around at the mess that needed cleaning.
And then—
His icy blues met your sole gaze.
── Ah.
His eyes were half‑lidded, like a bored predator who had already had his fill.
For a moment, he thought you were just another unfortunate soul. The last one too slow to make it indoors.
Not that he had any interest in biting you or anything.
But he was mildly curious.
Curious to see whether you’d sprint or scream first—now that he was really looking at you, his face drenched in blood, fully turned in your direction.
But of course, you had his interest piqued the moment you did neither.
Instead of running, you approached him.
Your expression was wary.
But you weren’t afraid.
The soles of your white canvas shoes stained redder with every step you took closer, yet your walk carried no hesitation. Your gaze stayed locked on him, brows drawn into a faint frown—as if you were thinking hard, and he could tell.
It wasn’t disgust.
It wasn’t horror.
It was…something else.
Like he could see the gears in your head turning in real time—your lips parting, then pressing into a thin line when the right words refused to come.
You had never been particularly good at finding the right things to say to him.
But your transparency—your expressions, your body language—had made up for it since the beginning. At least, that was how he’d come to know it.
Because he noticed everything, even if this was just the beginning of what entailed ahead.
Wanting to read you like an open book was a desire ingrained inside him in that moment—and he wasn’t even consciously aware of the feeling.
The way you kept your hands low, but visible, within his line of sight—making it clear you came in peace.
The quiet intention to coax him inside.
Preferably willingly.
And yet, that sense of duty was written all over you—on your face, thanks to your old-school outfit of a nurse in all-white, your cautious eyes kept flicking to his bloodied, bare feet… then behind him.
As if you’d follow.
Even if he’d run.
── How…absurd.
Given the shoes you were wearing, he wasn’t convinced you’d be able to keep up.
Let alone have the stamina to try.
Still,
Your foolish courage must have been contagious.
Since the rest of the staff followed in your wake.
Some even rushed ahead—bold enough to try and restrain him.
Or worse.
Interrupt his perfect, uninterrupted view of your face.
He clicked his tongue without realizing it.
But he stayed compliant.
Still watching you.
Still holding eye contact.
Waiting.
To see when you’d finally look away.
You didn’t.
Unfortunately, he did.
As the sharp, unnecessary jab of a sedative piercing his neck—took him out before he could fully commit the face of the extra to memory and later decide on whether or not to get his not-so little petty revenge.
But oh well.
That anticlimactic way of ending things did, at least, temporarily lock the brief moment he had shared with you in place inside his mind for days to come.
After all, you weren’t someone he saw again until a full month of long sighs went by.
Asher didn’t spot you from his room’s window. Not during the rare stroll or two around the hospital premises either—those frequent-turned-seldom, half-hearted, non-committal attempts at an “escape.”
He seemed to be low on motivation to die, and he figured you weren’t a nurse assigned to the psych ward at least.
He also didn’t know your name, either—which proved inconvenient, since any mention of the Red Garden incident left the staff attending to him visibly rattled, stammering pitiful excuses before fleeing the room to expel their guts elsewhere.
And yet, funnily enough, you weren’t quite important for him (yet) to be curious to the point of threatening someone for answers.
You were still, essentially, a stranger.
The blue-eyed Devil wasn’t keen on playing your number-one stalker just yet.
Since the reason you’d given him simply wasn’t enough to commit to that role.
As time dragged on, a part of him even began to wonder if you had been nothing more than another disillusioned fan—happen to extend an olive branch out of plain admiration mixed in with pity and nothing more.
It wouldn’t have been unheard of—some of the younger nurses, and even a few of the older staff, despite the hospital’s remote location, still seemed trapped under the spell of parasocialism, much to Asher’s own disbelief.
Despite baring the full extent of his authentic madness for all to see, there were still people clinging to the naïve belief that he was merely another poor celebrity suffering a mental breakdown—that his real persona was that of a reserved, polite gentleman whenever the cameras were rolling.
── Uh… shouldn’t it be the other way around?
It was mildly concerning to him, the sheer benefit of the doubt he was being granted—even as fear lingered in their eyes over the stunts he’d already pulled.
Still, he couldn’t bring himself to care.
He had nothing left to lose.
Besides, there was another reason he didn’t bother being wary of the eyes on him.
Deep down, he knew no flow of information about him could slip in or out of the hospital to reach the paparazzi.
One man—and his organization—relied far too heavily on Asher’s perfect idol image remaining intact.
And they would make sure it stayed that way, by hook or by crook.
And how did he know this well enough not to dwell on it?
Why, of course—because he wasn’t the first of his kind to end up there.
Even so, the promising lack of information channels with the outside world aside, things were beginning to look bleak again for Asher. The old tape recorder of memories started humming in his ears, and your impression slowly dulled with it.
There was only so long his icy blues could hold onto a face.
Impatience gave way to doubt.
It was really strange to him how he hadn’t noticed you before.
That couldn’t be right, could it?
A holding gaze like yours was hard to miss.
Especially for someone like him—someone with a built-in predatory lock behind those icy blues.
Then again, he had been too drugged to tell any faces apart on the day he arrived—restrained in a straitjacket, nearly lifeless, much to his own short-lived relief.
Still, he didn’t have to wait long for you to reappear.
As it turned out, one of the recently dismissed staff members—soon to be replaced—happened to be a ‘friend’ of yours. (A happy coincidence for the blue-eyed Devil, truly.)
Your friend hadn’t been dismissed because of her injuries, no—thankfully she hadn’t ended up in a coma either (imagine how awkward that would’ve been for him to explain).
Instead, your friend had simply been “wrongfully sacked” on the CEO’s orders.
Orders that had, in essence, originated from the blue-eyed Devil when lucid himself.
He’d found her “too suspicious.”
“Too noisy.”
That had been comment enough for the older man to have her removed—the hospital director instructed to ensure that whatever little future career she might have had in the medical field ended right there, neatly sealed with a signed NDA.
And so, you had come to him.
To the root of the problem.
To voice just how “unfair” it all was.
Your friend—the weakest node in the system.
Someone you believed to be nothing but professional with him, despite being his fan.
Your argument wasn’t the strongest or the best.
But you hadn’t come unprepared.
You mentioned her steady ‘boyfriend’ of seven years.
How Asher shouldn’t have mistaken optimism and friendliness for anything else.
“…She was just trying to look out for you as a fan—that’s-that’s all. I’ll make sure she doesn’t get carried away next time. So please, try to reconsider your decision, Mr. Asher.”
You had finished your brave little speech with little hope.
All the while, his intent blue eyes remained fixed on you in utter silence. Dusky moonlight spilled through the window, casting a faint—almost ethereal—glow over his handsome face.
Then, after a moment, he smiled.
Polite. Controlled.
He thanked you for bringing the matter to his attention.
Admitted he may have overreacted out of paranoia.
However, what made his cerulean eyes shine next—both inwardly and out—wasn’t you nodding in thanks, bowing slightly, and departing quickly before the assigned staff arrived.
It was the four things he concluded after meeting you for the second time.
A) Your face had said it all again. You weren’t convinced.
Not by his smile. Not by his agreeable words.
The wariness remained written plainly across your expression as he played innocent—so convincingly so—that he was two hundred percent certain you had come behind your friend’s back.
Careful. Intentional.
But clumsy enough to ask him not to mention your name in front of her as a last request before you left with an unconvinced, hesitant look on your face barely hidden.
Were you usually that expressive, or had he not met your expectations by more than a mile?
── Prejudiced much, are we?
Not that you were wrong by any means, but it was interesting to see the growing distrust in your eyes for him—he wasn’t used to that so soon, when he was being given the benefit of doubt by everyone else.
B) If he remembered correctly, he’d been nothing but an angel to your friend after she’d proudly told him she was his “biggest” fan and tried to reassure him of things he hadn’t asked reassurance for.
A rare case where she hadn’t witnessed him act out firsthand.
She’d only heard rumours—blown out of proportion, as far as she was concerned—having just returned to work after a month-long quarantine as a close contact of the only reported case of a rare, deadly flu in the remote area.
She sure talked a lot for a nurse.
Gullible enough to fall for his polite act.
‘Kind’ enough to sympathize for him.
Naïve enough to see him as a victim of the system he was very much a part of.
All of it unnecessary.
And yet, given she wasn’t the brightest, Asher could tell—it had been you who put two and two together.
You who’d somehow grown convinced that the CEO’s orders traced back to him.
── But…how?
That was the part he was curious about.
What exactly you thought of him to arrive at that conclusion.
Had the eye-contact in the garden been too icy for you to handle or had you also been scrutinizing his insides like he was doing yours back then?
He was hoping for the latter, but perhaps he was expecting a bit much from you so soon.
C) There was nothing else to deduce—you’d spared him the trouble of hunting down your name by starting your introduction with it. And now that he had a name to attach to that face of yours, his interest had been renewed—twice over, if not more.
D) Oh, and just to make it four—the whole interaction with you had thoroughly amused him, and he usually hated to be surprised, but not by you. Oh, no.
Watching you arrive and leave in such haste, like a four-minute dash-and-run Cinderella.
Caution aside, you didn’t strike him as the rule-breaking type.
The slightly flustered look.
The subtle, out-of-place tension in your posture.
All of it only grown more pronounced by the end—leaving the trigger button to call you right there in his hand, something to idly play with.
Bet the other nurses would hate you for spoiling an already rotten patient—if they weren’t so blinded by the killer face, fear of being killed…or both.
And he, for one, couldn’t wait to see more of you through your friend—already slotting you neatly into a third category meant to be kept around for a long, long time.
And don’t get Asher wrong.
It was fun in the beginning.
Fun to see you appear like clockwork whenever he pushed your friend’s buttons just a little too hard.
Fun to watch your mask of professionalism crack further each time you came in, ready to fight tooth and nail for some coward who remained blissfully oblivious to the bidding you were doing behind her back.
He’d still chosen to play innocent.
Offered you vague, unintelligible answers—claiming he hadn’t realized how badly it was affecting her, because after all, he wasn’t a customer, but a patient.
Then, shamelessly, he’d asked you to spare some of that empathy you’d so generously reserved for your friend…towards him.
He watched the guilt flicker across your face every time.
Watched you destabilize—just for a moment.
Yet, somehow, you always managed to see past the act.
── Tsk.
But instead of that always pleasing him each time, it began to irritate him too.
Making him far more conflicted than he could have ever imagined to be.
Because without being blunter than you already were, you would redirect the focus back to your friend.
Try to shield her from the psychological toll of being assigned to an idol patient who was a cold-blooded monster in disguise—one who, this time, had very deliberately chosen not violence, but something far more insidious.
Words.
Passive-aggressive actions.
A slow, deliberate erosion.
He bullied her carefully—never enough to raise suspicion, never enough to be reported. Pitiful apologies delivered with that lethal facecard of his. And on days he felt particularly indulgent, a crocodile tear or two—letting her soak it all in like a dirty sponge, leaving no visible trace of the damage he’d inflicted.
But perhaps the damage was visible to you.
Visible in the self-inflicted wounds she bore—the price she paid for trying to get close to the Devil against his will. He felt no remorse at being linked to them. Only irritation, once he realized just how close of a friend it proved she was to you.
He knew by then his biggest fan felt too special to not gatekeep his toxic ‘secrets’.
The manufactured trauma in his idol-life he never quite went through himself.
It was nothing too personal towards your friend in particular.
More like “Fuck around and find out” type of revenge for the blue-eyed Devil.
But that hardly mattered.
You seemed to have your ways of finding out.
── Urgh, why…does this annoy me so much when I wished to test you in the first place?
Truly, why did he want you believe his lies and be the one to comfort him, instead of your friend?
── I…just don’t get it.
Because as things progressed, when he was supposed to be thrilled by seeing more of your unfiltered side—something else kept happening.
Sometimes, mid-rant—when you were calling him “sane enough to transfer” in twelve different ways—your face would blur.
Distort.
Turn into an unflattering mirror he was forced to look into.
Seems old patterns die hard.
Because what did you playing guardian angel have to do with the blue-eyed Devil being reminded of his mistakes?
You weren’t controlling like him.
Instead, foolishly, you kept putting yourself out there in danger for your friend.
And after hearing your pleas—thinly veiled scoldings, a habit you would never quite grow out of—he found it harder and harder to look at her.
That’s right.
Not you, but your friend—who had started out as nothing more than a tool for unravelling you.
Yet suddenly, he was beginning to see her as a person too.
Something…important.
── What. The. Fuck. Is…this?
It wasn’t guilt.
Not exactly.
It was the way you spoke about her.
At some point, your descriptions began to overlap with the image of the grey-eyed one—catching Asher off guard, haunting him. More than once, he nearly lost his grip entirely.
It didn’t take long for Asher to consciously realize the truth.
He was projecting his bond with Nex onto you and your friend.
── Ah…that’s why. How ridiculous of a thing to compare with.
── *I couldn’t care less about what that brat’s been upto. Probably too high to realize if someone went missing—ha, this is so annoying. Fuck!
And one day, he finally had enough.
Enough to interrupt your plea-rant—to propose a deal.
The old cliché switcheroo.
You’d swap places with your friend.
Two birds.
One stone.
He’d finally get to focus solely on you—just as he’d intended from the start.
No background noise.
No distractions pulling the nightmares closer.
But perhaps his words had come out too blunt.
Perhaps he’d forgotten to sugarcoat them with that practiced smile.
Because the “no” that left your lips came straight from your soul.
Immediate.
Absolute.
Fired without hesitation.
── …Oh?
Had you caught on already?
That it was never your friend he was after—but you?
You seemed to have harboured the suspicion from the very beginning. And now, with a single misstep, he’d laid his cards bare.
Still—nothing was entirely lost.
Feigning calm, he simply pointed out the gaping holes in the silent argument you were having with his icy blues. Stated the obvious.
Your secret meetings with him—behind your friend’s back—weren’t exactly professional, were they?
You froze.
Too flustered to speak.
Guilt and disbelief rushed to the surface, written plainly across your face as the full weight of your actions—and their repercussions—finally hit you, intent notwithstanding.
You fumbled.
Apologized.
Took a step back, as if instinctively trying to undo it all.
── Ah, how cute~
── But that won’t make up for all the times you invited yourself into my home.
── I think it’s high time you invited me to yours, baby. I’m dying to get a better look at its insides.
He shot down your clumsy excuse with ease—the one about not being suitable as a psych ward nurse, about how you’d always worked hospice, never attended to patients under sixty. That to a male.
You tried to joke your way out—some awkward, out-of-place humour about having the “easy life” with grandmas. Weren’t you a quirky one? Too flustered and embarrassed to even entertain such an idea.
He would’ve loved to hear more.
Just not then.
He interrupted you mid-sentence.
Pointed out it was still closer to your friend’s specialty—an internal medicine nurse filling in for his care due to the recent shortage of staff.
For obvious reasons, totally not because of him.
Oh—and yes.
The “baby” nickname came long before the whole “lovers” part ever did.
Take that as you will.
Because eventually, you agreed to the deal.
On the condition.
That he’d keep his word.
And that none of this would affect your friend’s future work recommendations.
Which he much obliged to, wearing a real, genuinely amused smile for once.
Because he truly did find that heroic stubbornness of yours, so unabashedly on display—adorable.
A thought he would soon come to regret.
Your persistence in playing human shield for your friend continued to hinder his plans—plans that had begun with calculated intent, meant to play human chess with you. Plans that had since collapsed into something far more abysmal: a simple craving.
A need to have your eyes on him instead.
For months to come.
Even without her presence.
Even when it was just the two of you in the room.
What Asher hadn’t anticipated was just how painfully professional you were while on duty as a nurse.
Something he couldn’t fault.
Something that still stung.
Because no matter how close he stood—no matter the proximity between you as you attended to him as his care provider—you seemed utterly unaffected by him.
On the surface, at least.
── I thought I’m your first male patient for a reason… or are you just not into men?
Ahem, so…
── Or worse. Did some bastard try to take advantage of you?
Wondered the bastard in question.
── Or are you into that friend of yours? That girl? What was her name again—ha—
── Do I actually have to get rid of her from the face of the earth for you to notice me?!
He wasn’t even aware of the begrudging look etched across his face—his lips unconsciously pursed into a pout, azure eyes glued to yours, waiting.
For something.
Anything.
Too bad your gaze was razor-focused on buttoning up the fresh linen shirt on him instead of admiring the glistening, sculpted abs he’d stepped out of the shower with—abs he very much wanted you to notice.
You were too busy fighting the stiff edges of the fabric. Frowning. Forcing the buttons into place, pressing them to stay instead of slipping free.
Unaware of how deeply it upset him to be ignored so thoroughly.
So heartlessly.
Even as the warm breath of his short, frustrated sighs brushed against your skin.
── Am-Am I just not your type?—No. How can that be?!
It had only been two months since Asher had come under your care, and it just so happened that he’d “accidentally” broken his dominant wrist the other day during an episode he absolutely hadn’t half-faked.
Not that you could tell the difference.
No—Not this time at least since he’d made sure you hadn’t been looking when it happened.
So, he did manage to get your pity.
Your concern for him.
It felt nice. Warm even.
Watching you fuss over getting his hand plastered at orthopedics like a proper caretaker.
But that was all he got.
That desperation mingled with the empathy you’d once shown your friend—was missing.
Of course it was.
── I must earn it, shouldn’t I?
He’d figured that part out already.
What he struggled with was how.
How to make you look at him the same way—no, get a better share of your attention—when he’d never done this whole “romance” thing before.
And you weren’t exactly planning to subject him to the same rules as other players, given the shared history and extraordinary circumstances.
But you could, if you wanted to…
…Couldn’t you?
Which was beside the fact that you’d already unknowingly belittled his intentions—intentions that had grown progressively long-term—with a single phrase.
A “little crush.”
Something you’d almost called him out on by the one-month mark.
“If all this… is because of that day in the garden, I’m sorry—but I was just fulfilling my duty as a nurse. Please don’t give unnecessary meaning to my actions. Or anything that came afterward with my friend and so… hm. That’s all.”
You’d sounded awkward bringing it up.
As if the conclusion wasn’t truly yours, but one handed to you by someone else.
Perhaps his ego was still too large to admit anything outright.
Or to allow himself to be taken lightly.
So, he’d merely chuckled, dismissing the possibility.
Said he found you “interesting.”
And nothing more.
A reasonable answer, all things considered.
After all, you had pestered him relentlessly on your friend’s behalf not too long before.
Technically orchestrated by him—but neither of you were inclined to unpack that particular truth.
Real talk had been an issue from day one. An air of dubiousness that refused to dissipate.
And yet—beneath it all—he could feel the tension.
Charged.
Alive.
So why did you insist on pretending not to know it?
Why pretend to be immune to his charm when it was secretly affecting you?
He should have asked while he still had the chance.
That when he would “accidentally” end up far too close to your face—how did you keep the heat from blooming across your cheeks? Why did only mild discomfort flicker across your expression instead of something more revealing? Something you were suppressing, hiding from him.
Were you simply playing hard to get?
Or were you quietly collecting these moments—storing them away in your mind to misrepresent him later?
To sentence the blue-eyed Devil as frivolous.
A serial seducer.
A player.
So many labels.
Each one to deny him the prize of your loyalty he so desperately wished to claim by playing by the rules—*your *rules, for you were all about being fair and second chances.
Too bad he should have known you saw him as an exception too.
He should have known—that you were a fool first,
Then a goddess.
Because why else would someone pay such meticulous attention to others’ needs when it came at the cost of their own?
Whether friend or so-called family unit of orphans—where was your sense of self-preservation when it came to those selfish fools you so easily called your own, without sharing a single drop of blood in common?
*── At least mine was innate. What’s your excuse toward these parasites? Tsk.
The same ones who couldn’t spare you even a dime’s worth of space in their shared future dreams, despite the lengths you’d gone to—quietly, tirelessly—to protect those dreams from the Big, Bad Wolf.
The irony tasted bitter.
Because the only one gritting his teeth in the dark over the injustice done to you was the very monster you had been so wary of. Thankfully, your wall of caution wasn’t too high as before to reach—yet he simply chose to circle around and not jump the gun yet.
But that being said,
Asher truly couldn’t understand where that small reserve of your pride go—so readily offered to everyone else, especially him when you were busy being ‘professional’—yet nowhere in sight once you were clocked out for the day?
Where was it when it came to putting your foot down in front of them and least claiming one selfish wish of your own?
── Should I just get rid of them?
The thought came so easily to the blue-eyed Devil.
An immediate fix, but then his resolve…faltered a bit.
Thinking of your face after.
You’d be left sad.
Heartbroken.
So begrudgingly he decided to keep waiting.
Wait for you to realize on your own what a waste of time it had all been—and for you to notice.
Notice the outsider who had more intentions than to just trespass.
And whisk you away somewhere safe to tend to all your forgotten needs himself.
── Just give me a chance and I’ll make it all happen for you, baby.
But you didn’t given him a chance.
Not even once.
Something that would end up being the bane of your existence.
Still tethered to that duty of yours—morals and restraint he seemed to lack.
Restraint that didn’t tame the blue-eyed Devil into something too harmless—but enough to be a bloodhound following your scent trail instead.
His mind had been too crowded with thoughts of you to hear the murderous noise. (Progress? Ha.)
He had watched you—not only from the hospital room, but everywhere else you existed.
Your shared place with the ‘family’.
The hillside valley walk to your school.
The orphanage you returned to, again and again, searching for solace and never finding any, for you were too lost in your thoughts to look behind.
He was always there—following you to make sure you made it home safe at night, for the lights would be already turned off.
Quietly and carefully trailing behind to learn what you’d never tell him—too busy drawing lines that were always meant to blur in the end.
As he couldn’t stop thinking he would do a better job protecting your heart than you ever had.
Than the fools you’d handed it to without a second thought.
The envy burned so deep that it made him bleed—literally.
Nosebleeds.
Bloody tears.
The day it struck him in all its entirety and so came the realization—making sure you didn’t see him for the whole time as he stayed under covers with a face so red that any denial would be impossible.
So, he didn’t.
Not anymore.
── This…What is this if not ‘love’?
And so, he concluded that he had utterly and pathetically fallen for you.
For he couldn’t imagine living without you.
Asher confessed the next day—with his face back to looking pristine, perfect.
Bared his soul—whatever little light was captured in the void under your name.
And…
…he was rejected, of course.
But what else could the blue-eyed Devil be, if not the greater fool—repeating the same offer, again and again, remaining your sole devotee, hopeful each day that his foolish Goddess would eventually recognize it as the only truth worth accepting?
Because for all his desire to hoard your heart entirely, something about you had convinced the evil man that he, too, could be good.
That illusion wasn’t meant to last…but in hindsight, he was glad to get carried away in the act.
As something did shift by the end.
It was subtle yet violent.
Because all his efforts seemed to have finally paid off—not because you accepted him, but because he saw it.
Saw you.
Truly in denial.
And no.
This time, it wasn’t one of his delusions.
Because indeed,
After six months of honing professional resolve, so neatly masked as pity—it cracked.
Just for a second. That split-second of longing you despised yourself for surfaced when he told you there were plans being made for his discharge soon.
That you would never see him again.
You stayed silent.
Busied yourself with meaningless tasks.
But he felt it.
Even if not as deeply as you’d affected him—it was enough.
So why couldn’t you say it?
That you loved him too.
Was love not the right word for it?
“Then… what is it?”
He asked softly, his fingers had closed around your wrist from behind—so gentle it would have been dishonest to even call it a tug at all. You had always been wary of him. Because of that, he had learned—consciously and unconsciously—to be careful with you. Tender, even. Especially then, despite the violent urgency curiously clawing at his chest.
Asher wanted to see your eyes.
Instead, you shrugged his hand away coldly after a moment of caving in (at least that was what he had assumed it to be) as you turned to face him with quiet hostility, offering no answer at first.
Then—slowly, inevitably—his persistence wore on you. Your frustration surfaced, and with it came excuses. Allegations. Not entirely unfounded, but still—
He hadn’t expected you to be this…narrow-minded too.
Holding grudges on your friend’s behalf when she herself carried none, at least as far as he knew. Drawing lines where you thought they belonged: status, disparity. Him—rich, famous. You—ordinary, just trying to exist beneath attention you had never asked for.
It made sense.
And he would have thrown it all away. The idol life. The fame. Every spotlight—just to open a café near your place.
But then something strange happened.
The moment his gaze softened, something visceral flickered across your face—as if you had been warned of it in advance. As if you had been told exactly what to say if everything failed.
But as he was about to catch on by himself, you fumbled in the ‘script’.
“Y-You can get anyone you want.”
“I can be easily replaced.”
And the worst of all:
“What you’re feeling right now—it’s temporary. It’s called transference, and it happens when—”
He left out of the window of his room before you could finish.
Because he refused to believe it had all been you.
The wrath came in fast.
Clean.
Someone had tried to drive a wedge in between—and that Asher found to be unforgivable.
Because it was after he had made it very clear that you were the sole reason life had felt worth living again for him.
His special person.
His Goddess.
His future wife.
And just when everything felt perfect—
The businessman had to try and ruin it, for some fucked-up business logic Asher couldn’t be bothered to care about.
── I thought we could part ways amicably, Ahjusshi.
── But I guess you much prefer covering up a bigger scandal instead, huh? Ha. Sure, bring it on.
Words had been exchanged.
Things happened—the Devil was left shaken for a bit, but he clung to the useless hope that you’d soften once for him at least.
You were ‘good’ after all, weren’t you?
But alas, Asher found out being good does not always equal nice—as you remained a wall.
More unyielding and hostile than before.
Telling him everything he’d done had been for nothing.
“Nothing? …Really?”
His words barely carried, sounding defeated. He didn’t look up at your face—only at your hand, clenched tight at your side.
He didn’t dare touch you this time—sinking in a gloom he himself wasn’t aware of as he watched as you fisted it harder, voice trembling with frustration as you said yes. That you’d never fall for someone like him.
Not even if he were the last person left.
You sounded more upset than he’d hoped for.
Agitated.
Tired.
Probably exhausted from rejecting him over and over again.
── Right. Of course.
Wanting him to stop.
Before you cracked again.
“This doesn’t end with us, because there is no ‘us,’ Asher. I can only offer you my sympathy as a nurse. Nothing more.”
Yet it wasn’t his imagination for a tiny fissure came, before you left, you murmured the harsh truth under your fed-up breath that was lifetime of regret to come in disguise—
“Maybe in another lifetime where you’re less evil and I’m more blind.”
And that was all that was needed.
He remained silent.
However, that silence wasn’t restraint.
A core memory had just been formed.
As you had reminded the blue-eyed Devil who he was.
── Ah, I see...
── Makes sense.
For who was he, if not a “good,” selfish devotee, bound to fulfil his Goddess’ deepest, darkest desire?
He remained pitiful for days after.
Still behaved, playing it ‘safe’ and ‘sane’.
All while something snapped—clean and final—inside him as he plotted in the dark.
Because honestly speaking:
What, really, was stopping him from being unapologetically evil but your immediate unhappiness and discomfort that would follow?
You would be upset.
Sure.
He would be making too many big decisions on your behalf.
But still,
── For how long?
── Eventually she’ll grow tired and come to forgive me, won’t she?
He smiled.
A little too wide.
A little too pleased.
Pride swelled alongside the slow, blooming obsession as the void inside him answered on command for once—swallowing the last flicker of humanity the moment he stepped past the point of no return.
The day he eloped with you in his arms.
Your body slack against his chest.
Breath shallow.
Unconscious—unaware of how thoroughly your destiny had already braided itself into his.
Fate strings of red and black intertwined.
And still, the only thing that kept the blue-eyed Devil descending deeper into the dark with you was hope—that he didn’t deserve but stole.
Hope that you had already seen him at his worst—
and still felt something beyond pity.
So why couldn’t it happen again?
Or better yet—
── I’ll make sure you don’t mistake it for anything but love, this time.
── And…
“…I’ll always be here to remind you of ‘us’, baby. So don’t worry, and just relax, alright?”
His voice had been soft. Almost reverent.
Lovesick azure eyes traced your face, lingering—as if caressing your unfocused, hazy ones with a tenderness that bordered on sinful worship. Consciousness drifted in and out of you, sedated and restrained in the softest, cushiony cuffs imaginable, secured to the bed you would someday share as a couple.
He brushed stray strands of hair behind your ear with care, as though afraid of waking you further—then pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead.
Only then did he move.
The syringe needle gleamed briefly before disappearing into your skin.
Not just to sedate but flood your system with the ‘cure’—quiet and deliberate to slowly erase the traces of a life that had never truly belonged to you in the end to make room.
Space—
for him.
“In a life where I’ll be less evil and you’ll be more blind. Just like you want it, my love.”
He had whispered it into the unconscious ear of the old you, as if bidding her farewell. Teardrops slipped from his bejewelled blues as he stroked your head listlessly—convincing himself, desperately, that this was something he could pretend for the rest of your lives together.
Or at least, that was what he truly once believed.
Because even in carving out that space, he would come to realize you needed time.
A lot of time to absorb your new shared reality together.
To learn to trust him.
To build new memories with him—to fill in the void you now came to share with the blue-eyed Devil.
He knew he couldn’t be too suffocating.
So, he learned to teeter the line during the day.
At night, he didn’t bother.
After all, his schedule as an idol—however relaxed, however dictated on his own terms—had been both a blessing and a curse. It gave you space. Or rather, it made it look like you were the one waiting for him instead.
Not that he sold that illusion particularly well—far too eager to grovel at your feet whenever the opportunity arose.
But while it was true that everyone deserves a little break from each other, from time to time…
…Asher couldn’t help but doubt…
(Present time—)
…hadn’t it already been plenty of time for you to crave him back?
So then why—despite the exhaustion shadowing your stubborn eyes—did you remain so deliberately checked out, content to scribble on your tablet instead of sparing him a glance?
And why did it unsettle him so deeply—
when this wasn’t even his first rodeo?
Was it because he felt like a child left alone with a plate of cookies—explicitly told not to touch them by the cookies themselves?
── What the fuck is even that analogy???
…
── Ugh, I must be losing my goddamn mind.
He scoffed to himself, unable to understand. Unable to see the exhaustion carved beneath his own eyes—something that would’ve required a mirror pulled from the kitchen countertop.
And yet the fifth cup of black-pure tar coffee hovering at his absentminded lips, his grip faintly unsteady, told a different story altogether—one he remained oblivious to, just as he stayed barely conscious of the pink-haired maknae seated across from him.
Too bad his listless, ashen blues were far too transfixed on you—his still-upset, questionably blind Goddess—to notice the worrisome, guilt-ridden greys stealing glances his way.
But alas, for once, you seemed entirely uninterested in completing the one-way triangle at all—your apathetic gaze remaining firmly glued to the screen.
Because you were only just getting started with your break.
A complex emotion that remains stubbornly hard to define in words—better understood through actions, and yet, often falling short of being expressed at all.
The ultimate vulnerability paired with the greatest strength—omnipresent, and still a paradox in itself. As one clings to it knowing its shape will inevitably change or fade with time.
And while it can be disheartening to search for it amid grand, pretentious gestures—only to realize too late that it exists somewhere in the quiet, constant hum of commitment to another—whether a family member, a friend, or a lover.
The unwavering choice to show up when it truly matters.
To give in to the simple gravitational pull of attraction and care—that makes the vulnerability worth the risk.
Wouldn't it be nice if love were that simple to define?
But sadly, not everyone can be trusted with it, nor bring themselves to commit to the feeling unconditionally, as the media so often portrays.
The closest one might come to understanding love in its purest form is through the bond between a mother and her child—and yet, even that has ceased to be a universal truth in today's world for one reason or another.
To someone like Asher, if one were to explain the concept of love in such terms, he'd make sure to steer clear of it altogether.
A foolish nuisance that could only bring more trouble than good.
But alas, he had been lured in first—before ever being allowed to read the terms and conditions, at age five.
Still stuck paying the price for an old, expired feeling—a drag he barely understood—when he'd much rather build a new, different, far more thrilling version of his own, with you in mind.
Which was one thing, alright.
But who was going to tell the Devil that true love of any kind had no expiration date to mark?
And that it certainly wasn't something he could so easily shed, like a snake sloughing off its old skin.
Call it having a sixth sense or simple intuition,
Asher knew the living area had long been abandoned by the maknae, who had been trembling like a leaf until before—out of guilt, and something else the blue-eyed Devil was determined to uncover.
That was why he went straight toward the guestroom, knocking once before entering upon getting no response—his steps unhurried.
After all, he had become quite the expert at finding the maknae curled up in corners like a frightened mouse, waiting for him to crouch lower in intimidation. A sense of déjà vu lingered between them each time they fell into old patterns—the last, of course, being the little stunt before Asher had brought him to the Cabin under the guise of treatment.
But when he opened the door, he was surprised to find the maknae already asleep on the bed.
As he sighed, locking the door behind him.
It seemed the talk would have to wait until morning.
The blue-eyed idol had half expected Nex to use another tactic to avoid him—but this time, Asher knew the grey-eyed boy wasn't pretending.
He was, indeed, fast asleep.
The absence of goosebumps upon his arrival, and the bottle of sleeping pills that he seemed to have found without your help, on the bedside table—were proof enough.
── Well, at least I don't have to pretend to be a good guy for a while.
── Never found it so utterly exhausting until now.
He exhaled, refusing to admit it had been one of the longest worst days possible.
Picking up Nex's phone from the side table, he unlocked it as casually as if it were his own—scrolling through it for any trace of dirt on the so-called "sharks".
But, of course—
All the chats had already been deleted.
Asher clicked his tongue in quiet frustration.
── How...cumbersome.
── You simply love making my life more complicated, don't you?
He shot an annoyed glance toward the sleeping maknae before setting the device aside for a later scavenger hunt.
He could always get the right person to hack into retrieving the deleted logs—but it would be far easier to corner Nex in person and make him spill the bag of breadcrumbs he hadn't mind sharing with you, just him.
Still, it was clear someone had suddenly made up his mind to hide everything against your better judgement and faith.
── Can't believe you were rooting for someone who wants nothing more than to be furthest away from being saved by me, love.
── You were far too soft to trust this attention-seeking boy.
He scoffed, though his languid blues still had the interest left to circle the sleeping maknae as he stepped closer.
The pink-haired idol didn't look blissfully asleep—nor lost in a nightmare.
Stress lines marred his unconscious face, his forehead glistening faintly with perspiration. From the way his eyelids pressed tightly shut, it was clear he'd been in a hurry to escape reality after taking the pill.
The one pill—and not a reckless handful in an overdose attempt—
Something Asher didn't even need to check the bottle to know it was empty.
For he'd made sure to leave only one inside, and to check for any refills daily.
Since you detested taking them anymore to help with sleep, it left the maknae as the only one likely to reach for it when in need—like at present.
── I couldn't exactly have him dying on me now, could I?
His thought to justify his actions was crude as ever, though all signs did point toward something serious—or at least something the maknae found unusually stressful all of a sudden—
As out of old habit, Asher placed his much cooler hand on the maknae's warm forehead to feel his body temperature.
His dark brows furrowed slightly.
A low-grade fever, it seemed.
Ideally, he would've gotten the thermometer just to be sure—but given the symptoms he'd seen before, something told him this was a side effect of the treatment he'd been secretly administering upon Nex.
Among the many, there were perhaps others he hadn't yet seen—or wouldn't see—manifesting.
For he had decided to stop it entirely.
Believing it had reached its limits with the boy and done what it intended to do... and a bit more.
Though he couldn't quite fathom the damage from the surface.
Let alone realize the pink-haired one wasn't suffering from any ordinary fever, but the psychogenic kind—triggered by a bout of hypersexuality, a lasting side effect that had taken root within his so-far innocent mind. Apart from the ethical delirium he already carried, even without it—of course.
All of which remained locked deep within Nex's mind, continuing to wrestle in his unconscious mind as he stiffened slightly—giving Asher the wrong impression that he was the one triggering the boy's flight-or-fight response again.
Instinctively, he withdrew his hand.
But when he saw the maknae squirm more in reaction, his blue eyes narrowed with...intrigue.
Slowly, he placed his hand back on Nex's forehead and watched as the boy unconsciously leaned into his soothing touch.
Asher stared—his mouth slightly agape in surprise—realizing the possibility, that perhaps, the pink-haired maknae was... touch-starved for physical affection.
── Is...that why you let your guard down that easily around her too?
He wasn't even aware of it, but that was the first time something eerily similar to empathy flickered through him—born out of a strange, momentary sense of shared brotherhood with someone he once saw as part of his own identity, but no more.
It had been a while since Asher had been this close to Nex.
Or perhaps, the right way to put it would be that he had taken notice of it just now.
To feel the faint warmth radiating from him, to hear the soft rhythm of his breathing—without the boy flinching or retreating behind walls built out of fear and defiance, albeit asleep.
No schemes, no battles of will.
Just stillness. Just this fragile, quiet in-between.
It felt almost foreign.
When was the last time he'd been able to simply look at him this way, to reach out and stroke his head without the armor of pretense?
Probably back when Nex was a toddler and had still seen him as his savior—
Not the cold-blooded monster he had always been underneath it all.
A sweet lie Asher had secretly wished would last longer than it had.
But like all good things, it had withered away under the weight of truth and time.
His brows furrowed, a peculiar ache forming in his chest as his fingers absently threaded through the maknae's soft pink curls, fidgeting with strands whose darker roots were starting to show.
As much as they looked different at first glance,
With dark hair, they looked the most similar.
Almost related.
── I suppose it's time for a retouch again.
── Though I still think wigs are a better investment in the long run for people like us.
── But you never really listen to exactly what I have to say, do you?
── Just enough to give everyone the illusion that you're listening to me, isn't that, right?
He scoffed under his breath, yet his fingers continued their lazy rhythm, combing through Nex's hair as if on instinct. His icy eyes softened—unwillingly—watching how the sleeping boy seemed to relax further under his touch, his expression losing that perpetual tension.
It was... strange.
The action. The reaction.
And yet, in that fragile, wordless lull, Asher simply let himself feel.
Just for a moment.
Until reality managed to intrude his mind again.
He tugged lightly at a pink curl, muttering with the petulance of a villain denied his script.
── Ugh, but I still don't understand how you managed to convince your noona to be such a goodie two-shoes, even after everything I did to ruin your image in her eyes.
A part of him wanted to yank harder, to remind himself who held control—but he only sighed instead, remembering your face.
The way you'd be more upset if he'd act upon that petty desire of his—despite no eyes watching.
So, he restrained himself, as if only for that.
Still, the exhaustion pressed heavy on him. The jealousy too.
He bent closer, voice low, vulnerable in its mockery tease.
"It's like you put her under a better spell than mine, and I don't like it one bit."
He chuckled softly, though there was no humour in it—only something brittle, raw.
"I almost thought you were trying to steal my wife here," he whispered, the confession slipping free easier than he expected. "Ha. Why would you let her have her way with you, you fool?"
Um so...
Who's going to tell him?...
...Perhaps no one after all.
"But it's fine," he murmured, his tone turning darkly tender, like velvet draped over a knife. "As long as you remember to never cross the line."
The possessiveness in his voice softened only slightly, as if meant to soothe rather than warn. "I won't get mad at you again. I promise."
Sure, buddy.
Let's see how long that promise lasts.
But the words kept coming, each one heavier, sharper—cutting closer to something he wasn't ready to admit.
"And you see..." he paused, a faint tremor beneath the calm, "I don't like what's mine all mixed together with something else."
Because then, before he could stop himself—
"...I like to enjoy them both separate."
The moment the words left his lips, he froze.
Both?
Did he just admit—
── No I did not.
"Fuck off." He lowly cursed to himself, as if catching himself mid-sin.
A rush of heat crawled up his neck. He straightened abruptly, face twisting in something between disbelief and shame. The great manipulator—flustered by his own truth.
He told himself it was nonsense.
Just a meaningless ramble. Nothing more.
There wasn't even a drop of alcohol in his veins, yet he felt drunk—on tension, on memory, on something far more dangerous.
The mirror caught him from the side, reflecting the faint tremor in his jaw.
But he refused to look.
Refused to acknowledge the ghost staring back at him.
So then, he left.
Quietly again.
His brows stayed knitted together as he stepped into the hall, not angry—just... unsettled.
Haunted by something he couldn't quite name.
And then he stopped.
Because there you were.
Standing near the living area, waiting—eyes finding his across the dim light.
And for a heartbeat, his world stilled all over again.
Arms folded, pacing back and forth, your expression had been previously clouded then cleared—
when you saw him step out of the guestroom. Trying to mask the nervous look on your face the best you could manage.
But Asher had noticed it already, of course.
That fleeting softness—the way your anxiety ridden shoulders had tensed, the way your caught off-guard lips parted before you forced them still.
It told him everything needed to know.
That you'd been far too worried.
For something that, in his mind, he had complete control over from the start.
He couldn't help but chuckle, the sound low, caught somewhere between mischief and relief.
Still buoyed by the rare, fragile feeling of having behaved himself, he said with a hint of boyish sincerity, "(Don't worry) He fell asleep already."
"Oh."
Your voice came out lighter than you expected. A quiet sigh of relief slipped through before you could stop it. "I see."
The tone was soft—almost maternal, the way someone might react to hearing that a restless child had finally been put to sleep by the other parent.
But that wasn't it, obviously.
The bizarre sense of comfort lasting only for a breath.
And before he could say anything else, you cleared your throat, turned on your heel, and walked briskly back toward the couch. Pulling the blanket from the armrest, shook it out, and laid it down with a pillow, your movements were brisk—too deliberate.
He blinked, confused.
Before it hit him.
" Wait-."
── Don't tell me she's planning to sleep in here—
"-But baby, I did exactly what—"
Asher started, his voice rising in genuine confusion, frustration spilling through the cracks. He'd done everything right this time. Exactly the way you liked.
Ok so, correction.
Maybe not exactly, but didn't you understand that he had everything under his control?
So why—why was this happening again, and worse this time?
As you cut him off coldly. "Don't."
The word meant to be sharp, final.
And before he could even attempt another excuse, you added, "Otherwise, I'll be sleeping on the couch every night from now on."
That silenced him.
But his expression spoke volumes.
── Why? Why are you doing this right now?
── You know you won't be able to sleep well in here without me by your side-
── -Fuck! Why can't you just admit you need me as much as I do?!
And yet, he stood there, caught between guilt and disbelief, watching as you stubbornly arranged your makeshift bed.
Every fold of the blanket, every defensive glance, every inch you put between him and you—it all felt like another sentence added to his eternal punishment for Judgement Day.
And maybe, in some way, it was.
To him however, it felt like an overreaction.
After all, the kiss he'd stolen—
── You kissed me back, didn't you?
── So baby...why?
Yet none of his soft sighs, none of his quiet, almost childlike pouts changed your mind.
You wouldn't even look at him.
He lingered near-ish like a kicked puppy on the side, watching you for almost an hour.
Waiting for you to relent.
For your shoulders to drop.
For that tiny flicker of softness, he'd always known how to coax out of you.
But it never came.
So finally, with a weary exhale, he gave up.
He turned and retreated upstairs, slow and reluctant, glancing back with his baby blue eyes every few steps like a boy leaving behind a closed door that still mattered far too much.
He hoped the night apart might help.
That distance might do what words and touch couldn't.
That maybe, in the silence, your anger would thaw into something gentler.
But alas, it was a futile hope.
Because by the time morning came—
You were still downstairs.
And by the next night, still again.
Curled up on that same couch you with your growing dark circles under your eyes squeezed shut, blanket pulled up to your stubborn chin, as he lay awake upstairs too,
But of course, you were rightfully confused then—and even more so, when your already flawed logic flourished under the heat blooming in your chest—unable to deny the traitorous flutter that came along with merely locking your eyes with his icy blues.
And before you could decide if you had blurted something out aloud—
The choice was already made on your behalf.
Because in the very next second, his lips crashed onto yours—hot, desperate, and electrifying.
The world seemed to snap into sharp focus, every sense on edge as his kiss demanded your breath and will alike.
His hands shot up—possessive fingers cupping your face to hold steady. As his anchoring thumbs grazed the corners of your startled lips, to barely ask for that silent permission, before his tongue, wicked and insistent, claimed entry.
Overwhelmed but too flabbergasted to react, your face was tilted up, breath stolen—as he deepened the kiss into one of slow drowning,
Devouring with hungry, wretched gulps, as though he were drinking your very soul in exchange for every breath and shiver earned under your name.
Your name that his obsessed tongue ached to moan,
To hear his most favourite word that he had held from saying for far too long for his own ears, let alone yours.
Yet he didn’t do it, of course.
For reasons the triumphant smirk ghosting his lips, consuming yours—knew all too well.
It was raw, demanding, and claiming—
But only for a moment.
Not too excessive.
Not enough to scare you off.
No, he couldn’t let that happen now, could he?
He exhaled a warm, ragged breath into your mouth, intoxicatingly charged, intended to send the right tingles down your spine for all the wrong reasons—meant to get you high on that rich, addictive taste of his broken restraint.
Oh, you were so done for.
But just to be sure you knew he lacked no 'skills',
His long dark eyelashes fluttered slow, revealing trembling blues that sparked with desperation synonymous with his name. Each subtle movement a wordless plea for your attention, inviting you to behold him in all his vulnerable glory—
The only times he'd allow, though with the added condition to be claimed.
By you, the sole chosen beholder of his darkened soul.
As he made you feel the weight—
The utter ruin he was after the War of Words you had waged upon him.
── So please...no more, love.
And guess what?
As expected, your clouded eyes coaxed to be on him alone—fluttered shut, to escape the world around and perhaps, yourself too.
Before your already frayed resolve crumbled more, melting away with the sound of intertwined hearts—one cursed and other lost—as your fingers curled against the dark fabric of his shirt, ironically seeking an anchor in him amidst the ambush orchestrated by the man himself.
The void around you beckoned, further seducing your mind as you drew him closer—causing a low growl to rumble from his proud lips, before it turned into a sweet, submissive moan against yours.
Meant to please,
Meant to possess—
Before he was back to kissing you in the same familiar rhythm—intoxicatingly gentle and deliberately slow; to keep you drawn in, cocooned under his lustful veil of yearning to share, for as long as the night allowed.
The Game of Circles, it seemed, had finally come a full circle,
With you and him at its burning, collapsing core.
But just as the flames threatened to consume you whole,
Good sense clawed its way back into your mind.
Though, a bit too late.
As you didn’t just push him away,
You shoved him aside.
Looking far more upset than before,
Your eyes flown wide open—glimmering in pure disbelief and hurt.
At him.
And at the one reflected back in those shameless blues of his.
Trigger warning: mentions of substance ab*se, corruption, mental decline, sexual themes, heavy gaslighting, mental confusion, sociopathy, death, tragedy, dehumanization, infantilization, heavy angst, and (a lot of) manipulation.
An absurd level of power play had been stitched bare-skinned into your relationship as a couple, even during the most mundane moments—for talking did happen, on the rare occasions you two weren’t busy nibbling and kissing each other.
And yet, those short-lived conversations always managed to spiral into circles because of a certain someone.
It took real grit to turn “beating around the bush” into an Olympic-level sport—
and your blue-eyed lover seemingly always had plenty to offer.
To be a villain to a villain took skill most would lose—or fail to even recognize—especially when stripped and locked in a cage. A golden one, at that.
All fun and games until it wasn’t.
As being seduced didn’t mean you were blind to the way his sly lips and skilled hands worked to gently smother any signs of resistance.
Just because you couldn’t remember didn’t mean you hadn’t realized the insidious way he seized control of the narrative every time.
You were amnesiac, not a fool.
And yet, it was hard not being treated like one in the name of being his goddess.
Alas.
Perhaps you both carried unspoken complaints about each other—festering quietly in the cracks of what could barely pass for a relationship. Though, leaving no room for discussion about who bore the heavier burden, of course.
And still, you began preferring it to the alternative—those rare, dangerous moments when you dared to tread forbidden ground: when you asked him about your past. The one you couldn’t remember yet stubbornly believed was your right to know.
So then why—why had you burnt out so easily?
Given up on yourself so soon?
Well, because that’s exactly what he made sure would happen.
Because no matter how repetitive or painstaking it became—whenever you forgot and asked, that was when the bittersweet smile would grace his lips, his voice dripping with honey over something far colder beneath.
"Why do you want to recall something that’ll only ever bring you pain, baby?
The sinking feeling would follow—as he cooed the same haunting words again, slow and careful, like you were a child who needed each syllable spelled out.
"Besides… even if I tell you, you’ll forget it eventually."
You’d wear that same confused, frustrated expression—the one that made it clear you weren’t on the same page as him. Then he’d slow down for you, eyes brimming with concern, as if it hurt him to watch you struggle.
"Because of your sickness, remember?"
You’d falter, just for a moment—and he’d catch it, the blankness reflected back in his icy azures.
"Don’t tell me… you forgot that you’re ill, honey?"
You’d say no, shaking your head when your lips couldn’t seem to form the words.
Each time, a little slower, a little softer—hesitation creeping in like a bruise.
You’d promise him you’d remember what he told you.
Swear this time would be different.
Even if it had been far too long since you could recall what your sickness was even called—just the way it left you feeling: hollow. Unsteady. Fractured.
But it never mattered.
He’d begin the same way—if he began at all.
Or maybe it was you who asked the same questions, in the same predictable order.
Always starting with friends. Family.
A time before he’d “rescued” you—or rather, eloped with you out of love, since the world you came from, in his words, was ruthless and vastly different from his.
A world outside of him.
A world stricken with poverty and bleakness, according to him.
Perhaps you’d forgotten the exact details he mentioned, too.
Because surely, he wouldn’t have been so vague… right?
Whichever the case, the word orphan would surface again and again—never sticking long enough to hold, yet somehow always leaving you raw.
He’d look at you—those baby-blue eyes soft, his voice gentler than it had any right to be.
As if your confusion hurt him.
As if he carried it for you.
Then he’d pull you into his arms, hush you with his icy warmth, and smother the ache in silence.
And you’d be wrong to assume he’d let his guard lower when it ever came to anything yours—his refusal to utter your dead name however hauntingly beautiful and tempting, only the tip of the iceberg—
For he was too much in sync and prepared for any direct confrontation by you about your past.
Prepared for days when you found it difficult to let things go.
Days when your questions refused to fade.
And yet the few stubborn, isolated attempts you made to journal the answers were nothing he couldn’t conquer as your gentle two-faced lover.
Because you had a habit of misplacing your things, didn’t you?
No?
“Why then you must have forgotten it somewhere again, my dear."
“Are you sure you didn’t take it to the balcony or during your walk outside last time—ah, there you go, as I thought.
Balcony it seems this time.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it, love. It happens to me too sometimes and you…er well-”
“-Don’t worry about it too much, alright?"
Because most of your journals had gone missing far too often to be coincidence.
But that wasn’t an issue at all for your blue-eyed lover, who would always be there to sweetly console you each time—his tone soft and patient, the kind that felt like a hand resting on your shoulder while quietly guiding it where he wanted.
“It’s okay. No need to think about what's lost, baby. I'll get you a new one soon."
And true to his word, he would.
Until—over time—you began to unconsciously trust his word more than your own.
Began to believe that your ‘illness’ was truly to blame for the erosion of your memories—old ones, and eventually, even some of the new.
It was hard not to trust someone who seemed to know you more than you knew yourself.
And so you took the medicine he gave you religiously, to help with the occasional headaches and symptoms.
The prescription, as he had shown you a few times, was kept somewhere deep in the medical kit as proof—though he’d warned you early on not to go looking for it too often.
“Just in case you misplace it too, baby.”
Said with a soft, knowing look.
Said like it was for your own good.
He never let you grasp onto a sliver of the deepest truth for too long—
And eventually your dull eyes lost sight of its end.
Because he had made sure your old memories truly were lost—eaten away by time and chemical care—the short-term ones somehow still intact…
Well, at least in theory.
Since they were being actively bent, softened, reshaped.
To seem like they, too, were “failing.”
Rewritten half-truths mixed with his lies.
Bent by the careful handiwork of smoke and mirrors—
Until you began to distrust your own mind.
For a mind proven wrong on countless insignificant occasions, unrelated to the things that truly mattered was unreliable—
And soon ‘you’ became an afterthought to your own self.
Perhaps he wasn’t even aware of the profound damage he had carved into you.
Since the day you stopped being a person, and his soul-emotion.
Yet that wouldn’t erase the fact that being part of his *all-consuming obsession *had taken its toll on your mind—
Slowly eroding the conscious will to ask anything personal,
Until everything dissolved into something quieter.
Numbing.
Accepting.
For you were no fool.
But you were an exhausted goddess bound to a vile, relentless devotee—
Stuck playing a losing game each time.
So perhaps, you could stop blaming yourself for switching tactics.
Because whether your desire to inflict pain upon the one responsible for your living demise would outweigh the receding good within, was no longer a simple question of will—
But of time.
And of him.
.
--- x ---
.
Deep down, Asher knew that keeping you by his side wouldn’t be an easy feat.
And though he hadn’t truly intended for you to go down the path of becoming the worst version of yourself in the process—it simply didn’t matter if that was the only way you’d remain bound to him.
Nothing you had ever done, or would ever do, could make him regret the choice he made—to settle on you as his ‘soulmate’, to knot his black string of fate with your severed red one, and let his darkness seep into your veins like slow poison.
Because he knew that no matter how low you, his goddess, would fall—you would be no match for the evil he was.
It was nothing to be too proud of, but he knew how to kill.
How to strip life down to its trembling core—the raw, primal need to survive. Be it animal or human, the fear of death is universal. And the times it was served cold by the bored, blue-eyed Devil himself—let’s just say most prey found themselves transfixed beneath his glacial gaze, paralyzed—until it was far too late to escape.
But you—
You didn’t have it in you to kill, did you?
Not even him.
Not even when Asher handed you opportunity after opportunity to end it, before he gave in to his desire to claim you for himself.
Ha. Perhaps you didn’t take his eccentric words too seriously then.
Perhaps you thought his obsession would fade with time—a cliché case of a patient falling in love with their caregiver.
But did you truly believe a two-faced, blue-eyed, mixed-race K-pop idol with countless fans across the globe would fall for a random nurse doing the bare minimum for him?
Why, yes. Of course.
Because while you were barely aware of your own worth—the hidden jewel you were, and instead saw yourself as nothing more than a Jane Doe—it was painfully clear from day one that he was far from being an average Joe spiralling.
Whether it was his ethereal looks or performative actions, Asher always presented himself as a challenge—depending on the intensity of his boredom and the volatility of his mood swings.
A challenge that could plague anyone for life, if they caught the wrong kind of attention in his eye.
Each gesture of his, each glance from him, carried an icy edge—an invitation and a warning intertwined. Depending on the temperature of his moods, his presence could enchant or destroy—though at his lowest, the preference was always the latter option.
He was the kind of challenge that was ready to brand itself onto an unsuspecting soul, a curse one could never quite shake off once they had caught the wrong flicker of interest in his eye.
And alas, it happened to be you.
The wrong one at the wrong time.
You—who did not lack fear but lacked the good sense to stay away.
You—who approached him when he was drenched in red filth.
Not out of kindness—no, he wasn’t fortunate enough as others to see that side of you first.
It was hate at first sight.
Or maybe something worse.
You tried to be indifferent, but your sense of obligation—to your work, to your so-called family—kept dragging your gaze back to him.
And though he despised the idea of someone like you being tethered to those undeserving parasites, he couldn’t deny that your old ties were the very reason he’d gotten the chance to see who you truly were on the inside—soft and good.
A hard-shelled empath, the exact opposite of what he was.
So of course, his calculated fascination was well-fed by the end of his stay at the hospital—after watching the brave, naïve you try and fail to protect them from him.
To save them.
To stand between the monster and his prey.
How tragically adorable of you to assume that he wanted to destroy them for fun, toying with lives merely for his amusement. When in truth, it had never been about them at all—it was always about you.
Every flicker of chaos, every cruel word, every carefully crafted test thrown your way—was meant to break you open, to pull you out of your shell. To make certain, once and for all, that you were the one he had been searching for all along—something he hadn’t even realized he was doing at first.
And by the time he did, the realization changed nothing at all.
It only further solidified his resolve to have you.
And if living with the real him for life was a hard pill for you to swallow, then he’d keep your eyes closed and play House with you for as long as it took.
After all, he had seen what you were capable of giving to those fools you mistook for being good—those spineless weaklings who hid behind your kindness.
So, how could he possibly miss the chance to claim all that love for himself?
To hoard it by pretending to be the docile fool instead of the mastermind who had willingly handed you his leash, allowing you to roam free—within bounds that were his own.
Perhaps, though, he’d indulged a little too deeply in the act.
Because once again, another one of your little stunts managed to catch him off guard—against his will.
.
--- x ---
.
It had felt strange, watching you scold him with your chest—hostile and endearing all at once. A combination Asher hadn’t experienced from you in quite some time, not since last night.
As your lover, he always made it a point to behave, to tread carefully even when your stubbornness flared and you dared to dig into the shadows of your past.
He had made sure to be gentle, patient, his words dipped in honey to coax you back to where you belonged—never realizing that his sweetness only left a bitter aftertaste on your tongue, one that lingered beneath every soft, persuasive kiss of his.
But this time, the blue-eyed sociopath lacked the right context to act.
What were you so angry about?
When he had far more reasons to be?
And yet, he didn’t dare glance at the clumsy, pink-haired idol beside you again—his azure eyes fixed solely on your face instead, upset yet tender, as you granted him a fleeting drop of attention before turning away with a huff.
It was bizarre.
Your reaction, your comfort around Nex after barely a day spent together without Asher—it all gnawed at him.
And yet, all the latter could manage in that moment was to fetch himself an actual mooncake from the pantry, hoping to make sense of the absurd situation—or at least get you to soften, out of pity or guilt.
Either would do. Either could serve as an opening.
But alas, neither did.
You weren’t swayed in the slightest. A brief glance at the sweet treat in his hand was all you spared him before diving back into your monologue about mooncakes—dissecting everything related and unrelated just to keep yourself occupied with the maknae beside you.
The mute, trembling kitten of a boy, whose feverish storm-grey eyes blinked seldomly as he ate the crumbs from his palm, gaze locked on you as though he knew it was dangerous to look anywhere else.
Whatever the case, none of it gave Asher anything to work with—just like before.
And that, coupled with his earlier assumptions, did little to quiet the irritation simmering beneath his skin.
It felt like walking straight into one of your traps—not that he hadn’t already, but this time it was deliberate. More of a conscious choice.
Because this time, he wanted the confrontation.
He wanted to talk.
No pretence, no games, no carefully orchestrated power plays—just clarity.
To understand why you were suddenly so on edge with him.
Because this felt like a reaction born more than mere jealousy.
His fingers clenched unconsciously around the mooncake, crushing it in his palm as his jaw tightened.
Perhaps,
Did you remember something you weren’t supposed to?
Like the one time he—
“Didn’t know you liked yours perfectly mushed together.”
“…Huh?” Asher muttered, blinking out of his thoughts as he noticed you staring at him—unamused. His gaze dropped to the mangled mooncake in his hand, realization dawning just as he tried to respond. “Baby, I—”
But you beat him to it.
“I guess we still have a lot to learn about each other, don’t you think?”
You meant it as a comment between lovers, but your words carried an edge—like you already knew he was guilty of something.
But let’s not forget—your lover was the Devil himself.
── So...are we back on talking terms now?
Sure, your jab caught him off guard, but he was a master of deflection.
── How sweet of you to let me know, honey. I'm truly moved.
And since you’d given him a few seconds to recover, he couldn’t help but crack a sheepish smile, voice soft and raw as he replied, “I don’t know, do we? Maybe we should talk about it then—just the two of us.”
It was the smoothness of those words, paired with the lovey-dovey gaze he gave you—almost smug, as if he already knew what you wanted to say and was all ears for it.
But that wasn’t entirely true.
The crushed mooncake in his hand said enough to remind you not to lower your guard anytime soon.
“Yeah, maybe not today,” you retorted sharply.
“You must be tired already. Maybe you should go to bed early tonight—”“—Won’t you ask me.”
You paused, thrown off by his interruption.
Confused and a bit suspicious—you met his baby blues, which remained calm, unwavering, almost too soft as he repeated himself like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Won’t you ask me how my day was, babe?”
You didn’t need a detective to figure out why those words made your stomach twist. The way he said it—the tone you’d heard countless times before—brought with it all the memories of what usually followed.
There had been nights when you indulged him, laughing despite yourself; others when you tried to ignore him, only to end up pinned under his tickling fingers or trapped in his warm embrace. He’d whisper how much he missed you when he was away, no matter how brief the separation, before teasingly asking if you’d missed him too—always ending in a playful mix of chuckles and stolen kisses.
So, of course, the memory of all that left you momentarily tongue-tied—embarrassed, almost afraid he’d try the same in front of an audience.
The audience being the maknae, now blushing furiously on your behalf.
But one glance at pitiful Nex was enough to snap you out of it, and you blurted, perhaps a bit too quickly, “Geez, should I? You weren’t even away for a full day this time, you know.”
Asher’s smile faltered.
That… stung more than it should have.
He knew you had a habit of saying one thing and meaning another.
But somehow, with his baby brother present, your remark hit differently. His pride took a dent, and the calm façade began to crack.
“So then why are you two filling yourselves with snacks?” he asked, tone deceptively casual. “I suppose we should just have dinner since I’m already here.”
(Translation: Admit it, honey—you were waiting for me, and I’ll let it go.)
But this time, he had nothing on you. You flashed him the most mean-girl smile possible and said bluntly, “Not really. Nex and I ate lunch two hours ago, so we’re quite full.”
“Aren’t we, Nex?” you added sweetly, looking at the latter for a response. His slightly puffed cheeks—crumbs on the corner of his hesitant lips—were all the proof you needed as you turned back to your lover, whose expression had already soured.
Because the way you said we—not once, but twice—was enough to set off something territorial inside him. Getting on his nerves was one thing, but did you have to twist the knife like that?
“Hm,” you went on coolly, “Maybe you should eat dinner by yourself then, since neither of us plan to eat anytime soon.”
Ha.
Heartless didn’t even begin to cover it.
Shameless seemed more fitting.
Still, your lover wasn’t one to back down from a game—especially one he hadn’t agreed to play.
“No, it’s fine,” he said finally, smiling a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “My hunger just died.”
He waited, unblinking, to see how you’d respond.
You didn’t take long though.
“Oh, that’s too bad,” you said flatly, before adding with a razor-edged smile, “But at least that means you won’t have to go to bed on an empty stomach, so I guess it’s not all bad.”
Your grin could’ve cut glass, as you refused to break eye contact first.
So…
How exactly was this supposed to help fix things between Nex and his hyung again?
Nevertheless,
Then came Asher’s soft scoff—a sound sharp enough to make the maknae flinch as your brows furrowed instantly too. As he seemed to study your face, searching for something—perhaps a flicker of love in the unfamiliar hate he’d grown so used to before.
But not anymore.
Not after everything he’d done to make you like him.
The question hovered on his tongue, but he swallowed it down, glancing at your hands instead. His voice came out quiet, disarming. “How ugly.”
“What?”
Your offense was immediate, expression darkening with venom.
He regarded you calmly—or at least pretended to.
“Why? Am I wrong, love? Didn’t you tell me once you hated getting your nails done? That you despised those gaudy designs? What was the word you used again? Ah right—‘suffocating.’”
He tilted his head, voice growing icier. “Isn’t that how you described the feeling of jewels grazing your nail beds? It must have been painful, pretending to like it—just to please someone who got a little too enthusiastic for his own good.”
His gaze finally shifted toward the neglected maknae, whose grey eyes looked like those of a deer’s caught in headlights as the blue-eyed Devil had found access to the weaker link of the two—and aimed straight for him. “Why the long face, Nex?” he asked smoothly. “Mind sharing what this is all about—”
“I wanted him to do my nails for me.”
The lie rolled off your tongue effortlessly unlike yourself, your stare blazing with challenge for the blue-eyed one.
“And I never called them ugly, did I now?”
“What good is having a better memory if you can’t use it right? I said the jewels were a bit much before, sure—but tastes change, don’t they?”
Your tone sharpened. “Besides, I prefer the way he did them for me. So maybe it’s just a skill issue on your end.”
Hold up.
Did—
Did he just hear that right?
S–Skill issue?
And him?
── You can’t possibly be serious right now.
“No need to be so salty over something neither of you can control. Some people are just more gifted in some areas than others.”
Being gifted was one thing—having no skill was another.
But as far as Asher had heard, you’d just implied he was neither.
Not even at par with his baby brother—
The one who was, in his mind, a point dumber than a squirrel and would’ve never survived this long without him.
So, the only thought swirling in his head now was to prove you wrong.
As for a moment, it felt like this so-called “skill issue” was a jab at a very different kind of art than nail design.
And so, all he wanted was for you to stop.
Because this conversation was spiralling straight to Hell,
and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold himself together—
His true colors already bleeding through, thick with the scent of jealousy.
Which was why he was almost glad when you dismissed him—
even if dishonourably so.
“I think you should just get some rest before you say something you regret.”
Finally, something you could both agree on.
“You know me so well, love,” he muttered—pale from restraint,
still half in disbelief that it had come down to him escaping first.
.
--- x ---
.
He shut himself in the bathroom.
No bloody tears this time to greet, no nosebleed to wipe away—just the seething, restless ache of feeling wronged.
An anger incomparable to yours, gnawing at the edges of his sanity as he exhaled sharply—
Forcing calm upon himself.
At some point, you’d come back to him.
You always did.
You needed him to sleep.
And the thought alone—of your body surrendering to the truth your lips refused to speak—
was enough to quiet his mind.
That he lacked no skills.
Only no shame or guilt.
Though his own pale reflection did little to reassure him, upon opening the bathroom door—
He was met with a surprise that indeed made the corner of his lips curve up.
Because there you were. Waiting.
His Darling, seated on the bed.
Troubled—restless, maybe even guilty.
He wasn’t sure how long you’d been waiting,
but it felt almost divine to meet your gaze again—eyes that sought only him.
── I knew you’d come back to me at some point, baby.
── Better late than never, I suppose.
Déjà vu seeped in.
Your eyes looked far too upset to ever go soft again.
Wait.
You were still upset?
He frowned.
Hadn’t you been the merciful one to let him go?
Or was that just a bluff—
a tactical retreat to continue the war upstairs?
But one look from you, cold and unwavering, answered everything.
“Did you really have to be so mean to him like that?”
Your voice was sharp, the edge honed by fury as you charged him guilty for every sin—
starting with the latest one at hand.
“He was just trying to lift my mood, which you ruined since… as far as I can remember.”
── ‘Remember?’
Was that what made you switch sides so easily?
Your words were too cryptic for comfort,
but he refused to jump to conclusions without the proper context.
Your fragmented mind could be far too fragile to break sometimes.
So, he treaded carefully—testing the waters as he struck where your heart was softest.
“I’m sorry, baby. But… I warned you, didn’t I?”
“I can’t help but get jealous when I see you close to another guy—especially in my absence.”
He didn’t say he didn’t trust you with Nex.
Didn’t accuse you of anything, either.
Because in truth, he wanted you to admit something—
that maybe, this whole act was your brand of jealousy.
That would be easier to stomach.
Simpler to forgive.
Speaking of your name—
If Nex had dared ask about it,
it would explain your strange behaviour.
But no.
Instead of giving him the reason straightaway, you truly wanted him to suffer for the answers he craved, didn’t you?
“This isn’t just about you being jealous, is it now?”
Another cryptic line from you.
Frustratingly so.
He thought, for a moment, that you were confessing—
until you threw the blade his way.
“Why won’t you tell me the truth?”
── Which...one?
He froze.
Because there were too many truths he was keeping from you.
And none of them were safe to tell.
Still, he tried to deflect—carefully.
“What truth? I don’t know what you’re talking about, baby—”
“Don’t call me that right now! Fuck!”
You suddenly snapped at him, getting off the bed to pace—your steps sharp, circling around to the far side.
His eyes widened slightly at your outburst, though the reaction was quickly masked behind that unreadable expression he seemed to wear—one that only managed to fuel your anger further.
“Why do you always have to treat me like a fucking child whenever you don’t want me to know something?”
You hated it—how toyed you felt again.
Hated how calm he could remain while you burned alive.
Every time he dismissed your curiosity,
Every time he silenced your questions with that condescending tenderness.
The will to know seemed to have faded—
but the phantom bruises his control left behind hadn’t.
He could see it too.
See it in your hands—your fingers shaking, your knuckles whitening as you fisted them to hide the tremor.
Though, through his perspective it looked almost clinical.
A soft spot ripe to exploit.
A damaged nerve to pick apart.
── So, it’s your name, is it?
── Do you need my help remembering it, dear? Or do you just wish to hear me say it. Love?
Infantilizing you during a conversation wasn’t accidental.
It had been a subtle way to regain control of the narrative so far.
And it had worked, just as he intended.
Well… seamlessly until now at least.
But he didn’t move closer.
He didn’t have to.
You seemed to be crumbling just fine.
Though, he was a bit surprised.
Couldn’t you tell by his seductive gaze that he saw you as no child of his?
── Just…a bit more.
And he’d have you back in the reach of his palm.
It was a setback, sure, but one he’d already accepted the shape of.
He still felt in control—enough to give you a gentle push toward surrender. “I see. I didn’t realize I was doing that.”
“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way—”
But then you cut him off with something entirely unexpected.
“-You told me that you were all alone, like me.”
For a moment, he seemed lost.
Until he seemed to caught onto your thought trail, his expression turned paler by the moment.
“That you had no family to go back to. But that was a lie, wasn’t it?”
You looked at him, eyes glassy with hurt and disbelief.
“You do have someone to call your own. Someone you look after—apart from me… don’t you?”
Oh no.
This was bad.
He could feel his mask slipping—not because the truth itself was catastrophic, but because that old taste of betrayal flooded his mouth again.
── No. He wouldn’t. He hasn’t… not until now.
This wasn’t about you discovering their blood ties.
It was about Nex—breaking his word after years of unflinching faith, despite the fear and hatred Asher knew still lingered in him.
And now, to have that secret exposed like this—something so intimate, so old—it felt as if he’d been stripped bare before you.
Not just his flesh, but his darkened soul.
Your lingering words stung too deeply.
Someone his own? Someone he looked after apart from you?
What the fuck were you even talking about?
He only cared about you.
Nex was a tool, a means to keep you safe.
You didn’t need to be close to that ungrateful brat.
All he managed to say, voice trembling despite himself, was the smallest thread of truth disguised as calm:
“Ah, that. Yes, we did share the same birth mother—but that’s all there is to it.”
But you didn’t look convinced.
So more spilled out.
“Our true identities being revealed would’ve compromised our lives in showbiz, so the lie came to exist.”
Fuck. Why was he even saying this?
He shouldn’t have been saying this.
And yet—there you were, looking at him, so willing to hear.
So, the bitterness managed to creep in.
“I…thought he would be able to keep his word till the end, but that spiteful brat couldn’t help himself, could he? Told you that just to drive a wedge between us, huh?”
You weren’t sure if he realized how he sounded—
less angry, more heartbroken about the misunderstanding.
Quite evident that a breach in trust was far greater of a blow in his books than anything at all. And assuming it came from the maknae it made him quite upset.
Like he was forcing himself to stay cold-nonchalant, doubling down on the villain role instead of trying for redemption.
It was pitiful to watch.
Like showing even a flicker of vulnerability would make him burn under the Sun.
But your sympathy—what little remained—was reserved for the maknae that night.
And you let him know as much.
“Perhaps you should turn that pointing finger of yours around, because it wasn’t Nex who spilled the beans first—it was you.”
“W-What’s that supposed to mean?”
His voice was barely a whisper, his blue eyes darting—confusion and disbelief flickering across his face like a fish pulled out of water.
“It might sound ridiculous,” you said, tone clipped and steady, “but I overheard you sleep-talk about it.”
“Impossible,” he muttered instinctively—like a man caught doing something far more illegal than what he’d actually been up to.
He forced a weak chuckle, pacing now, his hands raking through his dark hair until it stood in a dishevelled mess. “Come on now, love. You...don’t have to go that far for him, you know.”
“I’m simply telling you my truth,” you replied coolly, stepping closer, your pace measured, deliberate—stopping right at the edge of his side of the bed.
“It’s up to you if you choose to believe it or not. Don’t worry. I didn’t blackmail him, or force him to tell me anything about you two. It wasn’t my place to know more."
"And honestly, I had a nagging feeling that you wouldn’t want me to know any further. Isn’t that right?”
“T-That’s not true, love. Why would you say it like that?”
He scrambled, voice shifting into the familiar velvet tone of the manipulator.
“You know exactly why I prefer not burdening you with such nuisance of information—”
He switched gears effortlessly, slipping into the role he knew best, trying to pull you back in with the same sweetness that once worked.
But this time, you weren’t falling for it.
“Whatever. I don’t care,” you said, dismissive—casting out the bait with calculated nonchalance as you stepped back to your safe distance.
“But I did ask him how he’s been… without his hyung around.”
“Oh?”
That was all Asher managed to say.
The update sounded strange coming from you rather than Manager Baek.
Still, it piqued his curiosity—though he tried not to show it.
“Not much, I assume,” he said finally, voice cool but strained,
“Apart from having a lot of fun and being reckless with his health?”
You didn’t answer.
And he waited—expecting to hear the obvious.
Drugs.
Drugs.
And more drugs.
What more could it possibly be about?
But instead, you decided to play foul.
No—foulest.
“Why should I tell you that?”
You said coldly.
“Why don’t you ask him how miserable he was without any support—all alone, fending for himself among sharks while you assumed he was busy having fun?”
── …Ha.
Again, woman.
What were you getting at?
Why were you so adamant on coming between them?
Asher couldn’t seem to think clearly without his own jealousy coming in between.
Didn’t you tell him once that you wanted nothing to do with his world—his world of glitz and glamour, of masks that hid the nastiest truths to exist?
And he had agreed then.
He’d made the decision to build you a gilded cage instead—one cleaner, no, sterile, of the trailing fame that threatened to wedge a gap between you and him.
The manufactured peace he’d specially crafted in your name.
So why now bother about something that had survived perfectly fine without your care?
When he was right there, begging you to look at him with that premium quality of warmth you had reserved for the good—
The good that somehow managed to encompass even the grey-eyed maknae… but still not him?
“You’ve been a terrible older brother to him, you know that,” you stated flatly. The words were meant to inflict pain, yet your own face twisted with it as you clung to the hem of your dress, forcing yourself to spit the venom lodged inside.
“Not just because you deserted him when he needed you most—but because you let him fear you so much that he’s too scared to even ask for your help.”
Were you done?
Because he was, playing nice by then.
── No need to force yourself to play the bad cop, baby.
He could tell that soft heart of yours was already threatening to collapse by then.
── So why don’t we just put all this behind us and call a truce, honey?
And let him take care of everything else on your behalf?
── Exactly. It’s that simple. I’ll take care of everything.
Because trying to make the bad guy feel shame for the things he’s guilty of is a futile exercise.
It wouldn’t make him turn over a new leaf.
Just your cushiony wall—happy to absorb it all.
Your love. Your hate. Everything.
── I’d rather you tell me what I should do to make you less mad, love.
The blue-eyed Devil had already begun deciding how to disguise that particular night as a bad dream you’d soon forget—like he had the power to do it in the blink of an eye.
Though, seeing you still alarmed, he braced himself for the two inevitable questions that were bound to follow:
“What is it that makes Nex fear you so much?”
“Surely, you must have done something to him to turn him into that timid, stammering lamb, didn’t you?”
Neither of which he would—or could—answer for obvious reasons.
But you always seemed to find a way to catch him off guard when not trying to pry into his past, especially that old world.
“You know he loves you, right? Do you have to be so cruel—pretending not to care each time?”
Asher couldn’t help but sneer.
Half amazed, half embarrassed by how easily you could say something so absurd.
Still, he forced himself to keep his tone soft and composed.
Not to hide, no—you seemed to already find him repulsive on your own.
It was more out of respect.
Or at least the shadow of what he had for you alone.
“That’s… enough, love,” he said, feigning calm—but barely.
“You don’t need to try so hard for him. I know that brat better than anyone else. He’s probably trying to gain your sympathy—you’re too kind, after all. It’s just the way of an addict. Don’t indulge him too much. You’d be surprised what he’s capable of doing for just a whiff more of his stash.”
And of course, he knew the feeling better than anyone.
Engaging with his addictions far too often to be called a sober man.
── One is standing so close yet out of my reach right now, how annoying.
Ha.
How could he make you come any closer?
He paused, the faintest edge creeping into his tone.
“And before you assume the worst about me again—I did try to stop him. But by the time I found out, he was already addicted. There was nothing I could do to change his mind. And now we’re here, discussing something as pointless as this, because you choose to believe that he was ever the innocent—and I the villain.”
Perhaps that was the truth.
But he was already tired of hearing praises and sympathy for the maknae spill from your lips.
── How about give it a rest, before I lose my fucking mind?
── You know what? I won’t even say please.
Yep, he was slipping away.
Turning into a petty monster-child on the inside.
── You like him better than me… is that what this is about?
He truly couldn’t understand why you kept raining insults his way otherwise.
And it seemed like you weren’t the type to take the hint.
“Did you even ask yourself what made him go down that road of addiction in the first place? Or were you too disappointed in him to care?”
Clearly, you needed it displayed on ALL CAPS on a billboard to see the obvious signs of his breaking resolve.
── I’m sorry, but I don’t plan on breaking up with you anytime soon—or share you with him.
Someone like Asher was a staunch believer of monogamy, if you couldn't tell.
As he tried not to glare at you from the obvious misunderstanding, but clearly struggled.
“It’s starting to sound a bit...repetitive, honey,” he murmured, trying to shut you down gently. His icy azures carried only a faint trace of warmth now—the seething rage beneath his gorgeous, unamused face barely masked. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what you want me to do, and I’ll let you know if it’s possible or not, hm?”
It sounded as transactional as it felt—but you had driven your already insane man to the edge too many times to expect tenderness anymore.
“I don’t want you to do anything. I want you to understand Nex, Asher.”
You didn’t waver. “Do you not see it—or do you pretend to be blind to the way he clings to your every word, like you’re his everything?”
That sounded oddly familiar, but it wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear.
He simply gave you space to continue, hoping you’d finally make your point—something he could exploit.
His sociopathic tendencies flickered through his calculated gaze as he buried whatever warmth he’d reserved for you somewhere deep. He wasn’t listening anymore—just hearing—as you continued to advocate for the maknae’s cause.
“You told me he was nothing but a junkie kid. But over these last few days since I’ve known him, all I see is a younger brother trying so hard to emulate his older one in every way. And honestly, it scares me a little.”
He wasn’t interested in whether Nex had told you himself, or if you had come to those conclusions on your own. Whatever the case, he couldn’t help but mutter,
“Is that why you’re standing so far away from me right now?”
“Are you scared because of what he said?”
His voice was soft and gentle, yet there was an unnerving edge beneath it.
Disappointment.
It was subtle—its scent diffused through the thick air between you. The space between stretched wider, until even silence felt weighted.
A ghost of a chuckle escaped his lips as his piercing azures flicked away from yours, as if your prolonged stillness and hardened look had already confirmed the worst.
“No.”
For a moment, he thought he’d heard it wrong. But as he glanced up—you were already on his side, walking towards him.
Still angry, yes—but something else burned behind your eyes.
Something fierce and raw.
Like he was seeing the old you again as you crossed into his space—his lair, without hesitation, your voice steady and unyielding:
“I’m not afraid of you.”
You held his gaze, unwavering, before adding,
“But I am worried about your relationship with your younger brother.”
He wanted to roll his eyes, but thankfully his curiosity won that round.
Moreover, he felt almost at ease with how close you were—close enough to catch the faint trace of your scent with every breath, close enough to forget the noise you were radiating from your lips with your strange words.
So instead of mocking, he simply raised a brow, his thawing azures flickering with quiet interest, inviting you to go on.
And you did.
“The level of admiration and fear he seems to have for you as his hyung… it looks worrisome.” You blinked, not masking your discomfort, though your tone carried more sincerity than accusation this time.
“It makes me wonder what you’ve shown him to make him see you that way—this infallible creature.”
── And? You make striving toward perfection sound like a bad thing, love.
He blinked once at you but said nothing.
“Because now I realize it’s not that you have no flaws—it’s that you’re just very good at hiding them.”
And somehow, you’d made the blue-eyed perfectionist’s flaws sound like the highest compliment he’d ever received.
── How… truly bizarre.
Yet fascinating, indeed.
“Is that why you’re upset with me, love?” He asked before he could stop himself to guard.
(Translation: Are you mad because you realize I won’t let you in on all my secrets?)
“Yes and no.” You were quick to respond, before adding bluntly, “I want you to stop bullying Nex—and start treating him better as a person.”
“Why should I?” he cut in, looking both childish and menacing at once, eyeing you with his languish icy blues. “Why should I listen to you? What good would come of it?”
His words were meant to rile you up further—though he wasn’t sure you’d reach your boiling point quite as fast as he did, with his restraint wearing thin by the second.
“Asher, he’s your little brother—”
“And so?” His voice was light, airy, almost cruelly casual—laced not with remorse but jealousy, every syllable deliberate, designed to bruise and know. “Why is it that you seem to care more about my little brother than about me? Do you not realize how that looks—or sounds?”
“I do. But that’s not why I care—”
“Then just tell me, what is it?” he asked, cutting you off again. His heart was racing—and you could hear it, just as he could hear yours.
You suddenly felt cornered, trapped beneath the glacial blaze of those icy azures that refused to look away as he took another slow step forward—his proximity crackling with the frosty heat unique to him alone.
He wanted the truth from you.
The real truth.
The motivation behind your uncharacteristic defiance.
It was almost poetic—how you’d managed the impossible feat of making him not only hate his own Game of Circles, but see it for what it truly was. To show him that even the coldest blood could be made to boil: his own.
For he looked familiar, yet a stranger all the same as you fumbled under his stare.
“B-Because I told you, he’s your brother—”
“That’s not enough.”
His voice dropped to a murmur, soft, almost a plea. As his downcast eyes flicking back to yours, searching them—scrutinizing each word, trying to decode the meaning his sociopathic mind couldn’t quite grasp. “I still don’t understand what that means.”
“What—what’s there not to understand?” You tried to scoff away the thickening tension, but the look on his expressionless face said it all:
Everything.
He wanted you to spell out the obvious.
But the problem was—you hadn’t quite figured it out yourself yet.
Your mind had been so caught between vengeance and justice that you’d forgotten self-preservation.
Forgotten why you were so hell-bent on making Asher listen.
Nex’s wellbeing was the immediate concern.
But beneath it all—what about you?
Why did you want him to turn a new leaf?
“Because I…”
Wanted to teach him a lesson?
Why even bother?
What kind of fucked-up revenge was it to want to rehabilitate your own enemy?
Wait.
He was your enemy, right?
No...
Rather an enemy shaped as a lover, perhaps?
Hm.
How confusing...
It felt sickening, yet too warm to hate him truly, didn't it?
So, what else could it be?
Pity? Sympathy?
But those weren’t feelings reserved for him alone now, was it?
This—this was different.
As sharp as hate.
As consuming as fire.
And solely unique to him.
So was this…
── …Love?
Nope.
Wrong answer.
It’s called having Stockholm Syndrome.
But you were rightfully confused then—and even more so, when your already flawed logic flourished under the heat blooming in your chest; Unable to deny the traitorous flutter that came along with merely locking your eyes with his icy blues.
As before you could decide if you had blurted something out aloud—
The choice was made.
Because the next second, his lips latched onto yours to devour—hot and desperate.
His hands rose sharply—his possessive fingers framing the lower half of your face to hold steady, as his anchoring thumbs barely caressed the corners of your startled lips for permission, before his devious tongue invited itself in.
Your face tilted up, breath stolen—as he deepened the kiss into one of slow drowning,
Devouring with hungry, wretched gulps, as though he were drinking your very soul in exchange for every breath and shiver earned under your name.
Your name that his obsessed tongue ached to moan since a long time,
Yet he didn’t—
For reasons the triumphant smirk ghosting his lips consuming yours, knew far too well.
It was raw, demanding, and claiming—
but only for a moment.
Not too excessive.
Not enough to scare you off.
No, he couldn’t have that happen now, could he?
His warm, ragged breath burned against your mouth, letting you taste his restraint finally broken.
Before batting his long dark eyelashes, he let his trembling blues—those icy sapphires of his—do the talking for him.
To show just how utterly ruined he felt by your one-sided war of words.
── So please...no more, love.
And guess what?
Instead of pushing him away that instant, your clouded eyes instinctively fluttered shut.
Your already thinned resolve crumbling more, as your fingers curled against the dark fabric of his shirt—to anchor yourself in place.
The void seduced your mind as you dragged him close—
His cursed heartbeat thudding against yours,
A low growl escaped his proud lips before melting into a soft submissive moan, before he began sucking on yours in that slow, familiar rhythm—one meant to please, to possess, to keep you lull under his yearning veil of lust for as long as it could be allowed.
The Game of Circles, it seemed, had finally come full circle.
With you and him at its burning, collapsing center.
But before it could spiral any further out of control—
Good sense prevailed.
Though, a bit too late.
As you didn’t just push him away,
You shoved him aside.
Looking far more upset than before,
your eyes flown wide open—glimmering in pure disbelief and hurt.
At him.
And at the one reflected back in those shameless blues of his.
What was the point of treating you like a goddess on a pedestal when all you ever wanted was to be treated as an equal? How different was that from being objectified?
To be an idol of an idol himself,
Your needs became puzzles to decode—riddles to be solved to preserve his fantasy in head.
He had the choice of asking.
He had the choice of listening.
And of course, he had the choice of offering you the simplicity of making one.
But instead—he chose the grand illusion.
The temple of devotion he built more for himself than for you, because he knew the truth:
It would all collapse the moment you saw him for what he really was—
A monster.
A cold-blooded villain.
And perhaps, that was his deepest fear—that you would not love him then.
A love he yearned to have a confirmation of from your very lips—since it was an alien concept to him, utterly fragile but temptingly so.
Truly, he was the paradox of a man who ruled lives like a God but trembled at the thought of losing yours.
Trigger warning: mentions of voyeur*sm, substance ab*se, corruption, mental decline, strong sexual themes, light sm*t, blood, gore, gaslighting, body dysm*rphia, identity erosion and crisis, psychopathy, heavy angst and manipulation
ℝagged breaths intertwined in the hush of the bedroom. The air turned thick, drenched in heat and pulsing with passion. Each gasp, muffled or not—sparked the rising warmth to cling to the skin like a second, fevered layer.
The coy moonlight, soft and dusky—spilled through the wide glass windows of the Cabin, casting silver shadows across tangled sheets.
While the large mirror, once veiled behind heavy velvet curtains—likely to be mistaken for a wall otherwise, now stood fully exposed, stretching across like a silent voyeur.
Drinking in every movement—
Every moan. Every tremble in its wake.
Because caught in its gaze were you and—
Your blue-eyed lover,
Asher.
Your spent body curved against his, cocooned in his hold from behind—his embrace both sheltering and hungry.
The silken fabric of your nightgown was barely a hindrance as his hands effortlessly slipped beneath, slithering across bare skin with a touch that trembled between reverence and ruin.
His slender fingers mapped every inch of you—inside and out—with the determination of rediscovering paradise. As though he were exploring the temple of his goddess anew, again and again.
His soft lips met yours—slow and steady—not in haste, but with aching intent.
Each kiss tasted like a question your aroused tongue couldn’t fully answer without his help.
Your vision, hazed with tears of pleasure, locked with his sultry azures—speaking a language only lovers whispered in the dark, where words became breath and desire.
Yet, the unspoken can’t fully compensate for the words lost.
The language of touch and sensual pleasure having their own limits to resolve the unaddressed.
As misunderstandings—both, convenient or not, were allowed to fester and thrive in the shadows of the lull before the storm.
But to be fair,
This wasn’t a scene born of the dubious present.
It was a memory—etched in the embers of countless nights before.
Nights that still lingered in the dark like a secret.
Nights where it was you who took the first step.
Lost yet curious about the one who claimed to be yours truly, it would start with the smallest gesture—a soft, unexpected kiss on his cheek after a moment’s tension, or a gaze that lingered too long to be innocent—
And that would be all it took to invite him in.
To give him permission.
Even when you hadn’t fully understood the need, stirring within until he began to unravel you, slow and knowing.
Perhaps you were too embarrassed to voice it aloud.
Perhaps it was easier to let him do the heavy-lifting—while you played the tentative Captain, pretending to steer the ship while surrendering to the wind.
Whatever the case, you let Asher have his way—let him guide your amnesiac self back into the arms of the lovers you once were.
Or so you thought.
Not realizing just how differently those nights played out for him—
Your blue-eyed ‘lover’ who’d hold you close,
Not with an intent to reminiscence but to learn hands-on—make a mental note of every move you made and what it meant.
To fully claim the role of the one who knew you best—even more than what he allowed yourself.
After all, you were special.
One of a kind.
Mistakes were made along the way for him to realize so…
…but who cares?
In the end, he had you.
As his lover.
In his embrace—night after night.
Even if it meant erasing your past to rewrite it in his image.
After all, memories—
── They’re just fleeting, fickle things, baby.
His icy blues had flickered to your reflection in the mirror just before he reached out, tugging your tangled hair back behind your ear with a tenderness that contrasted the deep craving in his eyes.
── Trust me. I have firsthand experience, love.
Uh huh.
── You can’t rely on them to guide you to the right people.
Was it another manipulative half lie of his or was it a disillusioned truth he truly believed?
Perhaps, it could be both for once.
But somewhere during those few wild, leisure nights, he had watched the way your half-lidded gaze fluttered slightly, how your throat moved with an unconscious gulp—a view he couldn’t have caught from his position, if not for the ginormous mirror in front of you both.
── We can always make better memories to replace the old—just like now, darling.
He had reiterated but in head, before your eyes had shifted to the mirror, locking briefly with the blue obsession in his gaze—only to dart away in flustered embarrassment.
── Ah, are we feeling shy again?
His sultry azure had been amused, finding it cute yet he braced to overcome the little hiccup in the way.
A stir passed within as you felt him begin to smooch down your neck with soft fluttering kisses—that felt ravenous and unrelenting in their intent.
“N-No, s-stop—” you’d murmured, voice small, fragile, suddenly too self-conscious under the weight of your own reactions.
And yet, Asher hadn’t stopped.
His lips had continued their descent, peppering your collarbone with soft, claiming marks.
Not because he meant to disregard your little protest—oh no.
But because by then, he already knew the several shades of your ‘no’.
And that one in particular, wasn’t the kind to be taken at face value.
“Why deny your desires, when I can so easily fulfill them, dear?” he had murmured, finally giving voice to the thought that had hovered on his tongue for far too long.
── What’s even left to be kept hidden, baby?
── I’ve seen it all, my love.
“No need to feel embarrassed now…aren’t we lovers?” your blue-eyed lover had purred into your ear, a little breathless—his heart racing faster than he let on.
Couldn’t you see how much he had changed for you?
── Haven’t I been good so far?
How much longer was he supposed to wait—to ache—for those so-called three magical words from your lips, hm?
Blood had rushed to Asher’s head as he’d blurted the question aloud, unable to hold it back another second. “I love you, baby.—”
“—Don’t you love me too?”
Um.
That's not how—
── Just say the words, and I’ll show you a better time, love.
Ha, nevermind.
He had watched your shy lips like so often—even in the mirror—aching for the chance to hear it back.
But alas, the words never came.
Not even once.
Not even mumbled in your sleep.
He'd told himself they were meant to be understood in silence—that perhaps they lingered between your breaths, hidden beneath your quiet sighs and stolen glances as you seemed to blush each time.
Not then, not now.
It was maddening, really—this feeling of being deprived.
To be denied. Rejected.
Over and over again.
Insecurity had crept in—slow but sure—thawing the edges of his otherwise stone-cold heart in ways he hadn’t fully understood.
In those quiet, desperate moments, he felt weak.
Fallible.
Human.
A far cry from the cold-blooded figure the rest of the world knew him to be.
But still, Asher never held your silence against you.
He would never.
── My baby can do no wrong, that’s right.
According to him, you were simply… misled.
Misguided by those fragmented memories still lingering deep within, despite his careful efforts to gently wipe every trace from your unconscious mind.
None of it was your fault.
Not even when you freaked out after discovering the hidden cameras he had installed throughout the cabin—strictly for your safety and, well…
…to better understand every movement, every emotion you wore on your face like a whisper he longed to catch.
Of course, you didn’t need to know that part.
Nevertheless, he had honoured your protest—your firm, non-negotiable “No!”—and removed the cameras, just as you saw.
What you didn’t see however, was the quiet replacement with a far less conspicuous and non-invasive motion-sensor system.
── Oh well, couples can agree to disagree… can’t they?
Your blue-eyed lover had sighed, just before his lips—soft and sly—latched onto your unsuspecting earlobe to nibble gently, a distraction that drew a surprised yelp from your throat as you squirmed in his arms.
Instantly flustered, your hands had tried to lightly push him away, fumbling—futile—as the awkward tension dissolved into the warmth of that small moment lost to time.
In truth, however, the compromise had been more than a minor inconvenience to Asher.
He had lost the privilege of seeing you from every angle at all times—especially when he was away for work. The multichannel feed on his phone reduced to mere blips of data: subtle alerts tracking your movement from room to room, leaving far too much for the imagination to fill in.
Hm.
Then perhaps, a certain pink-haired maknae should end up thanking his stars for your past protest—your firm insistence on boundaries—that would spare him from being murdered in a heartbeat, at present.
Or maybe that wasn’t even needed.
Because anyone but Nex would’ve been dead by now—
Since the blip alerts had informed the blue-eyed Boogeyman about your and the maknae's prolonged shared space in the living area—even before he’d set foot inside the Cabin.
Yeah.
That's right.
The current Asher already knew.
That you had been up to no good.
But why did he suspect you alone?
Well…because temporal shyness aside, you were the only one between the two of you bold and temperamental enough to pull a move this foul.
And why wouldn’t you?
He’d made sure not to repeat the same mistake twice.
There once existed things far too unsavoury to be seen or heard.
Yet it was those very things that had instilled a fear so profound in the grey-eyed child that the blue-eyed older boy hadn’t even realized when those blank, stormy greys had started meeting his own in the dead of night…
Eyes wide. Frozen.
Watching him indulge in his bloody addiction.
How long had it been since he’d first been watched?
Minutes?
Hours?
── …Days?
Asher didn’t know.
He hadn’t cared then.
By the time he finally noticed the grey-eyed boy’s presence, his own icy blues had already been far too consumed by the bloodlust.
Little Nex had watched in silence.
Night after night.
For a week straight.
Transfixed. Hypnotized—
Horrified by the sight of his hyung—the one meant to protect him—tearing into the flesh of a small bird or passing rodent.
Merciless. Predatory.
Without a shred of pity in that cold, devouring gaze.
── Tsk.
── I should’ve been more careful.
A careless mistake.
Or so Asher would later rationalize—
An error born of reckless youth.
Of childish inexperience.
Never quite realizing just how abnormal—how monstrous—his actions had truly been.
The blue-eyed Devil simply hadn’t grasped the harm of his sin.
Not until it was too late to reap what he had sown.
Nex, it seemed, had no memory of those cursed nights.
No conscious recollection—at least, from what Asher believed of the maknae’s fragile psyche.
But the sleep mumbling and the nightmares… told a different story altogether.
Little Nex wasn’t the same anymore.
Damaged beyond repair.
── A mistake.
The grey-eyed boy had begun to fear his hyung to death.
Feared him enough to hide—to lie.
And it had irritated Asher.
Far more than he’d ever willingly admit.
── …my mistake. Mine.
Until the fearful lies bloomed into quiet betrayal.
Not once, but twice.
As there came a moment he could no longer recognize the eyes of the boy he had once raised.
The disbelief.
The disappointment upon confronting the truth about the prolonged substance abuse that he had continued to engage in for years behind closed doors—behind his hyung’s back.
And of course, that soul-wrenching realization of not being wanted.
Of the festering hatred that had masqueraded as fear for years—unveiled disgracefully so.
In hindsight,
The loss had felt inevitable.
Their fallout, fated.
As the blue-eyed Devil found himself, ironically, abandoned by the one who bore the disdainful eyes of their weak mother—
The woman he would come to hate as deeply as he once loved around the same time.
But then, she passed away.
Leaving him feeling conned, by them both.
And most importantly, by his own fragmented memories of them since before the age five—as he would blame them for luring him in by their familiar faces to chain him to his old world.
To be foolishly deceived by the warm, inviting glow of a “feeling” that he could never truly find in the end—a lie called “Love”.
Or so Asher had chosen to believe it all.
Connecting dots that were never meant to link—but somehow did.
Never realizing that the maknae’s trauma might’ve had nothing to do with their mother, and everything to do with him.
It had rooted itself deep, not just taking toil on the pitiful victim but the imperfect perpetrator alike—
Sinking in silent, invisible claws, manifesting in ways more twisted than the blue-eyed Devil could ever fully comprehend as he spiralled.
But then, he met you at the hospital.
Or rather…his eyes began to see you as something more than you intended to be.
It was unlike Asher to notice others.
And yet, he noticed you.
You hadn’t been there during those nights; those early years soaked in unspoken horror.
But you had gotten more than a brutal glimpse of the same treatment, years later.
Because when he had unraveled—untamed, unhinged—turning the luscious green of the hospital garden a deep, sickening crimson…
…you didn’t run away like the rest.
You were strong.
You could stomach it.
Loyal to your role of a good nurse you once were.
It had intrigued Asher then, just a little.
But not nearly enough to make him obsessed.
There was still so much of you left for him to discover then.
The turning point had yet to arrive—the moment that would push him to take drastic measures to bind you irrevocably to him.
Which, even without knowing the depth of fate you both were hurtling toward—
Asher had liked.
Liked that you didn’t flinch from him the way Nex did.
── My baby fears nothing but the unknown.
…Or at least, that’s what he would come to believe—
By the time you unintentionally made him aware of love’s existence in places he’d never thought to look.
As his gaze—once scattered between ghosts and grudges—
Shifted solely to focus onto you.
Clinging to the hope that your strength stemmed not from old memories, but your very nature.
Because how could something as unreliable as memory—mere warped reflections of what might have been—dare to dictate who you were?
He simply refused to believe they could define your morals, your personhood, your essence—
The very essence he longed to hold and keep for himself.
And yet,
The blue-eyed Devil had performed all sorts of mental gymnastics to keep over two-decades worth of your past in a sealed vault.
Your name left unspoken by his tongue, for fear that uttering it might shatter the fragile lover’s spell he’d cast over the last half-year.
Ah, the hypocrisy.
The double standards.
The paradox of memories—how it both seduced and repelled him—
Frustratingly elusive,
Even to himself.
Nevertheless, your captor-lover had seen it before—
That brazenness of your essence.
He’d tried not to stifle it too much along the way.
And so, it wasn’t meant to be a surprise…
And yet—somehow—it was.
For reasons you couldn’t have possibly foreseen.
Because you didn’t know their shared past like he knew yours.
Didn’t know what the boy currently asleep with his head in your lap—
Had once meant to Asher.
The half of his old world he had walked away from—
Out of rage. Out of grief. Out of spite.
The painful void left behind—
A distorted version of empty nest syndrome* the blue-eyed Devil never imagined himself capable of feeling.
And yet… he did.
Even if he denied it.
Even if he denied everything—
In every waking moment since.
However, denial wasn’t even on his mind on those nights.
Nights when Asher’s icy blues were fixed solely on yours.
The one he’d deliberately chosen to anchor his entire world to.
The one who deserved all of his focus, wholly and without question—just as much as he ached for yours in return.
And so, the greatest dilemma troubling your blue-eyed lover in those heated moments was a rather simple one: How to gently coax you into not looking away from your own reflection.
Because those fleeting mirrored glimpses were all he had left to truly see you in ways he could no longer without the little assistance of his hidden cameras.
That allowed him to drink you in.
To memorize you like scripture.
To learn how to read you like a story told only once—
A personal journal he once could only imagine holding close,
Now fluttering open before him, page by page, unguarded.
And to possess—if only fleetingly—
The parts of you that weren’t yet his to touch,
But oh, how he longed to.
Whenever he pleased.
If he could, he would’ve turned the entire cabin into a House of Mirrors.
A shrine of your reflection from every possible angle.
But even he knew,
Somewhere deep inside that obsessive, lovesick mind of his—
You wouldn’t entirely be on board with the idea.
After all, that maddening stubbornness of yours—disguised as shyness—was a riddle even he struggled to solve. It softened in fleeting moments, yes. But it never waned.
Not even during times when he’d assumed you’d finally give in—
Only for him to sigh in soft-hearted defeat when you didn’t.
He had gently nudged you further into his lap then, resting his chin on your shoulder with a quiet huff—seeking solace after yet another failed attempt to make you meet his eyes through the mirror.
── Ha... not again.
He had puffed out a breath, pouted like a kicked puppy—adorably miserable, trying to look cute and wounded.
Feigning innocence like a boy denied candy,
As though his eyes weren’t practically engineered to seduce.
That intoxicating shade of azure, dripping with the kind of allure that had no business being worn so unashamedly—
And yet, all his charms were for nothing.
In those moments when you’d be too shy.
Too damn stubborn.
Your hands slipping away each time, just as he was about to catch them—always managing to dart up and cover your face, burning with misplaced shame and discomfort.
You were at your wit’s end that particular night.
You simply couldn’t understand why the damn mirror had to remain uncovered.
It made no sense to you.
“Just for tonight, baby. Let me see you better.”
His voice had been soft—gentle and coaxing, almost pleading.
The same words he’d whispered a few nights ago.
A sly half-truth, really.
Because it hadn’t ended with just one night.
It had become a ritual.
A need.
A nightly indulgence your blue-eyed lover had no intention of giving up for a while.
“No, that’s it—I’ve seen enough of myself. Cover it, please, Asher!”
You had snapped, more flustered than ever, your voice laced with embarrassment boiling over.
An unbearable wave of self-consciousness clawing at your chest as you squeezed your eyes shut behind your palms;
Like a child believing that if they couldn’t see, maybe no one else could either.
You had tried to hide.
Tried to breathe through the inferno blooming wild and relentless under your skin.
Even when you peeked through your fingers, mortified, your mind betrayed you—
Hyperfixating on every imagined flaw, every detail only you seemed to see.
Which your blue-eyed lover couldn’t disagree more.
Why in the world would you want to hide that lovely face of yours—when he craved it like oxygen?
When he could recall each angle in his mind’s eye as if etched there by divine will—like a worshipper preserving the image of a goddess?
Didn’t you understand how your so-called flaws lit up like constellations in the dim moonlight?
Stars on a map only he could read—
Sole cartographer of your body.
Mr. Sinner by choice—with no intent to repent.
So then, couldn’t you just give your selfish devotee this small mercy—
This one sacred indulgence,
To simply watch you unravel as his dutiful lips and hands remained busy tending to your every tremble and sigh?
Was that really too much to ask?
Especially when you were the one left fully clothed still, blushing, half-curled into yourself in shame—
While his robe had been the first casualty in this little war, hanging loose, exposing skin of his chest and with it all the glorious evidence of your earlier handiwork. And his hair? A tousled wreck, artfully styled by your unshy fingers not long ago—his very own personal stylist of choice.
If anything, he should’ve been the one blushing.
And so, your blue-eyed lover had begun to lose hope—
Feeling theatrically out of options, dramatically resigned to your resistance…
…until it struck him—an idea.
── While I look at you...
“…why don’t you try looking at me instead?”
Asher had whispered into your ear—his voice lowered into a velvet promise, dripping honey and mischief.
His eyes never wavered—locked on yours through the mirror—
Even when your own face remained shielded by your trembling fingers, like he’d just asked you for the moon.
It shouldn’t have worked.
It was absurd.
A ridiculous suggestion.
Like slapping a band-aid on a migraine.
Too corny. Too soft.
But somehow… curiosity had gotten the better of you.
Because at some point, he’d gone still.
Dead still.
No teasing words.
No coaxing touches.
Just waiting—silent and patient—as if his entire world had paused for this moment, and he’d already made his choice.
So, you peeked.
Only a little, parting your fingers just enough.
Big mistake.
Because the second your eyes found his—through the glass—
It was like falling under a spell.
Those sultry azures locked onto you—
Heavy-lidded, low and seductive, blinking with the slow grace of someone trying to strip your soul bare.
He matched your breath,
Matched his heartbeat with yours.
His lips had parted slightly, before he’d exhaled deep—
Like you’d taken the breath right out of him.
The eye contact alone to make him dizzy.
It was absurd, really.
And yet…
Mesmerizing.
Because no doubt, your blue-eyed lover was beautiful.
And ethereally so.
A man caught halfway between dream and sin.
Those icy blues shimmering like rare jewels as they followed your every twitch and flicker.
At some point, he’d stopped blinking altogether.
Letting moisture build in his eyes just enough to catch the moonlight—
A soft sheen turning them liquid, glowing.
Like he was ready to cry for you and only you.
Your breath had hitched.
You hadn’t even realized that his hands had moved;
Not until you felt his fingers sliding between your own.
Quiet. Steady.
He’d pried your hands apart like he was unwrapping something sacred—
Kissing each of your knuckles, slow and worshipful, until your tension gave way.
His dark lashes had fluttered, gaze unwavering.
As he’d let you know—wordlessly again—
That this wasn’t just about watching you.
This was about you letting him in to have a piece of your soul.
Every. Single. Time.
Not realizing the price of intertwining souls that were never meant to be—
Was not something he could afford,
With kisses and smothering affection alone.
There goes a saying that “Couples that stay together, begin to resemble each other.”
But perhaps in your case, the process had been… expedited, in a rather strange manner.
Although you would never come to appreciate the mirror the same way your blue-eyed lover once did—
its presence no longer bothered you as it used to.
Whether it remained uncovered for a lifetime or not had stopped being a concern.
Even if, in time, it did end up draped and forgotten as the days would drag on in the Cabin without Asher.
Your blue-eyed lover was never gone for too long.
The gaps would be brief—but when he’d returned, there had been a feverish edge to him, jaded and restless to a varying degree each time.
He couldn’t bear to delay any further.
He needed to be near you—feel you—
Not waste time gazing at you through the silent voyeur that once enchanted him.
Unwittingly, he had spared you from turning hostile.
Spared you the absurd jealousy over a piece of glass—
Since your old aversion to it had receded like a passing fever.
Like an infection receding just beneath the skin.
Which, in hindsight…
Would’ve been rather ridiculous if it hadn’t, wouldn’t it?
And yet, you simply couldn’t help it.
Your fractured mind had been caught in a loop—
Held under that spell far too long.
The mirror may have been draped, reduced to nothing more than a blank wall—
But its ghosts had already etched themselves into your bones.
As no amount of fabric could unteach what it had shown.
Whether you liked it or not.
The nights it stayed uncovered, you had seen Asher—just as much as he had seen you,
If not more.
The longer your gaze lingered on your blue-eyed lover—both real and unreal—
You too began to read him, though only between the lines.
As guarded as he was, you had witnessed him drunk on you more times than you could count—
Slurping messily between your thighs—like you were sweeter than honey,
Grinning like a fool lost to lust whenever you swayed above him,
As your fingers had curled into a fist around his dark hair, commanding.
In those moments his giddy smile had faltered a bit too wide—slightly crooked—
Only to settle back into perfection the next moment, that you could have swooned for—
If not for the lavender haze clouding your gaze.
And yet…
Sometimes when he would try to play innocent for too long, despite the scent of seduction on him so potent—
It would begin to gnaw at you.
── Does he think…
Boil beneath your skin.
── … I’m a fool?
You couldn’t quite see beneath the cracks,
but you could feel something was off.
Still, it was of no use.
Behind the scenes, your two-faced lover had been working tirelessly to keep the illusion intact—
To ensure you always remained two steps behind.
Nevertheless…
The longer you had stared—mirror or not—
The lines had begun to blur.
Where did you end…
…and where did he begin?
You weren’t so sure anymore.
And perhaps, that was when she awoke.
The vengeful spirit of your past.
Long dormant, held at bay within your fractured mind—
Scavenging through the mental fog as she watched and learnt the tricks quietly from enemy dearest.
The blue-eyed Devil who dared to call himself your lover.
After all, how did that infamous saying go again—the one that has made the eyes and ears of generations so far bleed?
── Everything is fair in love and war.
And this had been a guerilla war*.
Against not just him but “yourself” as well.
(Present Time—)
You didn’t need your eyes open to know when he had arrived.
You simply knew.
Felt it on your skin, the sudden shift in the air around;
That familiar scent of his closing in, sharp and intoxicating,
As the dim, diffused light from the television screensaver was swallowed whole by his looming shadow—
Standing still, right in front of the “dozed-off” you and the fast-asleep maknae.
Oh, how torn you were in that moment.
Whether to move.
Whether to breathe.
A part of you flinched with regret, too late—
Wanting to better shield Nex’s closed eyes, just in case he stirred, just in case he panicked.
He didn’t, thank goodness.
But then, there was another part of you—
The one infected by her.
By her mocking whispers, laced with poison and pleasure.
── Surely, he’s furious right now. Isn’t he?
── How does he look? I want to see.
She giggled inside your skull like it was a game.
The only regret she seemed to possess—
Was not making the act of infidelity seem more obscene.
More obvious.
Perhaps… if there had been a way to recreate that earlier scene—
Your body helplessly trapped under Nex’s for hours.
Skin flushed, breath shallow—
── He would totally lose his mind then, wouldn’t he?
She purred, as you felt high on vengeance.
The adrenaline, somewhat unwarranted—coursed through your veins like a drug.
Too potent to question.
Too delicious to resist.
Because he was right there.
Your blue-eyed lover.
His trembling hand hovering mere inches away from your cheek.
As you resisted the urge to gulp.
To shiver.
To react.
It was exhilarating.Too exciting to bear.
Was this how he had felt all along?
The power to keep you in the dark,
While watching you unravel, unaware as he had read pages of “you” on whim, more often than the owner herself?
But knowing too much doesn’t always end well.
Like now—
Asher knew you weren’t asleep.
He knew you were faking it.
Because he knew every rise and fall of your breath to tell otherwise.
And still…
You deliberately chose to play the fool.
Ha.
You were just rubbing salt into his wound at this point, weren’t you?
Giving him a taste of his own medicine—
Bitter, undiluted, and perfectly timed.
It was meant to be a fatal end.
So then why—
Why did he recoil his hand just when it was about to touch your face?
Why did you hear him suck in a breath—so sharp, yet faint—
A sound that trembled on the edge of pain, as though you had gone too far…
But not in the way you had once hoped to?
And…
Was that the sound of his heart breaking?
The real one—the one he had always kept buried, hidden so well?
── It…It must be it.
So then why—
Why did your heart suddenly plummet, deep and fast,
When you heard the shuffle of his feet stumble back?
The brief misstep, the quiet gasp—
As he steadied himself with a shuddering sigh,
Desperate to hold together whatever was left of his slipping composure.
A sound so human it cracked something inside you.
And before you could move, before you could make sense of any of it,
The looming shadow that had just moments ago eclipsed your already dark vision—pulled back.
Shrinking in size as he retreated fast;
His footsteps muffled and vanishing like smoke down a lane you couldn’t follow.
── Wait—
By the time you snapped your eyes open—
Asher was gone.
The sound of the bedroom door closing upstairs,
Was the only trace left that he had even been there at all.
Did he…
──…just run away?
You blinked.
Utterly baffled.
And so was she—the cruel whisperer within, stunned into silence by an outcome even she hadn’t predicted.
This wasn’t the ending she expected.
Not the retribution she craved.
But you didn’t have time to sit with the aftermath for too long—
Because something shifted.
A twitch beneath your touch, against the palm still shielding the pink-haired maknae’s eyes.
You lifted your hand—slow, hesitant—
Dread tightening like a vice at the base of your spine.
And met his stormy greys.
Wide-open. Terrified. Pale.
Paralyzed with something far more piercing than simple confusion—
A trace of hurt,
An ocean of anxiety,
The deep-rooted trauma cloaked beneath his unshed tears,
Just before his gaze trembled with pure, unfiltered fear.
Fear that had seen too much.
Fear that knew better than to ask questions in vain.
And suddenly,
You could no longer hear her voice in your head.
Because all you could think in that single, devastating moment was—
Empty-nest syndrome: A feeling of sadness or grief experienced by parents when their children leave home. [ In the given context, Asher experiences a distorted form of this, feeling profound loss and abandonment when Nex, whom he practically raised, distances himself due to Asher's traumatic actions and Nex's own subsequent choices, a pain Asher deeply denies but which the MC's actions unknowingly bring to the surface.]1Guerilla war: A form of irregular warfare in which small groups use unconventional tactics, such as ambushes, sabotage, and deception, to fight a larger, more traditional force. [In the given context, it perfectly describes the way MC's mind is indirectly fighting against Asher's manipulation and drug-induced amnesia]2
"I just don't understand how people could like dark fiction-" Then don't understand it. It's simply not for you. Anything under taboo, dark, and dead dove is meant for people who can handle it and be mature about it. You're allowed to not like stuff. You're allowed to feel triggered or squicked.
But don't act like you're on some moral high horse because you don't explore those themes.
Further more, no one owes you an explanation as to why they like those themes in the first place. You don't have to have some sort of trauma to enjoy that type of work. You can just enjoy it, zero justification. It's not real.
No one's out here genuinely wanting those scenarios to actually happen, and this goes for non-yandere related things as well. Anyone who tries to act on them was going to do something anyway, and didn't know how to regulate themselves.
I hate having to bring it up constantly but Christ on a cracker it's like you went to one literature class, drew eyes on your paper rather than learn media literacy, and now think someone liking something dark, taboo, or general kink stuff is somehow a reflection of who they actually are.
Brains are weird. They like to make fake scenarios constantly. The least we can do is give the ball of jelly something fun and something it can control. If your brain doesn't like it, then find something it does.
Trigger warning: mentions of substance ab*se, corruption, suggestive themes, gaslighting, mental decline, identity-crisis, corruption, heavy brainwashing, possession-like angst and manipulation.
[Excerpt from the chapter - Nex x MC (ft. Asher)]
░𝟘.░
(Sometime later, at the Cabin–)
Nex yawned.
After being spoon-fed a warm, hearty meal like an overgrown infant—he’d gone utterly docile.
No more nervous rambling. No more feigning protests.
Just a soft, pliant thing remained, letting you handle him however you pleased.
The pink-haired maknae hadn’t even flinched when you rolled up his sleeve to inspect his arm—your fingers gently prodding and pressing. He’d let out a small, helpless chuckle when your touch got too ticklish, only to shake his head lazily when you asked if it hurt or tingled there.
His guard was down.
Dangerously low.
The art of pretence, something that should’ve been his second nature by now—was slipping away, dissolving under the weight of your maddening tenderness.
Nex was feeling too relaxed.
Boneless. Practically goo.
Honestly, he felt so far gone, he started wondering if he was even still human… or if he’d just melted into some sentient, pink blob.
Forget remembering that he was also a K-pop idol on the side.
That identity had drifted off somewhere between the eleventh spoonful and the final, soft pat-pat of the napkin against his lips.
Gosh.
When had the lines blurred between ‘being kind’ and ‘coddling’?
You just had to spoil him rotten, didn’t you?
Nex blinked.
Slowly. Still drowsy beyond reason.
A tiny, intrusive part of him wondered if you’d slipped something into his food. Maybe just one sleeping pill, just to knock him out for funsies.
Because wow, he had never felt this stupidly lethargic in his life.
And if that were the case…
He wouldn’t even be mad.
He wouldn’t mind if you played a “prank,” or…
…if you took advantage of him.
Like a certain blonde pervert had, when he’d been too drugged to respond.
── It’s ok…I’m too desensitized to it anyway.
And given how altered his perception was lately, his mind plagued with the carnal feeling, curling warm and shamefully low in his belly—
── Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if it’s noona instead…
But no.
That couldn’t be it.
The pink-haired maknae gave his head a small shake—an exaggerated, toddler-like sway, as if trying to jostle the wicked thought out of his ‘polluted’ brain.
── No. Noona would never…
You were too kind for that.
And too…concerned.
Not long after feeding him, you’d even turned the whole thing into a mini check-up—pulling out a medical kit from a nearby cabinet and taking his vitals like some fussy, overworked nurse.
Blood pressure, temperature, heart rate… the whole routine.
Nex had found it adorable, the way your brows furrowed in concentration.
You looked so serious, so dedicated to the role.
── It’s like noona isn’t just playing nurse, but truly is one hehe~
Ah, right.
He didn’t know that part.
That once, you had done all of this.
Every day—
For his hyung.
And of course, that time had long passed—lost, buried.
Hm.
But a self-pity party could wait for now.
Because, the poor maknae looked far more pitiful in comparison.
Well…on the surface at least.
His tired, grey eyes drifted toward you—seated right beside him on the couch, gaze fixed on the screen, fully absorbed in the movie you’d put on after wrapping up your nurse duty.
You hadn’t told him to join or anything.
But when you didn’t head upstairs and instead plopped down back on the couch, he just…followed along.
Like a duckling.
A very sleepy, obedient duckling.
“You sure?” You asked.
“You seem tired. Why don’t you go rest in your room, on the bed? I can wake you up later, if you want,” you’d offered gently, with that same glint of worry in your eye.
He must’ve looked like a sleep-deprived plushie barely stitched together.
But Nex had just shaken his head—softly, sheepishly—lied that he was feeling “just fine,” and flipped the concern back on you.
After all, you were the one who’d been dragged through a whirlwind that day—mostly thanks to him.
And yet, somehow, you looked fresh as a daisy.
Or at least fresher than the shriveled-up pink raisin that was Nex.
“Ah, don’t think about it. I have trouble sleeping anyway,” you’d said, breezily. “I think I’ll just watch something in the meantime.”
And so, there he was.
Slouched beside you on the couch.
Struggling to stay awake as his eyes kept drooping shut.
He hadn’t even made it through the opening credits, when he had already forgotten what the movie was called…even though you’d let him pick it.
Ha.
Someone was fighting a losing battle, wasn’t he?
── No... I must not sleep.
Nex scolded himself.
He couldn’t fall asleep.
Not again.
Because that would mean this perfect, cozy day would end sooner…
…with his hyung’s inevitable return.
── I wish hyung was like before… then I wouldn’t have to tiptoe.
Nex groaned internally, dragging his eyes back to the screen, though it may as well have been static.
He wasn’t watching. Just staring.
Trying not to yawn again, because every time he did, his eyes teared up and made him look even more pathetic.
── Why must I choose…? I want them both.
Such a grand dilemma to have…
For a big, sleepy baby.
But where there's greed, there’s fear of being caught…
── I don’t know how much longer I can hide this from hyung.
── He’s going to notice something’s off soon, isn’t he?
The drowsy maknae sulked in silence, guilt gnawing at him from the inside like a teething ring with teeth. He hated how useless he felt—how transparent.
Like his feelings were leaking through the seams, no matter how hard he tried to patch them up.
He didn’t even know what was wrong with him, or what exactly was causing him to malfunction—
Before, ironically, he reached for his water bottle kept on the side table.
He sipped on the sweet water—trying to use it as a distraction;
Something to keep him from slipping into slumber.
Alas, he had no idea how that was only making him lose further control over himself…
And besides—
Who’s ever won against sleep?
Certainly not Nex.
░ . . . ░
With a half empty bottle barely clutched in his hand, his eyes shut—his unconscious head growing heavier and tilting to the side. Nodding a few times, it finally found a place to rest on your unsuspecting shoulder.
And as soon as you felt the sudden weight, along with his soft, pink floofy hair brushing against your neck—you instinctively stiffened.
You glanced at the unconscious maknae from the corner of your eye, then down at the water bottle still tilted precariously in his loose grip—threatening to spill at any moment.
Carefully, trying not to jostle or disturb Nex, you reached over to take the bottle from his hand, gently placing it on the side table. At the same time, your other hand rose to support the weight of his head, shielding it from slipping off your shoulder and breaking whatever fragile spell had settled over him like a lullaby.
── But what am I…even trying to protect?
You bit back a dry scoff, your gaze lowering—as the ‘gloom’ you'd been suppressing clawed its way back to the surface.
Nex had been right earlier.
You were, in fact, having one of those ‘mood swings’ his hyung had warned him about.
Unfortunately though, the poor maknae was fast asleep to notice—completely defenseless against a ‘noona’ who, truthfully, wasn’t in the best state of mind herself.
Haunted by the vengeful ghost of her own past… who was quietly plotting the most exquisite way to get under his hyung’s skin.
Why?
Well, your mind had offered up its excuses, its coping mechanisms: jealousy, misplaced sympathy for Nex, an ache for something you couldn’t name.
But no matter which one your mind settled on to cope—
The verdict was the same:
── "Asher must suffer."
── "He must feel powerless."
── "Be forced to sit back and watch things unfold in ways he’d never anticipate."
And above all,
── “He must feel the sting of betrayal because—”
Your train of thought was cut short by a sudden, sharp ache behind your temples. You winced, one hand rising briefly to your forehead.
It seemed that the vengeful spirit unraveling your thoughts had yanked too hard on a thread.
But oh well.
You blinked, regathering yourself.
Your gaze dropped once more to the pink-haired maknae resting so trustingly against you. And just like that, your expression softened—cracked by guilt.
── This…
This wasn’t how you’d intended to seek revenge.
Not like this.
Because, truth be told—your concern for Nex had been real.
Genuinely, achingly real.
You’d been worried that a nerve in his arm might’ve been pinched or compressed when he fell earlier—hence, the reason you’d asked if he felt any tingling or numbness.
But more pressing was the question that lingered in your mind:
What exactly had caused Nex to collapse in the first place?
── A sudden drop in blood pressure from not eating, perhaps.
That had been the leading theory—an uncontested hypothesis formed instinctively from your old muscle memory, as you’d briefly gone into overdrive checking his vitals, eager to rule out any lurking danger signs.
But then…
There was the matter of the spoon-feeding.
Wasn’t that, by all accounts, a masterclass in manipulation on your part?
A calculated move designed to make the poor maknae lower every last defense he had?
Well…
That part was a little more complicated.
Initially, it had started on an overprotective whim.
A silly impulse you should’ve blushed at and brushed off.
But then—something strange happened.
Nex, lost in his own trance, had let you.
And as you continued, your mind began playing tricks on you.
Just for a moment—you saw bruises on his arms.
Faint patches. Fading. Disappearing.
── What…the fuck?
── It’s a hallucination.
── Surely…right?
Still, the vision—real or not—made you more tender.
More careful with Nex.
Treat him like a fragile thing.
You hadn’t said a word, of course.
You didn’t want to shatter that soft, lopsided smile he wore—one that reminded you so achingly of your precious—
── Huh…?
What?
What was that?
Were you forgetting someone…
… important?
Your brow twitched as you sifted through the fractured corners of your mind—grasping at a shadow of something… someone.
But the thought slipped from your reach like mist.
Swallowed by the void.
Vanished like smoke curling into nothing.
The only ‘important’ figure that surfaced now…
Was your blue-eyed lover.
Your beloved.
The one you were deeply, quietly cross with.
── Right. Of course. Asher, obviously.
You latched onto the name, as if it fit.
Even if it didn’t feel quite right.
You might’ve misidentified the face,
…yet the pain it left behind returned all the same—coiling quietly into that insidious, festering wrath.
After all, pain and suffering have a way of changing people.
And you were no exception.
In truth, your “plan” to make Asher suffer had always been simple—and frankly, it hadn’t changed, even as your motives soured with time.
You wanted to make memories with Nex.
Fond ones—moments so tangible and vivid that merely retelling them would be enough to make Asher burn.
You’d speak of them brazenly—letting pride glint like glass in your gaze—as you watched your lover try, and fail, to conceal the way your words twisted in his gut.
And worst of all?
He wouldn’t be able to detect a single lie.
── Since it will all be true.
If your lover could read you like a book, then you’d hand him a chapter he’d choke on.
A passage written just to hurt him.
You smirked.
Eyes darkening, clouded with something far from regret.
Perhaps you were cruel.
But only to him.
And only because he deserved it.
And yet…
One thing had led to another—
A chain of quiet decisions and irreversible consequences.
Now here you were—
With the pink munchkin asleep again,
His head tilted against your shoulder, warm and unaware.
Utterly at your mercy.
But this time…
You felt like a selfish martyr.
One willing to play God in a game laced with too much risk, and far too little remorse.
Actions speak louder than words…
── So why not put that to the test?
You smiled.
Or rather, the vengeful spirit behind your eyes did—sealing the cracks just long enough to keep the rot buried beneath a smile so gentle, it could lull anyone into a faux sense of safety.
Especially the unsuspecting lamb.
Your fingers reached up and caressed Nex’s cheek, soft as a feather’s breath.
The touch stirred him, those defenseless greys fluttering open like moth wings caught in a breeze—glassy, unfocused, caught somewhere between dream and waking.
“Noona…?” he breathed, barely more than a whisper.
A plea. A question.
A soul knocking timidly on the door of reality.
But ‘she’ didn’t answer.
No—because why would she clarify his confusion, when it served her so well?
Instead, you leaned in with warmth that reeked of something sweeter than poison.
“You’ll strain your neck like this,” you whispered, voice dipped in honey and embalming oil.
“Why not rest your head on my lap?”
It was a suggestion laced with danger.
Delicate, forbidden.
Like touching an altar he shouldn’t.
His sleepy eyes widened a fraction—hesitation flickering behind them like a dying light.
But she was ready for that.
And of course, so were you.
You leaned in closer, your hand brushing along his jaw—reassurance disguised as affection.
“I’ll wake you before he comes. Don’t worry.”
A lie.
A lullaby.
A hook hidden in velvet.
The words were too soft.
Too kind.
Too perfect.
Sounding like a dream.
So, Nex resisted no more.
Not when it felt this safe to fall.
And she wasn’t too worried either.
Your clouded eyes flickered back to the screen, only half-seeing—your fingers weaving slow, hypnotic patterns through his soft pink curls, lulling him deeper into the abyss of sleep.
Like a Siren cloaked in silk and shadows, you soothed him with deliberate grace—rivaling even the blue-eyed Devil’s charm.
She could feel it—the muted thrum of the lamb’s heartbeat pulsing faintly through your thighs—soft and rhythmic, like a personal lullaby.
── How sweet.
Your eyes slipped shut, not out of peace—but out of trust.
Not in him.
In Asher.
You trusted him to hold back.
To bite down on fury.
To stay still.
To let her do this.
Because he always did.
For her.
To keep you his.
No matter how far she went.
Even when your hands, so cruelly gentle, guarded the precious maknae like a prize.
A bait in disguise.
...but how far was too far?
Where was the ‘line’?
Who knows.
░𝕋𝕚𝕞𝕖 𝕥𝕠 𝕗𝕚𝕟𝕕 𝕠𝕦𝕥.░
At twilight, the blue-eyed Boogeyman arrived.
Silent as sin—his footsteps barely whispered across the cabin floor.
Each one swallowed by the dark.
Until—the faint flicker of light from the living area reeled him in.
One of the rare times the apex predator would turn into the prey.
Your prey.
Drawn to your bait.
As he saw—
Witnessed with his icy blues;
The crime scene you intended him to see.
His cold blood turned to ice.
Frozen in every vein—
As the sight before him sank its claws deep into his darkened soul.
A younger sibling imitating an older one is nothing unheard of.
But when the older sibling also happens to be something of a substitute 'parent'...
Let's just say it might take the concept of "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery" to a whole another level.
There was a time in Nex's life when he, too, was nothing short of Asher's little shadow.
Not much had changed (albeit for a rebellious streak in the middle)—but back then, it was something born out of necessity for him rather than a choice.
The grey-eyed toddler was still in the fumbling stages of forming an identity, when he found his tiny self suspended in a grand house that echoed with luxury and neglect in equal measure.
He was a ghost among the living, drifting unseen by the ever-busy servants—acknowledged only when he fell too ill, almost at the verge of dying from high fever; or when his cries screeched upon their ears too loud to ignore for food or a diaper change, begging for the bare minimum that a baby shouldn't have to.
The world was far too big, too cold for someone so small, and it rarely cared enough to stoop down to his level.
But things would change for the better whenever a certain blue-eyed boy visited.
Before being scooped away to be essentially hidden from the occasional 'visitor', the toddler had managed to catch a few fleeting glimpses of this "hyung".
At five years old, Asher was anything but a typical five-year-old.
Despite being a literal child, his face was devoid of any joy, cold-neutral, with icy blue eyes like winter lightning and a demeanor fit for the spawn of the Grim Reaper himself—he was also quite tall for his age then, with a height that of an average seven-year old boy.
Yet for little Nex, to whom the giant 'adults' were something like a walking Forest of Legs, to not get trampled under while crawling – Asher stood out, simply because of being seen; reachable from the toddler's limited view to be accessed.
Moreover, his arrival each time, did coincide with Nex's quality of life significantly improving, so that's that.
The same nannies who routinely treated him like background noise would suddenly spring to life, their every movement sharp with purpose. Anything to keep the baby from crying. Anything to avoid the baby from catching the guest's attention.
Clearly, the enigmatic blue-eyed boy was little Nex's ticket out of Baby Hell.
And so, driven by the raw instincts of a cornered creature too young to articulate his needs, one day Nex would make his move.
Tiny limbs propelled him forward—through a maze of legs and skirts and polished shoes—until his chubby hand finally latched onto the five-year-old child's cuffed trouser.
Icy blue eyes snapped toward him with a speed that startled the toddler into a soft, shaky whimper. His bottom lip trembled, curling down as his big doe greys welled up with tears—fear mixing with hopelessness as they squeezed shut.
Only to flutter open in stunned surprise—when he felt suddenly lifted off the ground.
Hoisted upward like a curious pet at an auction, the toddler dangled slightly in the blue-eyed boy's grasp.
Asher studied him—eyes narrowed, a strange glimmer of intrigue in their chill.
Then, slowly, a smile curled onto his lips.
It was uneven. Slightly awkward.
As if smiling wasn't something he'd learned to do quite yet.
"You seem familiar... "
"...Have we met before?" The blue-eyed boy asked. His voice was sweet, dripping with boyish charm fit for his age – yet it was unsettling, creepy due to the ominous air that surrounded him.
Not that a naive toddler would notice such things.
Nex blinked.
At two years old, his mind wasn't exactly equipped with long-term recall—and the fact that he'd remember this moment later in life, resurfacing through a series of disjointed dreams, would be a miracle in itself.
And it would just so happen...
That the most vivid version of the nightmare would seize him shortly after his collapse that had you trapped under, while you'd spend those two drawn-out hours in a session of haunting introspection.
Yet, it would be nothing compared to the not-so-insidious ways these 'dreams of regression' would fracture his mind and conscience further—nudging him closer to the end of what his 'treatment' entailed.
To not just be Asher's not-so-little shadow again.
But even better.
So much so, that the reel would begin to feel too real at some point.
(Nex's nightmare resumes—)
── I have no idea who you are, but I'll go wherever you take me!
The baby version of him had responded with a string of babbled sounds, legs kicking as he wriggled closer—desperate to bridge the gap between him and his hyung.
Meanwhile, Asher held him up steady at a distance–surprisingly strong for a five-year old's arm strength and far too used to holding things that could get crushed if dropped or pressed too hard.
He regarded Nex with the quiet intensity of a young predator eyeing prey—mildly amused, yet unaware of the irrevocable bond being sealed in that moment.
The kind of moment small beings don't survive if they pick the wrong eyes to reach for.
Asher was the walking danger himself,
But to 2-year-old Nex, his icy blues were the right ones.
Just as they would be again for the 21-year-old Nex, disillusioned and restless, reliving the scene in a nightmare—grappling with emotions far messier now.
He wasn't just reliving a memory, but becoming a broken vessel—
Of regret and aching guilt,
For lost comfort.
And for him to remember and remain forever indebted to the guardian angel he'd ungratefully abandon—who had been a Devil to everyone else but never to him...
Or at least not to that extent.
His scary yet merciful hyung.
The one whose absence carved deep into his subconscious and stretched into waking life as stress-drenched tears from past nightmares he couldn't quite explain.
And yet—just like back then—it happened.
One of the taller adults nearby moved to pluck him away from his hyung, reaching with a gloved hand.
Too slow.
Even in the dream.
Because without warning, Nex was pulled inward—tucked completely into Asher's small but resolute chest.
Not as a hug,
But as a non-negotiable claim.
A hold that said mine in a language older than words.
"You seem dumber than a squirrel," Asher said coolly, ignoring the adult as his icy blues locked onto the innocent greys again.
The azure-eyed boy sneered, sounding anything but innocent—before he lazily poked the toddler's chubby cheek. "Your sense of danger seems to be more broken than I thought. How did you manage to stay alive till now?"
Unable to understand a word, the grey-eyed little one simply grabbed the poking finger—and stuck it in his mouth to nibble on; an action that only seemed to amuse Asher further as he sneered again. "Whatever, you're mine now."
"I decide what becomes of you."
Words that should have haunted Nex.
Words that once might've felt like a chokehold, especially from someone who would grow into a manipulative, controlling figure in his life cloaked in care.
But now, all the grey-eyed dreamer wanted was to turn back time to those oppressive years.
Undo his 'mistakes' and let his hyung decide, as he'd willingly submit to the expectations he once despised trying to fulfill.
Do a better job at being the 'perfect' little brother he hadn't been—be everything Asher wanted him to be.
── I won't let you down again, hyung...
── I'll-I'll be good. I'll listen only to you and no one else...
Hm.
Not so sure about that claim, kiddo.
But oh well.
And so, in the dream Nex tried to cling onto his guardian angel of Death tight, breathing in a scent that should have brought nostalgic relief—
But alas, in reality it was yours – the scent of the one his hyung had imprinted on,
Not to be shared.
Yet here the 'little' shadow was—mistaking you for his owner.
The cursed protector he had once needed, but 'disgracefully' let go.
But now, with old instincts reawakened and unresolved trauma disguised as bittersweet nostalgia clouding his mind, Nex felt overwhelmed.
The guilt, the fear of being abandoned, intertwined with a carnal need that didn't truly belong—yet had somehow taken root within—unleashed a chaotic wave of hopelessness through his fractured mind.
How he had ruined everything—beyond repair.
So when, in reality, you finally stopped resisting—letting him have the hug, too intense, too unhealthy to have a name—Nex found his moment of disillusioned peace.
Even if it was a lie.
Even if it was only meant to last for those two dream-suspended hours.
Because in that moment, it was his obsession to grasp onto anything his hyung's that had kept him bound to you, and nothing else.
That being said...
When his grey eyes finally fluttered open, reality offered him emotional whiplash as a reward.
Still coping with the aftereffects of the 'dream', Nex felt like he'd been plunged headfirst into another one.
Perhaps a forbidden kind.
Because you were there, in his arms, asleep.
░𝟜.░
In all honesty, Nex would have probably not begun to feel so intensely for you—if it hadn't been for your intimate connection with Asher.
But that doesn't automatically mean he wasn't crushing hard.
Those feelings of his were very real.
Just like the way Nex had found himself at the Cabin, disoriented and not fully aware of his new surroundings, yet his grey eyes had unconsciously taken note of the mundane things around —whenever his mind wasn't busy trying to grapple with the sudden turn of events following his accidental 'overdose'.
From the soft-colored walls, the minimal yet homely room décor—to the minute details like the dainty vase and warm-colored paintings hung around the place—Nex could tell his hyung's taste in things had changed quite a bit.
Which wasn't really a surprise, given the time they had spent apart due to their differences and their big fallout. Nevertheless, he found himself starting to take a liking to them too (begrudgingly then), after trying in vain to find faults in the inanimate objects by intimidating them with a long glare full of spite.
You, however, were the biggest 'update' in his hyung's life, of course—and not the easiest one for Nex to digest.
It also didn't help that your first impression was eerily similar to his "first" meeting with Asher—a distressed you clinging to the blue-eyed idol like he was your only life support.
Unconsciously, Nex had felt competitive—just as you had with him—but given that he was the 'grown adult' then and you were 'ill', the pink-haired maknae had refused to acknowledge that feeling's existence until it warped into a sense of curiosity to know more.
There was a reason why Asher had been shameless enough to mark his territory so blatantly by 'showing' the maknae you were off limits—using PDA as a means to put him off.
The blue-eyed idol didn't realize it then, but he was unconsciously acting on an older sibling instinct.
He'd seen it happen before—how the grey-eyed copycat would develop a habit of liking whatever was his.
Be it something as minor as a hand-me-down jacket that Asher still liked but would feel just generous enough to part with after catching those grey eyes lingering on it too long. Or, sometimes, he'd coldly dismiss the item—effectively making the maknae lose interest, though Nex would always get over the transient heartbreak soon enough.
Just like how Nex's once-burning passion for singing quietly gave way to dancing, once his hyung decided the former no longer aligned with their future plans.
To Asher, the maknae's interests—especially the ones that overlapped with his own—were nothing more than "phases." A little identity crisis Nex would grow out of eventually and find his own thing (though conveniently, that "thing" was usually chosen for him by his hyung).
Questionable or not, Nex's choices weren't taken seriously.
They were temporary—disposable, if inconvenient.
And since 'you' fell into the rare category of things Asher felt fiercely territorial about, the blue-eyed ex-benefactor had become particularly aggressive in asserting his selfish claim—through actions downright offensive.
Not realizing the opposite, jarring effect the whole 'making out in front of my little bro' was having on Nex—who was uncomfortable, sure, but not in the way either sibling realized.
Exceptions exist in every aspect of life, after all.
As now, the same soft squelching sound of kissing seemed to ring in the maknae's ears as his grey eyes lingered on your unconscious lips like they were an enticing forbidden fruit on display—imagining how they'd feel and taste against his own, before he took in a hungry gulp of restraint.
── It should be fine... since it's just a dream, right?
He seemed to wrongly reason with himself, yet far more timid—unlike his hyung, who wouldn't think twice anymore before passionately feasting on your lips.
Then again, Asher was your lover,
While Nex... was attempting to trespass.
Uncertain.
Frozen in place by guilt and craving alike.
Still debating if it would be wrong to indulge in that perverse curiosity of his, like some 'good' kid sneaking a cookie while no one was looking.
── Just a peck... no more.
But it seemed the buildup was for nothing, as the moment he stirred—your eyes snapped open, as if you hadn't been asleep at all, merely getting a shut-eye—before you simply remarked, "Ah, you're finally awake. That's good."
That was enough to sober Nex up.
Visibly flustered, he scrambled backward, stammering apologies that didn't quite land—more like a panicked escape as he leapt up to give you the space you'd asked for two hours ago.
Though it didn't help (or maybe it did) when the memory of that earlier conversation came rushing back to him like a surreal, fever-dream. ── Wait...that was real?
Yup.
── Fuck, what-what did I do afterwards then...
Nex panicked, trying to remember if he had accidentally said something he shouldn't have or what if he'd touched—
── No. No. No. I couldn't have–
── Ughh did I?!-
You, however, seemed to be taking the whole situation far too well, as you patted his back in reassurance and sighed like a tired mother. "It's fine, don't worry about it."
"I was just starting to wonder if letting you sleep on me for two hours straight was a mistake or not..." You rubbed the exhaustion from your eyes, stretching out the stiffness in your limbs like you hadn't just been used as someone's emotional pillow. "But clearly you needed that nap, didn't you? Did you not sleep well last night?"
Nex swallowed hard.
His mind blanked.
Your words barely registered in his ears as he was still overthinking about what he may have done while he was fully out.
── Fuck, I-I can't seem to remember a thing!
── And why is noona so-so chill about this? Is she overcompensating for my sake–Did my actions scare her to pretend?!
Your sudden relaxed demeanor was clearly throwing him off, as his vitals spiked from the restless anxiety building within—
── Hyung did say she might get mood swings due to her 'illness'...Is-Is she having one of those?!
Asher indeed had been mindful to give Nex a vague heads-up about you 'acting off' from time to time. And of course, to inform hyung dearest if it happened during his absence.
── Right... I should-I should let hyung know. I think I've already messed things up–eek!
But before he could act on that thought, Nex snapped back to reality once he felt the back of his right hand, caressed by you–a startled, half-swallowed yelp caught in his throat.
His tongue fought to function.
"Ah-N-Noona?!—I—what—"
"How does it feel?" you asked softly, eyes flicking to his hand, full of concern. "Does it tingle too much?"
You meant the hand.
He experienced and understood something entirely different.
Your soothing touch, accompanied with that gentle tone of yours as he took in your tender gaze— All of which were causing the tightening in Nex's chest to return, his heart threatening to give out.
While his face flushed, almost matching his pink hair, before he mumbled,"Y-Yeah... it hurts."
"I think...something's really wrong with it."
(With my heart.)
"Really?" Your eyes widened in alarm as you leaned in to inspect the exposed part of his arm, delicate and intent— before casually suggesting something that nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.
"Let's get rid of your hoodie, then. I think that might help."
"Wha—huh?"
His breath hitched, grey eyes wavering.
── What does that ?!—how can you ??!!—what are you even?!—Ugh, Noona!
You blinked.
"Ah, sorry. I shouldn't have assumed."
You corrected yourself,unaware of the damage already done.
And the far greater one you were about to unwittingly create.
"Do you want me to take it off for you?"
Boom!
[Nex died.]
[Cause of death: Overheating due to apocalyptic-level arousal.]
Nah, just kidding.
The pink-haired maknae was still alive—but trembling like an anxious chihuahua.
Eyes wide. Pulse erratic. Entirely frozen.
Nex couldn't speak.
Couldn't breathe.
Couldn't think.
While you?
You didn't wait for permission from a boy who'd clearly malfunctioned.
With a sigh, you simply pulled his hoodie up, gently guiding his arms out of the sleeves like he was some fragile patient. Then, with clinical precision, you examined his bare muscular arms—
While Nex sat there in his grey t-shirt, completely dazed, still lost in the emotional aftermath of your earlier offer.
Were you going a bit overboard because of your own 'muscle memory' acting up? Perhaps.
But was the grey-eyed maknae planning to resist for real anytime soon? Fuck no.
Your gaze flicked up and met his,
Before he looked away immediately, guilt-ridden.
You huffed. "I think we should just eat lunch and figure this out afterward. The pain might just be hunger—you're probably confusing the two. It's nearly 4 PM, anyway."
That grounded Nex—barely though.
"R-Right. That must be it..."
His words trailed off before guilt struck again and he sprang to his feet, flustered.
"I-I'm sorry, noona—I didn't mean to hold you up—"
"If you really feel sorry for me, then sit back down."
Your maternal patience seemed to have run thin as you interrupted his nervous ramble—a strained smile barely concealing your irritation as you added. "Now, Nex."
You didn't want to put your foot down again with the maknae.
But the clock was ticking, and both of you needed to eat.
Once Nex sheepishly obeyed, you got up and moved to the kitchen—retrieving two simple bowls of reheated food. Nothing fancy. Just something balanced and gentle for two empty stomachs.
But when he reached for his bowl, you outright refused.
"Don't even think about it."
He blinked in confusion, only to freeze again as you opened the lid of his meal, cooled a spoonful with your breath, and held it out to him.
"I'll feed you until we figure out what's wrong with your hand."
Nex just blinked.
Did he hear that right?
"You better not fight me on this," you added firmly. "If you do, I won't eat either."
That shut him up completely.
If it was his hyung in his place — he would have too, but the latter would have other plans ready afterward...
Unlike Asher though, the starry-eyed maknae, too naive and pure-hearted despite everything, had not a single working brain cell under his control to think otherwise.
And so, you began spoon-feeding Nex, slowly and steadily.
Like he was a stubborn toddler refusing his greens.
── What...What is happening right now...
He stared at you, doe-eyed and dazed, watching your face as you offered him another bite.
His cheeks puffed up like a hamster's, after accepting too many spoonfuls at once.
Alas, the maknae was a slow eater when fed.
Inevitably, some of it spilled down the corner of his mouth.
You caught it effortlessly with a napkin, of course.
Before scolding him softly,
"Don't take more until you've finished what's already in your mouth."
Nex nodded slowly.
Ashamed.
Awestruck.
And entirely overwhelmed.
── Is this really not a dream? I...
His thoughts began to fog again.
── I don't know anymore...
Childlike glee flickered across his dazed greys,
Before a giddy almost silly smile spread across the pink-haired maknae's face.
── But if it is...
── ...I don't want it to end.
He wished, watching you continue to spoon-feed him, alternating with bites of your own meal.
░𝟛.░
Congratulations!
Perhaps the blue-eyed Devil had known exactly what he was doing when he decided to make you his 'significant other'.
Because you, with nothing but your existence, were single-handedly unraveling people's lives—bringing chaos and pulling out their deepest, darkest desires from where they'd been buried along with your own ones.
Whether it was Nex, who found himself swooning over you without even knowing your name...
Or Damian, who kept chasing the ghost of your existence, hiding behind lies about doing it all for the greater good—until he was handed a name and a face to match his Schrödinger's cat; a single fragment of your past, and already it was driving him over the edge... without even meeting you.
Ha. Ironic, wasn't it?
One knew your name but hadn't met you yet, while the other didn't know your name but had met and personally interacted with you, albeit for a few days now—still both had their own reasons to obsess.
But be beware,
Just because two more people seemed enchanted by you didn't mean everyone would follow suit.
As for every person falling under your spell,
There was someone out there sharpening their knives.
A single day can alter the trajectory of a life—for better or worse.
A handful of hours may be all it takes for someone to sense they’ve found what they never knew was missing—something like a soulmate.
Someone who fills a void they hadn’t noticed earlier, and suddenly— they can no longer imagine a life without them.
And yet, in the span of a single breath, a familiar soul can feel like a stranger.
A flicker of doubt sometimes enough to unravel trust—exposing just how fragile human relationships can be.
Perhaps those are anomalies—cases of rare sensitivity, outliers in one’s life—where it’s all just a warped perception of reality and time brought on by surging emotions of different human minds.
Or perhaps there’s something else at play—beyond one’s control.
Some truths may forever remain elusive.
Some questions, unanswered.
But time—
Time does not always require an equation to prove its relativity.
Sometimes, it simply needs to be lived;
Experienced firsthand,
Only to realize in hindsight—
That even a lifetime may be a bargain to understand oneself,
Let alone another life.
And so,
Some things may not be as they seem.
Demanding attention that’s worth more than just a snapshot in time.
No two people react the same, nor does one person ever respond identically to the same moment twice. And yet, the foolish human yearning to be objective remains.
To strip perception of bias.
An ironic pursuit born of bias itself.
A paradox, perhaps—Or merely a quiet hypocrisy people have learned to live with.
Whatever the case, the truth holds:
The mind often bends to what the eyes choose to believe.
One may claim to have seen enough—a reflex far more frequent than they care to admit.
Sometimes, it leads them to the end.
Sometimes, it leads them astray.
But either way, one must concede:
Perception shifts.
The lens is never fixed.
With each turn of life’s kaleidoscope, the fragments rearrange—
Tinted shards, casting visions in tender pastels;
Or in stark, jarring contrasts.
Thus, the “real” truth one might find in the end, may simply be the last pattern captured in the moment—
And what chooses to look back at you through the looking glass.
Nex had blinked. His vision blurred; his mind still hazy.
Then, instinctively—his eyelids fluttered shut, and the tears spilled.
Soft lips had kissed them away though.
Clade purred against his damp skin, voice dripping with mock concern.
"Why cry for a man who only ever made you cry?"
A thumb brushed against his parted lips—slipping between them so easily, because Nex had stopped protesting.
He had been tired.
Too tired to fight.
Empty grey eyes met slightly irritated amber ones.
Clade hated it.
Hated that, even now, even in his absence—
Asher still had a tighter grip on Nex’s mind than he did.
So, the golden viper had done what he did best.
He had whispered.
He had planted seeds.
He had tried to rewrite the truth.
Spoke of Asher in past tense.
Treated him like a dead man.
And eventually—
Nex had stopped lashing out.
Slowly, bit by bit, he had started to believe it.
Because if Asher was dead—
Then at least he’d never have to see what a despicable human his little brother had become.
Not even his hyung’s death had stopped him from doing drugs.
And maybe—
Maybe Clade was right.
── Maybe…it is time to move on.
The broken maknae mumbled incoherently the thought aloud. “…”
Seeing Nex utterly defenceless and on the verge of giving up, the blonde had smirked, taking a wild shot in the dark—
One he knew would land exactly where he wanted.
"Or are these tears for my enjoyment alone? Still sulking because I broke your innocent little heart and kissed that girl, hm?"
Annoyance flickered through the previously vacant grey eyes as Nex’s lips clamped shut, his jaw tightening on instinct.
Clade snickered, pleased by the predictable reaction.
He wasn’t about to let the irritated maknae slip from his grasp just yet. "Aww~ Did I hit a nerve, Nexie?" he purred, his breath warm against the younger’s face as he leaned in—close enough that their lips almost brushed.
"If you insist, though," the golden vixen teased, his fingers lazily tracing the sharp line of Nex’s jaw, "I’ll just have to show you that everyone has it in them to cheat." His voice was smooth, shameless. "They’re just better at hiding it. But me? I’m always honest with you."
── What a fucking joke.
Nex had grunted—and whether intentional or not, some of his spit landed across Clade’s lips.
The blonde’s eyes darkened, but before he could react, the dazed maknae let out a smug little chuckle, like a spoiled brat revelling in mischief.
It didn’t last very long though.
The second Nex’s fogged-up brain registered what had happened, his stomach had churned.
Disgusted and utterly horrified.
Clade, utterly unfazed, had licked his lips clean—lapping up the remnants of the maknae’s spit without wasting a drop. His flushed face and the slow, deliberate way his tongue moved—while maintaining direct eye-contact, sent an immediate wave of revulsion down Nex’s spine.
── Eww—what-what the actual fuck-!
If he wasn’t sober before, Nex sure as hell was then.
But the golden viper hadn’t been done yet.
It seemed Clade still had honeyed poison left to drip into Nex’s ears.
"Don’t worry," The delusional blonde had murmured, his voice silky.
“Even if everyone else eventually leaves you, I’ll always stay by your side.”
“No matter what, Nexie."
A direct hit—right where it had mattered.
The little grey-eyed boy inside Nex, the one who feared abandonment above all else, had frozen.
His body had stopped resisting, instinctively attuned to the voice belonging to the only company—the only person that still remained to wipe his half-dried tears away.
"Because I’m the only one who accepts you for who you really are."
Clade had watched as the maknae’s clouded eyes finally stopped looking past him—and started looking at him instead.
He had liked that. That look.
That flicker of dependence.
"No one else will ever see your worth like I do."
With a lazy smirk, the golden vixen had parted Nex’s lips again, revelling in the way the younger didn’t pull away this time.
His grey eyes hadn’t been empty anymore—rather still pridefully stubborn, but laced with a quiet, unspoken need.
A plea, perhaps—for Clade to not go back on his word.
To stay.
No matter what.
A crooked smile had then stretched across the blonde’s lips.
His precious Nexie might have despised him—but he despised loneliness even more.
Why else would he put up with everything, despite the truth having been out in the open for months then?
"And even if you say you hate me, bud,”
“Deep down, you know I’m the only real friend you’ll ever have."
Clade had chuckled, booping Nex’s nose in mock affection.
He continued to repeat that action to irritate, until the latter couldn’t help but scrunch up his face—and sneeze.
A tiny muffled one.
Trying to resist the reflex action in vain somehow managed to leave Nex momentarily more disoriented than from the drugs still fogging his system.
── So cute~
Clade wiped away the non-existent snort off, the dazed maknae’s nose—before the latter’s unconscious face slumped into the blonde’s palm.
A golden opportunity seemed to have presented itself, again.
With the field cleared of any obstacles for him yet again—the blonde's sly hands finally slipped under the maknae’s tight pants to take care of…the little business.
.
But even the universe, in all its vast indifference, must have felt a flicker of shame at some point—for what it had done to the defenseless wallflower, cursed with the fate of a mud-born lotus.
The only difference?
This little one wasn’t resilient.
It could wither.
It could rot in the very swamp it had been thrust into.
Yet, just as everything in life carries an expiration date—
So too would the arrogant smirk stretched across the demented blonde’s lips.
Yandere lover who makes you become dependent on them. You're used to doing things on your own, but when they come into your life you're suddenly out of balance. You could be trying to tie your shoes like normal, and they come rushing in and tying them for you. You're about to have lunch on your own, and they're pulling out a chair in front of you and taking your spoon to feed you. When they're around you don't have to lift a finger- or well, they don't let you, really.
+ Yandere lover who gets upset when you do something for yourself, like you got up earlier than them to make breakfast, and they're pouting as they see you in the kitchen because you weren't with them in bed. "You don't have to worry about anything baby, I got this." Yandere who sees you trying to do the bed after they come out of the shower and they rush towards you telling you they will finish it up for you. "Baby, you don't need to force yourself to do anything, just let me take care of you honey."
You're scared to depend on them so much because you feel like they won't like it even though they tell you to just leave everything up to them.
"You don't need to be scared, I promise all you need to do is depend on me. I won't take away my attention from you to break you down, I'm not that mean."
Soft yandere partner, who's never missing a beat when it comes to you. Adoring you from the inside out, they love you so much, but they're so gentle about it. Like the slightest pressure might break you. They're gentle in many things, like how they express their love, how they speak and look at you. Even in the way they treat you infront of others. You don't know them in any other way but the kindness they show. Until they're not so soft and kind with you sometimes.
+ Soft yandere who you forget that their nature is still yandere. They're always making you feel like you're sitting on this high throne, like you'll never come down. But they’re quick to remind you of who put you up there. When you act a certain way that can't control, they snap. They're pulling you forward, slamming their lips into yours, so hard you feel it could draw blood. They don't just wish to see you when your happy and at your best moments. They want to see what you look like desperate, sad, and crying- begging. There's this look in their eyes that has you scared when you look into them, they're wiping your tears away with their hands before they lick them away.
"Everything that is you is mine."
"I'm trying my best to be patient here, but you're making it a little hard for me right now."
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