I don’t just write filth — I craft obsessions.
Tongues tied, hands wandering, thighs spread like open pages. If you’re
here to behave, you’re in the wrong place. I like it messy. I like it loud. And I
always, always finish what I start. 💋
hiiiii~ you can call me libra ☻
i write Stray Kids fics for fun — and by “fun” i mean... ✨everything✨ from soft fluff to soul-snatching angst~ (⸝⸝⸝º 𖥦 º⸝⸝⸝)♡
⚠️ INTERACT WITH AWARENESS!
This blog contains all types of story—please respect that.
╰───⋆🌈 my inbox is open for requests!
as long as you're ✨kind✨, you're welcome here ૮₍ ´• ˕ •` ₎ა
THIS IS AN INSTAGRAM CROSS-POSTING ACCOUNT!
✘ what i don’t write:
⤷ anything that makes me genuinely uncomfy — i’ll let you know if something doesn’t sit right :)
⤷ rude asks / hate = blocked 🚫 ⤷ smut—I just genuinely don't feel comfortable about writing about my idols, please respect that.
✔️ what i do write:
☁️ fluff — cozy, soft, stay-up-all-night-texting vibes
💔 angst — for when you wanna cry in the shower at 3am
🧃 short + sweet — quick hits of emotion & tension
🎭 vibey stuff — glitchcore feels, dreamy chaos, sexy spirals
⏳ turnaround time:
usually around a day! ⚡(unless i get possessed by a nap demon)
🌀 aesthetic:
glitchcore ✦ electric kisses ✦ pixel tears ✦ corrupted heart.txt
this blog is for all the baddies, crybabies, and chaos lovers out there.
stay soft. stay healthy. 💌
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ let’s get vibin'~
Genre: Horror | Comedy | Supernatural Nonsense | Mild Bullying of Gingers | Basement Lore
Summary: Seungmin, who should’ve just gone home, decides to investigate a sketchy basement at JYP after hours.
Warning: Cursed basement energy | Jokes about gingers (no gingers were harmed… probably) | Fake Italian accent so bad it might summon Nintendo lawyers | Mario-adjacent demonic activity | Feet. Like… aggressively | Haunted footwear | Sentient wig | Fourth-wall break | Immature humor | Chaotic narrator energy | Silvia | Everyone is dumb on purpose
A/N: You guys might know Silvia...from Youtube. She's amazing bro! This whole thing is based on her posts <33 This is just super random HEHEHE
Seungmin had no business being in the basement, which was exactly why he was there.
The building was quiet that night. Practice was over, everyone went home, and the hallway lights kept flickering like JYP forgot to pay the electric bill again. Seungmin wandered, eating a cold convenience-store sandwich that was 90% mayo, 10% regret, and walked down the back stairwell.
No one ever went there. The staff avoided it. The members avoided it. Even Minho said, “If you go down there, I won’t look for you.” Which, honestly, Seungmin expected from him.
So obviously, Seungmin went.
JYP Basement, according to rumor, was haunted. Or full of old costumes. Which was worse. Both equally terrifying.
The lights grew dim the lower he went, until even the dust seemed afraid. He finished his sandwich (because food waste is a crime) and tossed the wrapper into the void where trash cans feared to exist.
At the bottom was a hallway lined with ugly beige walls, the kind that look like they'd smell like wet dog and old soup. At the end stood a steel door with a sign:
“DO NOT OPEN.
No seriously, I mean it.
Especially you, Ginger.”
Seungmin stared.
“…I’m not even ginger.”
He looked around in case someone was filming him. Nothing. No hidden camera. Just the sound of bad decisions calling his name.
“I’m not ginger,” he repeated, a little offended. “I’m Seungmin. Get it right.”
He grabbed the handle and pulled.
Because why not.
The door creaked open like it had never been opened or was terrified to be opened again. The air inside smelled like burnt spaghetti and despair. Fluorescent light flickered on, revealing… some kind of ritual circle, except instead of old arcane symbols, it looked like someone scribbled them using Crayola markers.
A figure sat in the center on a ridiculous red throne, wearing… a Mario hat.
No — not just a Mario hat.
A full Mario costume. Mustache included. Fake Italian accent included.
“It’s-a ME-A-MARIA,” the demon declared, dramatically. “And YOU-A LUIGI. GO TO HELL-A!”
Seungmin blinked.
“…I think you mean Mario,” he said.
The demon gasped. “Are you correcting me? IN MY OWN SATANIC STUDIO?”
“That wasn’t Satanic,” Seungmin said. “Those are Crayola drawings.”
The demon coughed awkwardly. “I have budget issues.”
At least he was honest.
Seungmin’s eyes wandered. On a nearby table sat three items, glowing with ominous IKEA mood lighting.
The demon clapped his hands. “You get ONE-A choice, Luigi. Pick wisely, or—BOO, you die.”
Seungmin sighed. “Why am I Luigi.”
“Because I am the main character.”
“Fair.”
The demon pointed dramatically. “You may choose… THE HAUNTED CROC! This Croc has eaten seventeen souls and one accountant!”
A single green Croc sat there, looking harmlessly hideous.
“Or… THE SENTIENT WIG! It whispers secrets at 3AM and asks how your GPA is doing!”
The wig sat silently. Suspicious.
“Or… THE GLOWING LEFT FOOT!”
A real human left foot. Glowing faintly. Radiating vibes that said “I probably have tetanus and a backstory you don’t want to know.”
Seungmin stared. “…That’s just a foot.”
“It’s VERY haunted,” the demon insisted. “Like, toe-wiggling haunted.”
“Why is it only the left foot?”
The demon threw his arms up. “I don’t know! Ask the previous owner! Actually NO — DO NOT!”
Seungmin squinted. He would like to leave now. But if he didn’t pick something, the demon might take his ass to hell and make him voice-act Toad forever.
So he pointed. “I pick… the foot.”
The demon choked. “WHY WOULD YOU PICK THAT.”
“You told me not to ask the owner,” Seungmin said. “So obviously this is the one with the juicy drama.”
“…Fair.”
The demon tossed him the foot. It was surprisingly warm. Ew. Ew. Ew.
The moment he caught it, the lights flickered violently. The Crayola runes sizzled. The foot vibrated like a possessed Nokia phone.
Then—
“WOOHOO~! IT’S-A ME-A, FOOTY!”
The foot… talked.
Seungmin froze. “No. No. Absolutely not.”
Footy the Foot continued, “DON’T WORRY, LUIGI! I JUST WANNA BE YOUR LITTLE TREAT!”
“I’m Seungmin,” he corrected.
“OKAY LINGUINE!”
“No—”
The foot leapt and suction-cupped itself to Seungmin’s arm like an octopus made of athlete’s foot.
He screamed. A respectable scream. Maybe a little high-pitched. A tasteful soprano.
He tried peeling it off. It wouldn’t budge. It tried making conversation.
“Do you like Gingers? I HATE GINGERS. I BET YOU HATE GINGERS TOO. LET’S EAT ONE.”
Seungmin stared. “I—I’m neutral about Gingers.”
Footy gasped. “TRAITOR.”
The Mario demon facepalmed so hard his mustache almost fell off. “Why. Why the foot. Why not the Croc. The Croc was chill. It listened to jazz.”
The foot began singing opera. Loudly. Badly. In the worst imagined Italian accent ever.
“It’s-a me-a, FOOTY~! BELLA CIAO BELLA CIAO—”
“Stop,” Seungmin hissed.
“BELLA CIAO CIAO CIA—”
Seungmin grabbed a broom from a corner and swung. Footy dodged like a flying pancake, screeching obscenities and yelling about wanting to lick things it should not lick.
“NO! I WANNA MEET YOUR TOES! RAW AND UNCUT!”
“Nope,” Seungmin muttered. “I am not dealing with this foot fetish demon.”
Footy lunged for his face.
Seungmin smacked it baseball-style into the wall, where it splatted with a wet SLAP.
The Mario demon covered his eyes. “My guy, you could’ve picked the wig. The wig just wants to talk about taxes.”
Footy lunged again. Seungmin grabbed a mop, flung the demon’s Mario cap at it to distract it, then punt-kicked the foot deep into the hall.
Footy shrieked as it flew. “YOU CAN’T ESCAPE DESTINY, SPAGHETTI BOOYYY—”
Silence.
The Mario demon clapped, genuinely impressed. “Damn. You punted Footy. Brave, stupid man.”
“Thank you?”
Suddenly, the lights turned blood-red. The Crayola runes glowed violently, like a toddler drew a demon circle and actually succeeded.
The demon straightened. His tone shifted. Less Mario. More Satan.
“You sealed your fate the moment you touched the foot.”
Seungmin sighed. “Can I get a refund?”
“No.”
A rumble echoed down the hallway. Footy reappeared, now massive. A six-foot tall foot. With toes like sausages. The big toe cracked like a knuckle.
“LUIGI,” it rumbled, “I HAVE COME FOR YOUR SOUL.”
Seungmin cracked his neck. “Bring it, toenail.”
They fought.
To be clear: Seungmin fought a giant foot.
He smacked it with a mop. It kicked him into a wall. He dodged its fungus-infested stomp like a K-pop Matrix character. The Mario demon live-commentated from the sidelines like a dramatic baseball announcer.
“OHHHH LUIGI WITH THE SWING! THE TOE IS ANGRY! THIS IS BETTER THAN NETFLIX!”
Eventually, Seungmin found a rusty fire extinguisher. He blasted the foot. It screamed.
“I’M ALLERGIC TO CLEAN!!”
The demon gasped. “Of course! The foot hates hygiene! How did I not think of that!”
“Because you’re dressed like Mario.”
“Fair.”
Seungmin sprayed until the foot shriveled, cracked, and poofed into glittery dust that smelled faintly of expired parmesan.
Silence.
The demon stared. “…You just killed Footy.”
Seungmin nodded. “I refuse to be terrorized by something that belongs in a bowling alley lost-and-found.”
The Mario demon sighed, suddenly chill again. “Well, Luigi, you survived. You get a prize.”
He snapped his fingers. Seungmin blinked.
He was back at the practice room. He was holding… a coupon.
It read:
“One Free Basement Haunting. Thank you for your service.
P.S. Gingers still suck. – Footy”
Seungmin crumpled it angrily.
He left the building.
He never spoke of the basement again.
But sometimes…
On cold nights…
He heard something whisper:
“BELLA CIAO BELLA CIAO CIAO CIAO—”
And Seungmin would simply throw a shoe at the wall and go back to sleep.
Genre: Horror| Psychological Thriller| Disappearance.
Summary: Stray Kids travel to a quiet countryside village to film a fun and lighthearted episode of SKZ Code. Everything seems perfect — laughter, games, and beautiful scenery — until suddenly, Felix vanishes in the middle of a game. What begins as a carefree shoot quickly turns into a tense search, as the remaining members uncover unsettling clues that suggest Felix’s disappearance might not be an accident after all...
Part 11 of 11 chapters
Part 10
A/N: OMFGGG I'M FINALLY DONE WOOHOO! I wrote this series way before and posted it on both Instagram and Wattpad lol I was just too lazy to update BUT HERE YA GO!!!!
this is like super short btw
Felix was found.
He woke up slowly, his eyes fluttering open, confusion clouding his expression as he looked around. The soft, familiar hum of the dorm room greeted him—nothing like the eerie quiet of the village.
“Felix,” Chan’s voice was the first to reach his ears. “You’re okay.”
The members crowded around him, relief flooding their faces. Felix blinked at them, his gaze wandering over each of them with a soft, disoriented smile.
“I… I’m okay?” he asked, his voice hoarse, but genuine.
“Yeah,” Seungmin answered, his voice thick with emotion. “You’re safe. We’re all here.”
The others murmured in agreement, exchanging looks of silent understanding. They had been through hell, but Felix was back. That was all that mattered.
But as the days passed, small things started to get to Minho.
Felix was fine—at first. He laughed, joked, and got back to his old self with the group like nothing was wrong. But Minho noticed the little things. How Felix's image in the mirror would sometimes be behind him, like it wasn't quite up to speed. How Felix would sometimes forget things—small things, like how long they'd all been in the village or a joke they'd all heard just the day before.
When Minho mentioned it, the others just dismissed it as exhaustion or stress. But Minho didn't believe it.
They tried to leave it behind them—back to their dorm, away from the memories of the village that haunted them. Returning there was out of the question. They never would. Not there, not to the strange shadows that had nearly torn them apart.
Yet, Minho couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.
He stayed up one night, staring at the mirror in their dorm. The reflection before him was the same. Felix's bright smile. His laugh. The way he moved.
Yet, something in Minho's gut told him it was different.
Minho stared into the mirror. The blood was no longer there. But why did he still get the sensation that something was missing?
Genre: Horror| Psychological Thriller| Disappearance.
Summary: Stray Kids travel to a quiet countryside village to film a fun and lighthearted episode of SKZ Code. Everything seems perfect — laughter, games, and beautiful scenery — until suddenly, Felix vanishes in the middle of a game. What begins as a carefree shoot quickly turns into a tense search, as the remaining members uncover unsettling clues that suggest Felix’s disappearance might not be an accident after all...
Part 10 of 11 chapters
Part 9
The town house was still. There was just the gentle susurration of wind outside, stroking the walls with light touch. The atmosphere in the room with candles was thick with tension. Shadows danced on the walls, creating long, sinister silhouettes that seemed to have a life of their own.
Minho paced before the mirror, his own breath quick and shallow as he clutched Felix's necklace in his fingers. The villager had described the ritual to him in vague, ominously-phrased words—blood, sacrifice, a name carved in a mirror—but in the act itself, it was far more frightening than any of his own darkest thoughts.
The air was cold, only the burning candles by the mirror warming anything. He had been told what to do by the local. Say the name. Write the name. Provide the blood.
Minho took a deep breath. He knew what he must do.
But the uncertainty lingered, lurking in his mind. What if it was a trap? What if that was how they all ended up trapped here forever?
He gazed at the mirror, his own face winking in and out of existence as the candlelight danced. The surface rippled, distorting his features, and for a moment, he could have sworn he saw Felix's face looking back at him.
No. Not him. A clone—vacant eyes, lips twisted into a grotesque smile that fell far short of Felix's actual warmth.
Minho clenched his fists. He had come so far. He had to trust this would succeed. He had to save Felix.
Summoning his strength, he said, his own voice barely above a whisper. "Felix." His voice seemed to carry the heavy weight of a thousand pounds. "Felix."
Then Minho pushed the knife into his palm. He clenched his teeth, the pain sharp and immediate, but compared to the horror that was churning within his chest, it was naught but an afterthought. The blood oozed from the cut, running down his fingers, and he walked to the mirror with shaking hands.
The mirror flickered again. The Felix clones appeared—each one staring at him with pleading eyes, each one repeating the same desperate words: “I’m the real Felix. Don’t leave me.”
But Minho ignored them. He could not be swayed.
He drew the blood from his hand and began to inscribe on the mirror's face. The glass was cold and it drew his blood in with a cold hunger as he inscribed Felix's name—slowly, methodically, as the clones looked on, their faces lengthening more and more with every stroke of the name.
He finished the last letter with trembling hands, and he stepped back. The blood settled at the bottom of the mirror, seeping down in great tears, and Minho thought for a moment that nothing had happened.
The room chilled even further now, the silence too still, as if the world held its breath.
Minho waited. Waited some more.
And then…
The blood moved.
It flooded faster, pouring down the mirror like a living thing, stretching towards the edges like fingers of something beyond. The mirror flared once more, brighter this time, as though something was trying to break through. The clone faces grimaced, distorted, and then were gone—but not before the final word echoed in the room.
"Please."
Minho's heart thumped against his chest as he looked at the mirror, staring at the glass. The blood continued to leak, spinning around in circles, piling up at the bottom of the frame.
And then—silence.
The surface of the mirror was draining. The ripples vanished.
Minho's breath froze in his throat.
Felix.
But he was not a clone. He was not an illusion. The man in the mirror was real—he could tell by the softness of the eyes, the warmth of the smile. Felix's face was alive, his smile real.
Felix's voice broke the silence. "Minho… you found me."
Minho's heart overflowed, a tidal wave of emotions rushing over him—relief, joy, hope.
But as he stretched out toward the mirror, the face of Felix rippled.
Genre: Horror| Psychological Thriller| Disappearance.
Summary: Stray Kids travel to a quiet countryside village to film a fun and lighthearted episode of SKZ Code. Everything seems perfect — laughter, games, and beautiful scenery — until suddenly, Felix vanishes in the middle of a game. What begins as a carefree shoot quickly turns into a tense search, as the remaining members uncover unsettling clues that suggest Felix’s disappearance might not be an accident after all...
Part 9 of 11 chapters
Part 8
Part 10
The group reconvened in the village square, each of them looking as upset and lost as the next. None of them had exchanged a word with another since they'd split off to travel separately—each one had gone off by himself, and their encounters bore heavily on their faces.
Minho arrived at last, his hand clutching Felix's necklace firmly.
Without speaking, they stood in a ring, the mist moving in close to them as if it, too, were listening. As if they had all seen the same thing, felt the same chill presence.
I saw him," Changbin muttered, his tone low but firm. "But. something did not feel right. He was laughing, but it sounded like. not his laugh. His shadow did not align, shifting in sync with when he wasn't. It did not feel real.".
Yes," Han added, his face grim. "I found him in a house. He was cooking food. but the food was alive. Pulsing. I couldn't get out in time. It was like he was trying to trap me.".
"Same here," Seungmin whispered. "The dog led me to a well. Felix was underneath, gesturing. But the dog. it spoke. It said not to pick the wrong one. I don't even know what that means."
Jeongin answered in turn, his voice distant. "I too encountered him, but they were three of him. All of them arguing, begging me to choose who was the genuine one. I couldn't remember why I was there. I couldn't even remember my own name."
Chan looked at them all, his face stern. "I found him too. But… it wasn't Felix. It was a clone. He blamed me. Told me I wasn't there for him, that I picked the team over him." His eyes dropped to the ground, guilt weighing on his shoulders. "I should've been there.".
Minho tightened Felix's necklace in his grip, his jaw firm with determination. "I also found him. But the necklace—this belongs to Felix. It was on the ground, like he was present, but not present."
The others looked at him, their faces wide with puzzlement and alarm.
"I have talked to a villager," Minho went on, his voice calm but insistent. "He said something about a ritual. This is the only way to return Felix.
The air grew heavy with tension as the group stood frozen, the gravity of what Minho was saying pressing down on their shoulders.
"Minho," Chan attempted to interrupt, his voice strained by the guilt seeping through him.
"No," Minho interrupted, his gaze fixed on Chan's. "I'm the one. I'm chosen. I'm the one who must do this."
The silence hung for an instant before Chan nodded, his troubled face furrowed. "I see. I. I wish it was me. But if you think you're the one."
"I am," Minho stated firmly. "I have to do this."
And with that, the members regarded each other—quiet but understanding. They all knew how serious things were.
With no ado, they marched towards the town house at the village border. Whistling wind howled along empty streets as if goading them along.
When they arrived, the very same villager who had spoken with Minho stood there for them. Dark eyes twinkled with understanding, but not one trace of joy lay within them—just grave acknowledgment of what awaited them.
The man pointed to the center of the room, where a dusty, old-fashioned mirror hung.
"This is where it happens," the resident said quietly. "You must prepare yourself. It will cost your blood, your life. Then and only then can Felix be restored."
Minho nodded, his heart racing. The crew stood still, knowing whatever was going to happen next was irreversible.
Genre: Horror| Psychological Thriller| Disappearance.
Summary: Stray Kids travel to a quiet countryside village to film a fun and lighthearted episode of SKZ Code. Everything seems perfect — laughter, games, and beautiful scenery — until suddenly, Felix vanishes in the middle of a game. What begins as a carefree shoot quickly turns into a tense search, as the remaining members uncover unsettling clues that suggest Felix’s disappearance might not be an accident after all...
Part 8 of 11 chapters
Part 7
Part 9
Minho walked for what had been hours, it seemed, but the village had no end. The houses, crumbling facades and broken windows, all merged together in a whirl of dizziness. His mind whirled, but he couldn't help but have the sense that something was off. That they were out of time.
Finally, he saw it—a quiet house, tucked in on the edge of the village. The door creaked softly, open and shut in the wind.
"Felix?" Minho shouted out, his voice trembling more than he would like. He came inside, the pungent smell of wood and decay through his nostrils. It was quiet—too quiet.
The house felt. empty, as if nobody had lived there in years. Yet, in the center of the black room, there was someone.
A clone of Felix.
He sat rigid, silent, staring at nothing. His fingers were clasped in his lap, his expression one of neither joy nor despair—blank.
Minho's heart pounded in his chest. "Felix?" he said again, stepping forward. But the clone didn't respond. It didn't even nod at him.
Minho's eyes fell to the wall behind the figure.
And his blood ran cold.
There, scribbled on the crumbling plaster, were his innermost secrets—the things he had never told anyone, the thoughts he had buried for years. They were in a handwriting he did not know—his own handwriting, but distorted. Each word was a desecration, an invasion of areas of his soul he had attempted to bury.
The secrets were there, in black ink: "I'm afraid to be alone." "I never feel like I'm home." "I don't know if I can command them anymore."
Minho stumbled backward, gasping. His thoughts were whirling, all of them running wild. He turned back to the Felix clone once more. "What is this? What's happening?"
But the clone did not answer. It just sat, lifeless.
Then Minho noticed something on the floor. A necklace. Felix's necklace.
His own breathing stopped in his throat. The pendant, a small silver star, glittered in the dim light. It was the very same one Felix wore always—the one he never took off.
Minho knelt down to pick it up, his fingers trembling as he held the delicate chain. His mind raced. Could it be possible? Could this really be the real Felix’s necklace?
A voice broke through his thoughts.
“You’re the one.”
Minho spun around, his heart pounding. A native, a man who had only just appeared to exist in the doorway. Thin, bent, his eyes dark with the weight of years. His voice low, gravelly, as if he had spoken too much in his life.
You're the one who must do the ritual," the man continued, his gaze stern and unforgiving. "You've gotten this far. Only you can save him now."
Minho's stomach twisted. "What ritual? What are you saying?"
The eyes of the man darkened as he approached, his voice dropping to a whisper. "There is a way to reclaim Felix. But it costs sacrifice—your life, your blood. You must make a choice. To save him, you must give something of yourself. If you agree, the ritual will succeed. But if you don't.".
Minho's head reeled. His head was spinning. What was this man talking about? What ritual? Was it worth it? Could he actually kill himself on behalf of Felix?
But the man stepped back again. His black eyes dug into Minho's.
"If you're ready to save him," the man said, "go to the town house. I have an idea. But you must rush."
And then, before Minho could speak, the man turned around and disappeared into the depths of the house, leaving behind only the distant echo of his voice.
Minho stood there, his hand still gripping Felix's necklace, the weight of the decision crushing him.
The room was silent, and the air was colder than ever.
Genre: Horror| Psychological Thriller| Disappearance.
Summary: Stray Kids travel to a quiet countryside village to film a fun and lighthearted episode of SKZ Code. Everything seems perfect — laughter, games, and beautiful scenery — until suddenly, Felix vanishes in the middle of a game. What begins as a carefree shoot quickly turns into a tense search, as the remaining members uncover unsettling clues that suggest Felix’s disappearance might not be an accident after all...
Part 7 of 11 chapters
Part 6
Part 8
Hedges were thick and overgrown, as if untouched for years. The only sound breaking the quietness of the village was the soft crunching of his footfalls on boots.
Jeongin's heart pounded in his chest. He had tracked the prints—naked, as if a runner had passed through—and now they led him into a mangled maze of leaves. His flashlight flickered, casting eerie shadows on the ground ahead, but he continued on, tracking the steps as they led him further.
Another turn. Another corner.
The air was thick, thick with the scent of damp earth, and then, suddenly, he saw them.
Three figures.
Felix—or at least, they looked like Felix. Standing in the center of a small clearing, their shadows stretched out long behind them. The first Felix was pulling on his hair with his hands, wide-eyed with terror. The second walked back and forth, talking to himself, and the third stood still, staring at Jeongin with an unwinking stare that made him shiver.
"I'm the real one!" the initial Felix yelled, voice quivering with desperation. "You have to believe me! I'm the real one!"
The second Felix whirled around, face contorted with anger. "No! Me! Don't believe him—I'm the real one!"
The third Felix, silent and immobile, whispered softly, almost under the other two, "Please… don't leave me."
Jeongin stood frozen, the words flooding his mind like poison. Which one? His head ached for sense, but all he could do was remain there, immobile, as every possible Felix turned to him, begging, pleading.
"I'm the real one! I swear I am!"
"I've been here the whole time, haven't I? I'm the one you know!"
"Please, Jeongin, I need you…"
The voices intertwined, overlapping, a cacophony of confusion. Jeongin stumbled backward, attempting to comprehend what he was witnessing, but the truth seemed to be slipping away from him. The faces merged, the words becoming one, incomprehensible chant.
"Which one?" Jeongin whispered, shaking his head, his eyes blurring. "Which one is the real Felix?
He staggered back, the thud of his own heart in his head. Shaking palms cradled by his head as he tried to muffle it. Why was he unable to remember?
Suddenly the world around him fogged up. The trees that ringed him seemed further away, as though the clearing was expanding, spreading beyond him. The voices of the Felixes distorted and lengthened, each voice fading and becoming less clear.
Jeongin blinked wildly. Something was not right.
He took a step back, his legs shaking under him. Where was he? His mind couldn't grasp the details—the hedges, the clearing, the faces. Everything was fading. He tried to remember his name, tried to remember the reality of who he was, but it was gone.
Why had he come? What was he doing?
The voices faded away, and he was left with a low, menacing buzz that resonated through his chest. The three forms of Felix faded into shadow, and then they were gone.
Jeongin was alone in the glade now, the mist creeping in upon him. His breathing was in short, ragged gasps.
"Who am I?" he breathed, but the words felt odd on his lips.
He wheeled around and staggered away from the clearing, lost in direction, lost in self. The only reality he had left was the memory of Felix's voice, thin as smoke on the breeze.
Genre: Horror| Psychological Thriller| Disappearance.
Summary: Stray Kids travel to a quiet countryside village to film a fun and lighthearted episode of SKZ Code. Everything seems perfect — laughter, games, and beautiful scenery — until suddenly, Felix vanishes in the middle of a game. What begins as a carefree shoot quickly turns into a tense search, as the remaining members uncover unsettling clues that suggest Felix’s disappearance might not be an accident after all...
Part 6 of 11 chapters
Part 5
Part 7
A/N: I forgot this series existed too lol! BUT DON'T YOU WORRY MY CHILD IT'S A FULL UPDATE (as long as I don't get distracted by some very good fics and fanarts)
The fog was dense at night, and Seungmin strolled along the village, the emptiness of the empty streets choking him like a crushing weight. His flashlight dipped into a dim and unstable rhythm, skipping over the destroyed houses with ghastly silhouettes. He had been walking for what felt like forever, but the village seemed to be playing tricks on him, every corner being a duplicate, every turn ending in nothing.
And then he saw it—a dog.
A dirty beast, its coat matted and its eyes hard, standing just beyond a narrow alleyway. It was staring at him, its tail moving in slow, deliberate motions.
"Hey there," Seungmin talked quietly, compelled to move forward by an unknown desire. The dog did not bark or growl—it merely stood there, waiting for something to happen.
Do you know where Felix is?" Seungmin blurted, the words rushing out before he could stop them. The thought of Felix still missing, somewhere in this mad village, gnawed at him.
The dog blinked, then spun, padding slowly down the alley. As if it expected Seungmin to follow.
He hesitated, the fog swirling around him, but then he took a deep breath and continued. What choice did he have?
The dog led him down twisted roads, past vacant houses, and to the outskirts of the village. As they walked up to a dry well in the center of a small, abandoned courtyard, Seungmin could sense a chill creep up his spine. The atmosphere around the well seemed. wrong. Thick.
The dog paused at the edge and sat, tilting its head to look up at Seungmin with a gaze that was almost knowing.
Far below in the well, something caught Seungmin's eye.
Felix.
It was Felix—at least something close enough to be mistaken for him. His face was ashen white, his grin twisted into a sickly grimace as he waved up at Seungmin.
"Seungmin," Felix's voice called out to him, soft but unmistakable, "Why did you leave me? It's lonely down here."
Seungmin's heart skipped a beat. His throat closed up as he leaned forward, looking down at Felix's face. Something was wrong. The smile was too wide, the eyes too hollow. There was no love in that welcome.
"Please, Seungmin, help me," Felix continued, his voice now a twisted whisper. "Get closer. I have waited. It's far darker than you think."
Seungmin flinched, his mind in disarray. He blinked, shaking his head. It was a trick—it had to be some sort of twisted hallucination.
And then, as suddenly as it had collapsed, the dog that had led him here stood again, its eyes fixed on Seungmin's.
And it spoke.
"Pick the wrong one," the dog growled, its voice grating and unearthly, "And you'll join him."
Seungmin froze. His heart pounded in his chest as he looked from the well to the dog, the threat crawling into his bones.
"Wh—what do you mean?" Seungmin stammered.
The dog tilted its head, its eyes now brimming with an intelligence that sent a cold shiver down his back. "There are always choices, Seungmin. You must decide. Make the correct one, and Felix may return. But make the incorrect one. and you will fall. And never rise again."
The smile on Felix's face grew wider, his voice becoming a hollow incantation. "Come down, Seungmin. Come down and remain with me."
Seungmin's air lodged in his throat. The choice was in front of him, the weight overwhelming.
He wished he could run. He wished to escape this hellworld and find the others. Something kept him frozen, though. The dog's eyes, sparkling in the dimness, contained a warning that sent his heart racing.
The air seemed to thicken around him, filled with tension. Was Felix from below? Or was it the trickery of something far more sinister?
The dog sat and waited, his eyes locked on him for a response.
Ties That Hold Us Together | Bang Chan | Part 5(Final)
Genre: Romance| Single Dad| Taekwondo
Summary: All Chan wanted was a safe place for his daughter to learn and grow. What he didn’t expect was the way one small decision could quietly begin to change everything.
Words: 1.6k
Previous Part
A/N: THANK YOU FOR READING THIS UNEXPECTED BUT WEIRDLY ADDICTING SERIES (KINDA?)
The evening sky was a soft gradient of gold fading into lavender when Chan texted you.
[Chan]: Felix’s taking Hana for a sleepover tonight.
You free for that “coffee again” we talked about?
Except maybe at my place this time?
You’d stared at your phone for a long second before replying.
[You]: Only if you promise not to burn it.
[Chan]: No promises.
[You]: Then I’m bringing backup.
[Chan]: Deal.
Now, standing on his porch with two cups of takeout coffee in hand, you weren’t sure why your heart was beating so fast. Maybe because this wasn’t just coffee anymore. Maybe because you knew what tonight might mean.
The door opened before you could knock.
Chan stood there in a plain black hoodie, hair slightly messy, warm light spilling from behind him. He looked… soft. Unarmored.
“Hey,” he said, voice low, a smile tugging at his lips.
“Hey,” you echoed, holding up the drinks. “Peace offering. In case your brewing skills haven’t improved.”
He laughed, stepping aside to let you in. “I’ll take that as a fair assessment.”
The house was quiet—eerily so without Hana’s constant chatter echoing through the rooms. Her shoes were neatly by the door, her toys stacked in a box in the corner. For once, the place didn’t feel like a whirlwind of crayons and cartoon jingles.
It felt… calm.
“You know,” you said as you followed him into the kitchen, “I’ve never actually seen your house this quiet.”
“Yeah,” he said with a faint grin. “Feels weird, doesn’t it?”
“A little.”
He set the mugs on the counter, gesturing toward the couch. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll, uh… try not to burn anything.”
You laughed softly, curling up on the couch while he busied himself in the kitchen. The smell of instant ramen drifted through the air, oddly comforting. You’d seen this version of him before—careful, tired, devoted—but not like this. Not relaxed, not easy.
When he joined you a few minutes later, two steaming bowls in hand, it felt less like a dinner and more like… home.
“Gourmet meal,” he said dryly, passing you a bowl.
“Gordon Ramsay would be proud,” you teased.
He snorted. “Gordon Ramsay would probably cry.”
You both laughed, and the sound filled the empty house in a way that felt too perfect to question.
For a while, you ate in comfortable silence. The only sounds were the quiet clink of chopsticks and the hum of the old refrigerator. It was so ordinary that it almost didn’t feel real.
After dinner, he washed the bowls while you lingered nearby, sipping your coffee. There was something about watching him move—calm, methodical, sleeves rolled up—that tugged at you in ways you didn’t expect.
When he turned around, drying his hands, your eyes met. And for the first time all night, neither of you looked away.
“You’re staring,” he said quietly.
“So are you,” you replied.
He smiled faintly, stepping closer. “You know… I wasn’t sure if asking you here was a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to confuse things,” he admitted. “You’re… you’re special to Hana. And to me.”
You tilted your head, voice soft. “And that’s confusing because?”
He hesitated. “Because I’m not exactly… the easiest person to be with. I work too much. I forget to rest. I spend half my life worrying if I’m doing enough. And most days, I feel like I’m still figuring out how to be a dad, let alone anything else.”
He laughed under his breath, the sound rough and self-deprecating. “I’ve messed up relationships before. I didn’t want to drag you into that chaos. You deserve better than—than someone who’s still trying to hold everything together.”
You stood there for a moment, the weight of his words settling in the quiet. Then you took a step closer.
“Chan,” you said softly, “you think love’s about having everything together. But it’s not.”
He looked at you, unsure.
“It’s about choosing to keep trying,” you continued. “To keep showing up. You already do that—every day—for Hana. You already know what love looks like. You just don’t believe you deserve it back.”
His breath hitched slightly.
You smiled, small and steady. “And I’m not scared of your chaos. If it means I get to be here—with you—then I’ll take it.”
For a long second, he didn’t move. He just looked at you, like he was memorizing every word, every breath. Then, slowly, he reached up and brushed his fingers against your cheek.
“Do you have any idea,” he whispered, “how easy it is to fall for you?”
Your heart stumbled in your chest. “I could ask you the same thing.”
He chuckled quietly, thumb tracing the edge of your jaw. The space between you dissolved. His breath mingled with yours, slow and hesitant, the moment teetering between what was and what could be.
And just when he leaned in, just when everything was finally about to fall into place—
Knock. Knock. Knock.
You both froze.
Chan exhaled a groan, pressing his forehead to yours briefly before pulling back. “Of course.”
You bit your lip to hide a smile. “The universe has perfect timing.”
He rolled his eyes but smiled anyway, heading toward the door. When he opened it, Felix stood there—disheveled, exhausted, and holding a fast-asleep Hana against his chest.
“She knocked out halfway through the movie,” Felix whispered. “And she may or may not have demanded I bring her home because she missed you.”
Chan blinked. “I thought you said she wanted a sleepover.”
“She did,” Felix said dryly. “Until she didn’t. Classic kid move.”
Then, as Felix stepped inside, his gaze flicked between you and Chan—and though he didn’t say anything, the look said oh, I see.
You felt heat crawl up your neck.
Chan rubbed the back of his neck, muttering, “Thanks, man. I owe you.”
Felix waved it off. “Nah. She’s a sweetheart. Talked about you two the whole time. Something about her ‘favorite teacher’ and how her appa smiles more lately.”
That earned Felix a quiet glare from Chan and an embarrassed laugh from you.
“Here,” Chan said quickly, taking Hana into his arms. “I’ll put her to bed.”
“I can do it,” you offered instinctively.
He blinked, surprised. “You sure?”
You nodded. “Go—sit. Rest.”
He hesitated, then handed her over gently.
You cradled Hana carefully, her small head resting on your shoulder. She smelled faintly of strawberry shampoo and sleep. As you carried her upstairs, her little fingers clutched your sleeve automatically, and your heart melted.
In her room, you laid her down, brushing stray strands of hair from her face. She stirred, murmuring softly, “Miss Y/N…”
You smiled, whispering, “Shh. Sleep, Hana.”
She sighed contently, slipping back into dreams.
And for a moment, standing there in the warm lamplight, it hit you—the feeling of belonging. Of being part of something that already felt like home.
When you came back downstairs, Chan and Felix were in the living room. Felix was sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, while Chan stood near the stairs, waiting.
“She’s out,” you whispered.
Chan smiled softly. “You’re good with her.”
You shrugged, teasing lightly, “Someone’s gotta make sure she brushes her teeth.”
He chuckled. “You looked… right at home up there.”
“I guess I felt that way,” you admitted.
Felix groaned from the couch, rubbing his eyes. “Okay, I can’t keep pretending I don’t see what’s happening here.”
You and Chan froze.
Felix sat up, grinning tiredly. “So… are you two, like, a thing now? Or are we still doing the ‘coffee and tension’ phase?”
You glanced at Chan. He looked equally flustered, but then something softened in his expression. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out and took your hand.
Fingers intertwined.
The answer was clear.
Felix smirked. “Finally. Took you long enough.”
Chan groaned. “You’re not gonna make this easy, are you?”
“Of course not,” Felix said, standing and stretching. “But I am gonna leave, because the couples”—he made exaggerated air quotes—“probably need some time together.”
You tried not to laugh, but failed miserably. “Goodnight, Felix.”
“Goodnight, lovebirds,” he called over his shoulder as he slipped out the door.
The moment it clicked shut behind him, the house fell quiet again. Just you and Chan.
And this time, no interruptions.
You turned toward him, smiling softly. “He’s never gonna let us live that down.”
“Never,” Chan agreed.
A pause.
Then he stepped closer. “But maybe he’s right.”
You tilted your head. “About?”
His hand came up to rest against your cheek again, gentle but sure. “About us.”
Your breath caught as he leaned in—not too close, just enough that you could feel the warmth of him. Then, with a shy smile, he brushed a soft kiss against your cheek.
It was quick. Barely a whisper of contact.
But it was enough to send your heart racing.
You blinked up at him, flustered. “That was…”
“Too much?” he asked quickly.
“Too little,” you said, before you could stop yourself.
His eyes widened, and then your hands were in his hoodie, pulling him down. The kiss that followed wasn’t hesitant—it was certain, slow and deep, the kind that spoke of everything left unsaid between two people who had finally stopped running from what they felt.
When you pulled back, both of you were smiling like idiots.
Chan exhaled a quiet laugh. “You know, I was gonna say something romantic first.”
You brushed your thumb against his jaw. “You can save it for next time.”
He chuckled, forehead resting against yours. “Next time, huh?”
“Yeah,” you whispered. “Next time.”
The clock ticked softly in the background. Upstairs, Hana stirred in her sleep, murmuring something incoherent before settling again.
Chan’s hand found yours once more, fingers fitting perfectly between yours. He didn’t speak, and he didn’t need to.
Because for the first time in a long time, everything felt right.
Not perfect. Not easy.
Just right.
And as the night wrapped around them—warm, quiet, whole—neither of you noticed the faint smile lingering on Chan’s lips when he whispered, just before the lights went out:
Genre: Romance| Single Dad| Taekwondo
Summary: All Chan wanted was a safe place for his daughter to learn and grow. What he didn’t expect was the way one small decision could quietly begin to change everything.
Words: 1.6k
Previous Part
Next Part
A/N: I forgot this thing even existed but DOUBLE UPDATE SO HEHE
I'm also full updating my No Signal| Lee Felix series so look out for it <3
The dojang was buzzing long before the event even started.
Tiny feet pattered across the mats, squeaky sneakers slid against the polished floor, and proud parents tried to wrestle ribbons, snacks, and half-tied belts all at once. The air was a mix of nervous excitement and the faint smell of disinfectant that every training hall seemed to have.
Chan stood by the entrance, clutching Hana’s duffel bag like it was a lifeline. His daughter, in contrast, was spinning in circles near the water cooler, her white belt fluttering around her knees.
“Appa, look!” she said proudly, holding up her wristbands. “Miss Y/N gave me these! She said they’ll make me punch better!”
Chan’s lips twitched. “They’re just wristbands, munchkin.”
“They’re special wristbands,” she insisted, planting her fists on her hips. “Miss Y/N said so.”
Before Chan could reply, a familiar voice chimed from behind him.
“She’s right, you know. They’re lucky.”
He turned to see you walking toward them, clipboard in hand, hair pulled into a neat ponytail. You wore your uniform—crisp white dobok, black belt tied with practiced ease—and somehow, it looked better on you than any outfit ever could.
Chan straightened unconsciously, his grip on Hana’s bag tightening. “Hey,” he greeted, voice coming out a little rougher than he intended. “Big day, huh?”
You smiled, that same calm, grounding kind of smile that made people feel safe. “The kids have been practicing for weeks. I think they’re more excited than nervous.”
Hana piped up, “I’m not nervous!”
You crouched to her level, adjusting the hem of her uniform. “Good. Because I know you’ll do amazing. Remember what we practiced—strong stance, clear focus.”
“Yes, ma’am!” Hana saluted dramatically, earning a laugh from both adults.
As you walked off to gather the other students, Chan exhaled slowly. His heart thudded against his ribs, and not because of the crowd. He hated how easily his focus drifted toward you—the way you bent down to talk to the younger kids, your steady patience, the way you smiled even when the toddlers tripped over their belts.
It was dangerous.
It was human.
It was both.
He moved to the bleachers, trying to distract himself by setting up his phone to record.
When the demonstration finally began, the crowd quieted. Parents shuffled into seats, teachers lined up, and the tiny warriors of the dojang stood in neat rows. The banner above the mats read:
And there, front and center, was Hana—chin high, eyes sparkling, wristbands bright against her white sleeves.
Chan’s chest swelled with pride and something else—something tender and sharp at the same time.
Music played softly in the background as each group took turns. The beginners performed their basic forms, sometimes missing a step, sometimes freezing mid-kick. But every time someone stumbled, the room filled with applause instead of laughter.
Then it was Hana’s turn.
You called her name, and the little girl stepped forward. Her small hands clenched into fists. She bowed perfectly, just as you’d taught her. Then she began her form—each movement deliberate, her voice sharp and clear as she called out, “KIYAH!”
Chan couldn’t breathe.
That was his kid. The same one who once hid behind his legs during open houses. The one who refused to join team activities at school. The one who, not too long ago, clung to him at bedtime because she was afraid of being left, too.
And now she was standing in front of a crowd, confident and brave, punching the air like she owned it.
His throat tightened.
Beside him, another parent murmured, “That little one’s really good.”
Chan smiled faintly. “Yeah. She’s mine.”
When the routine ended, Hana bowed again, grinning wide as applause filled the room. You gave her a subtle thumbs-up from the side, and she lit up like the sun.
Chan clapped until his palms stung. He didn’t even notice the tears gathering in his eyes until he blinked them away quickly, hoping no one saw.
After the group photo and medal ceremony, the crowd began to disperse. Kids crowded around the snack table, showing off their certificates and ribbons.
Chan lingered near the exit, watching Hana bounce around with her friends. She had chocolate smeared on her cheek, her medal crooked, her hair wild from all the excitement—but she was glowing.
“She’s really changed since the first week,” you said quietly, appearing beside him.
He turned, surprised. “Yeah… she used to hate coming here.”
“She didn’t hate it,” you corrected gently. “She was scared. She thought everyone was stronger than her.” You smiled softly. “But she worked hard. You both did.”
Chan looked at you for a long moment. “You know,” he said, voice low, “when she started, I wasn’t sure I was doing any of this right. Being her only parent. I kept thinking… what if I mess it up? What if I can’t give her everything she needs?”
You met his gaze, steady and sure. “She doesn’t need everything, Chan. She just needs love and safety. You’ve already given her that.”
He swallowed hard. “You really think so?”
“I know so.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable—it was full, like the air before a confession. The noise of the crowd faded around them, replaced by the sound of kids laughing and the hum of the overhead lights.
Chan’s phone buzzed in his pocket, breaking the moment. He pulled it out. A text from Felix:
[Felix]: How’s the big day, Appa of the Year? 😎 [Felix]: Tell Hana she owes me a slime rematch.
Chan chuckled, shaking his head. “He’s hopeless.”
You smiled, curious. “Felix?”
“Yeah. He’s been like an uncle to her. Hana adores him.” He paused. “Though I think he’s still finding glitter in his apartment from last time.”
You laughed, the sound bright and unguarded. Chan found himself staring again—at the curve of your smile, the crinkle near your eyes, the way you made joy look effortless.
Before he could stop himself, he asked, “Do you ever get tired?”
You blinked. “Of what?”
“Of giving so much to everyone else,” he said softly. “The kids, the parents, the classes…”
You hesitated. “Sometimes. But then I remember why I started. I wanted to help people find what I almost lost—peace. Purpose. I guess that still keeps me going.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. I get that.”
Hana ran up then, breaking the quiet with her usual enthusiasm. She held up her medal proudly. “Miss Y/N! Look! I didn’t mess up!”
You crouched down to her level. “You were perfect, Hana. I’m proud of you.”
“Appa cried,” she announced loudly.
Chan froze. “Hana—”
“It’s okay,” she added seriously. “I think it’s because he’s happy.”
You tried not to laugh, but the corners of your mouth twitched. “That’s probably it.”
Before Chan could protest again, Hana threw her arms around both of you in an overzealous hug. “You’re my two favorite people!”
You blinked, startled, as her small arms squeezed your neck. Chan laughed helplessly, caught between embarrassment and something dangerously warm blooming in his chest.
“Okay, okay,” he said, pretending to pry her off. “You’ll crush us, little monster.”
“Never!” she giggled, tightening her grip. “You’re stuck!”
And in that moment—sandwiched between laughter, medals, and the faint buzz of fluorescent lights—something shifted.
It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t a sudden realization.
It was simple. Soft.
A quiet acknowledgment that maybe, just maybe, they all belonged in this small, unexpected moment together.
Eventually, you managed to untangle yourself from Hana’s grip, still laughing. “You’ve got quite a hold there.”
“She gets it from me,” Chan said, smirking.
“Mm. I bet she does.”
The teasing tone lingered, and suddenly the space between you felt charged again—not with uncertainty, but with possibility.
Chan scratched the back of his neck, suddenly shy. “So… uh. About coffee.”
You tilted your head. “Coffee?”
He smiled, that familiar dimple appearing. “You know. Like last time. But maybe this time, without the kid matchmaker setting it up.”
You laughed, cheeks warming. “I think I can agree to that.”
Hana tugged on his sleeve. “Can I come too?”
Chan ruffled her hair. “Not this time, munchkin.”
She pouted dramatically. “Fine. But only if Miss Y/N promises to come over and watch a movie with us soon.”
You raised an eyebrow, amused. “You’re quite the negotiator.”
“She gets that from me too,” Chan said proudly.
“Then I guess I’ll have to accept,” you said, smiling.
Hana beamed, satisfied, before running off toward her friends again.
Chan watched her go, then turned back to you. For a second, neither of you spoke. The noise of the crowd dimmed.
Then, quietly, he said, “Thank you. For everything you’ve done for her.”
You shook your head. “You don’t have to thank me.”
“Yeah, I do,” he said, voice sincere. “You’ve done more than you realize.”
You held his gaze for a long moment before looking away, the faintest blush creeping up your neck. “She makes it easy. You both do.”
The moment lingered, soft and unspoken, until the dojang lights began to dim and the last of the families packed up.
Chan gathered Hana’s things while you helped the staff clear the mats. And though nothing more was said, the glances you shared said enough.
When you walked out together into the cool evening air, Hana skipping ahead of you, the sky was streaked with orange and gold—the kind of sunset that made everything feel possible.
Chan watched Hana chase her reflection in a puddle, her laughter echoing off the empty street. Then he looked at you beside him, wind tugging at your hair, and something in his chest felt like it finally, finally settled.
You caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?”
He smiled faintly, shaking his head. “Nothing. Just… thinking.”
“About?”
He hesitated, then said simply, “How lucky I am.”
You blinked, caught off guard by the honesty in his tone. But before you could respond, Hana called out for them to hurry, her small voice carrying across the parking lot.
You both laughed, starting toward her.
And as the laughter echoed under the fading light, Chan realized it wasn’t just Hana who’d found her balance today—it was him too.
Summary: A fallen princess and a humble blacksmith find each other amidst rebellion, forging love in the ashes of a broken kingdom.
Words: 8.4k
A/N: AYOOO IT'S CHRISPY'S BIRTHDAY MANNNNNNN!!! IK I'M LIKE SUPER LATE BUT AYE I AT LEAST ACED MY SPANISH TEST
The night was heavy with rain.
Each droplet stung like shards of ice against her cheeks as she tore through the woods, her velvet skirts soaked, her breath ragged. Twigs clawed at her arms. The once-golden hem of her gown was now dark with mud. Behind her, distant horns echoed — the royal guard. Her father’s guard.
“Find her! Don’t let the princess escape the ridge!” a voice thundered through the forest.
Her heart pounded harder. No. She couldn’t go back. She’d rather freeze to death than return to that gilded prison, chained to a man who smiled only when someone knelt before him.
A root caught her foot. She stumbled, falling to her knees with a sharp cry. Pain rippled through her ankle, but she pushed herself up again, clutching her hood tighter. “Keep moving, Aera,” she whispered to herself — the name she’d chosen the moment she ran from the palace. “You are no princess now.”
Lightning split the sky, revealing the faint outline of rooftops in the distance — a village. Relief surged through her, but her legs gave way before she could reach it. Darkness swallowed her whole.
When she woke, she was warm.
The first thing she felt was the soft crackle of fire nearby and the faint metallic scent of iron. Her eyelids fluttered open to the sight of a dimly lit workshop — walls lined with hammers, blades, and unfinished tools. A forge glowed on the other side of the room.
She tried to sit up but winced, pain shooting up her ankle.
“Ah— careful,” a voice said gently.
Her gaze darted up.
A man stood by the forge, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair messy from heat and work. He wasn’t dressed like a noble — his shirt was loose, collar undone, and his forearms were streaked with soot. But his eyes… they were soft, warm brown, curious yet kind.
“You took a rather nasty fall,” he said, setting down a cloth. “I found you near the ridge. Thought you might be dead for a moment.”
Her throat was dry. “You— you carried me here?”
“Aye,” he replied, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You’re light as a bundle of straw. Not much trouble.”
She blinked, unsure how to respond to such casual humor. “I… am most grateful,” she murmured. Her speech came out smoother, more refined than she intended.
His brow lifted slightly, amusement flickering in his expression. “Most grateful, eh? That’s a fancy way of saying thanks.”
She stiffened. “Forgive me. It— it is how I was taught to speak.”
He chuckled under his breath, turning back to the fire. “No need to apologize, miss. Ain’t no law ‘gainst manners.”
“Aera,” she blurted suddenly. “My name is Aera.”
“Bang Chan,” he said simply. “Blacksmith’s apprentice.”
Her eyes flicked around the small space — the anvil, the sword hilts, the faint scent of coal and steel. “This… is your home?”
He shrugged, grabbing a bucket of water to cool a piece of iron. Steam rose between them. “For now. My master’s gone to trade in the next town, so I keep the forge running.”
He set the iron aside, wiped his hands, and crouched near her. “That ankle’s twisted. You won’t be walkin’ far for a few days.”
Her pulse raced at how close he was — his gaze steady, calm. So unlike the harsh, judgmental stares of court.
“I… I will not trouble you long,” she said softly.
He tilted his head, faintly smiling again. “Trouble? You’ve not even spoken a whole dozen words yet.”
Something in his tone eased the tightness in her chest.
Hours passed quietly after that. The rain continued to fall outside, soft against the roof. Chan worked at the forge, humming something low and rhythmic. She lay on the cot he’d set near the fire, watching the faint glow dance across his face.
His movements were steady, deliberate. He treated the burning metal as though it were alive — coaxing it rather than commanding it.
It reminded her of how her father’s knights spoke of loyalty, yet this man seemed to find honor in the simplest act of creation.
When he noticed her watching, he smiled. “You should rest, Aera. I promise I don’t bite.”
Her lips curved faintly. “You speak oddly,” she said without thinking.
He barked out a soft laugh. “Do I, now? You speak like you were born in a castle.”
Her heart skipped. “A… castle?”
“Mm. Polite, careful, never trippin’ over a single word.” He leaned against the table, wiping his brow. “Folk here speak plain, Aera. But I reckon you’ll learn quick.”
Her throat tightened, but she forced a small nod. “Perhaps.”
He glanced toward the door, where the rain had quieted into a drizzle. “You can stay ‘til that ankle mends. After that, you’ll tell me where you’re headin’.”
Her mind screamed nowhere, but she merely said, “Thank you, Chan.”
He gave her a small, almost knowing smile. “Sleep well, then. You’ll need strength come morn.”
When he returned to the forge, humming softly again, Aera turned to the window. The moonlight spilled faintly through the glass, illuminating her hands — still too clean, too soft for a peasant’s.
He’ll notice, she thought, clutching the blanket tighter. He already suspects.
And yet… for the first time in her life, she didn’t feel trapped by someone’s curiosity.
She felt safe.
Morning came softly, with golden light filtering through the cracks of the wooden shutters. The rain had stopped, leaving the air damp and cool. Aera stirred beneath the blanket, the ache in her ankle dull but present.
The faint clang of metal echoed through the small forge. Chan was already awake. He stood near the anvil, hair tied back, sleeves rolled high, and a faint sheen of sweat glimmered along his temples as he hammered a glowing piece of iron.
Each strike rang through the room, steady and precise — rhythm rather than violence.
Aera watched quietly, the sound oddly soothing. No one in the palace ever worked like this — with patience, with humility. Her entire life had been built around command and obedience, not creation.
“Awake at last,” Chan said without turning, his voice light. “Thought you’d sleep through the sun.”
“I did not mean to.” Her words still came smooth, refined. “I simply…” She paused. “Your work is… loud.”
He grinned, lowering the hammer. “Loud? You wound me, my lady.”
Her heart jolted at the phrase. “Do not call me that.”
He turned then, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “Aye. Aera, then. Wouldn’t want to upset the noblewoman you surely are not.”
She stiffened. “You mock me.”
“Only a little,” he admitted, dipping the iron into water. Steam hissed between them. “The way you speak— it’s polished. Too polished for a wanderer.”
She looked away quickly, eyes fixed on the fire. “I was raised… differently.”
“Differently, eh?” He leaned his elbow on the workbench, studying her. “Well, you’ll learn our ways soon enough. Folk around here can be sharp-tongued toward strangers.”
He wasn’t wrong.
Later that day, when Aera tried to step outside for fresh air, she found the villagers gathered near the square — women hanging laundry, men tending carts. The moment she limped past, heads turned. Their eyes lingered on her fine features, her delicate hands. A little boy whispered, “She’s too clean.”
She forced a smile, pretending not to notice.
Chan appeared beside her, carrying a crate of tools. “Ignore them,” he murmured. “They stare at anything new.”
“They are curious,” she said softly. “In the palace—” she stopped herself, biting her lip.
Chan raised a brow. “In the what?”
“In… the place I once served,” she corrected quickly. “They stared for other reasons.”
He didn’t press further. But the faint smirk on his face told her he’d caught her stumble.
By evening, her ankle had swollen again after walking too long. She hissed softly as she sat near the fire. Chan crouched before her without a word, rolling up her hem gently.
“You’ve no sense of rest, have you?”
“I needed to move,” she muttered.
He shook his head, eyes flicking to her ankle. “Aye, and now look where that’s got you.”
When his calloused hands brushed her skin, her breath caught — not from pain, but from the unexpected warmth of his touch.
He wrapped the cloth carefully, his tone softening. “You’re lucky. Could’ve worsened it. Best stay off it another day or two.”
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
Chan looked up at her then — really looked. “You’ve a habit of sayin’ thank you like it’s a secret.”
“Perhaps it is,” she whispered.
Something flickered in his gaze, but he didn’t ask. Instead, he stood, brushing off his hands. “Right. Tomorrow you’ll help me polish the blades. That you can do sittin’.”
“You would trust me with blades?”
He grinned. “They’ll be dull enough. I’m not daft.”
The next day, the forge was alive with motion. Chan worked the fire while Aera sat nearby with a bucket of half-finished blades. She took the cloth and began polishing, mimicking the careful way he’d shown her.
At one point, he glanced over. “Not bad for someone who’s never held a sword.”
Her head snapped up. “How did you—?”
“The way you handle it,” he said simply. “Like it’s glass. Most folk here grew up with one.”
Aera bit back her reply. If only you knew. She’d been trained to wield a dagger — not to fight, but to perform, to stand with grace during royal ceremonies.
As the hours passed, the rhythm between them grew natural — her silence, his humming, the steady crackle of the forge.
When dusk fell, she found herself smiling faintly as he hummed the same melody from the night before.
“What is that song?” she asked softly.
Chan looked up, surprised. “Just somethin’ my mother used to hum while she worked. Don’t recall the words no more.”
“She must have been kind.”
“She was,” he said, eyes warm. “Strong, too. Never let me laze about, even when I tried.”
Aera smiled faintly. “Then she would approve of you now.”
He laughed. “Aye. Suppose she would.”
That night, long after Chan had gone to rest, Aera sat by the fire alone, fingers tracing the ring hidden beneath her sleeve — the last remnant of her royal life. Its gold glimmered faintly in the flame’s light.
He will notice it one day, she thought. And when he does, this borrowed life will end.
Outside, thunder rumbled again, and she curled tighter beneath the blanket, whispering into the dark,
“Just a little longer, Aera. Just a little longer.”
The rhythm of the forge had become her comfort.
Days slipped into weeks, the world outside the village forgotten. Aera’s ankle healed slowly under Chan’s care, though he’d still scold her each time she tried to walk too much. She’d grown used to his steady presence — the way he whistled while he worked, the soft laughter that followed his teasing, the quiet moments when the only sound between them was the crackle of the fire.
Yet peace, she’d learned long ago, was never meant to last.
It began one morning, with a single whisper carried through the marketplace.
“They say the princess vanished,” a woman murmured to her neighbor near the bakery. “Ran off the night before her wedding.”
“Ran off?” another voice gasped. “And left the kingdom without heir or alliance? Foolish girl.”
Aera froze mid-step, the loaf of bread trembling slightly in her hands. Her breath caught, but she forced herself to look away, feigning disinterest.
Behind her, Chan’s voice came low, steady. “You all right?”
She blinked, turning to see him standing a few paces away, his arms folded, eyes calm yet watchful. “I…” she began, her throat tight. “I am fine.”
He tilted his head. “You’ve gone pale.”
“The crowd is… noisy, is all.”
“Mm.” His gaze lingered on her face a moment longer before he nodded toward the forge. “Come on then, Aera. Let them gossip without you.”
She followed him silently, clutching the bread as though it might shatter in her hands.
By midday, the whispers had multiplied. The guards were said to be searching the western villages. Men claimed to have seen riders carrying banners of the royal crest.
Aera’s heart beat faster with every mention.
When she returned to the forge, she found Chan sharpening a sword at the whetstone. His expression was thoughtful, his jaw set.
“Busy morning,” he said after a pause. “Folk can’t stop talkin’ about that princess.”
Her chest tightened. “Indeed.”
He glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You’ve not much to say about it.”
“What should I say?” she replied carefully.
“Most women I know would be swoonin’ over the story,” he said, his tone light but probing. “A runaway princess, escapin’ a cruel lord. Sounds like somethin’ from a bard’s song.”
Aera tried to laugh, but the sound came out thin. “Perhaps I am not most women.”
Chan’s eyes met hers. For a moment, the air between them stilled — his gaze steady, unreadable. Then he smiled faintly. “Aye. That’s true.”
He returned to his work, but she could feel the question he didn’t ask hanging quietly in the air.
That evening, the sky glowed orange as the sun dipped below the trees. Aera stood outside the forge, letting the cool breeze brush against her hair. Children laughed somewhere down the path; the smell of fresh bread wafted from the baker’s home.
For a fleeting moment, she let herself imagine that this life was real — that she truly was just Aera, a girl helping the village blacksmith.
But the illusion shattered when hooves thundered down the main road.
A group of riders slowed to a halt in front of the inn. Each wore the armor of royal soldiers — polished, bearing the golden crest she once wore on her own gown.
“By order of His Majesty,” one soldier called, voice sharp, “all villages shall report any sighting of the missing Princess Y/N. She may be traveling under disguise. If found aiding her, you shall face punishment by the crown.”
The villagers murmured among themselves. Aera’s blood ran cold.
Chan appeared beside her, expression unreadable. His hand brushed lightly against her arm — a wordless warning. “Inside,” he muttered quietly.
“Chan—”
“Go.” His tone was firm this time.
She obeyed.
Inside the forge, she sank onto the cot, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the blanket. Outside, she heard muffled voices — the soldiers speaking with the villagers, questions asked, lies told.
Minutes later, the door creaked open.
Chan stepped in, shutting it behind him. He didn’t speak for a moment, just exhaled slowly and leaned against the wall.
“They’re searchin’ every home by dawn,” he said finally. “You’ll need to stay hidden.”
She swallowed hard. “You— you know.”
He looked at her then, eyes soft but certain. “Aye. I’ve known for days now.”
Aera’s breath hitched. “And you said nothing?”
Chan crossed the room and crouched before her. “You were frightened enough. Didn’t see a reason to add more to it.”
Tears pricked her eyes. “Then why help me?”
He smiled faintly. “Because whoever you were before, you’re no monster. You’re just someone runnin’ from a life that hurt.”
Her voice shook. “They’ll kill you if they find me here.”
“I’ll not let them.” His tone was low, steady. “You’re safe here, Aera.”
She looked at him, truly looked — the soot-stained skin, the weary kindness in his eyes, the strength beneath the gentleness. No one in the palace had ever spoken to her like that — not even her father.
The fire crackled softly between them, filling the silence.
Outside, the soldiers’ voices faded down the road.
And for the first time since she’d fled the castle, she believed his words.
She was safe — but only for tonight.
—
The sun had not yet risen when Chan woke her.
“Aera,” he whispered, shaking her shoulder gently. “Wake now. We’ve not much time.”
Her eyes fluttered open, the haze of sleep fading when she saw his expression. Urgent. Serious.
“What—”
“They’ve returned,” he said quickly, glancing toward the window. “Soldiers. More of ’em this time.”
Her breath hitched. “Already?”
“They’re searchin’ every forge and stable. I heard one of the guards say they’ve orders to scour every road by sunrise.”
Aera’s pulse thundered in her ears. “Then you mustn’t stay—”
“I’ve no intention of leavin’ you here,” he interrupted, already gathering supplies. “You’d not last an hour without someone who knows the land.”
“But Chan—”
He met her gaze then, and something in his tone silenced her. “I said I’ll see you safe. I mean it.”
There was no time for argument.
He handed her a cloak — thick and rough, smelling faintly of smoke and pine — then slung a small satchel over his shoulder. She winced as she tried to stand, the ache in her still-tender ankle flaring again.
Chan’s hand steadied her immediately. “Easy there. I’ve got you.”
His fingers lingered against her wrist for a heartbeat too long, but neither spoke of it.
The village still slept as they slipped through the narrow back path behind the forge. The sky was bruised purple, the world half-hidden in fog. From the main road came faint voices — armored men shouting orders, the metallic clatter of hooves and swords.
Chan led her along the riverbank, moving with quiet precision.
“Keep low,” he murmured. “They’ll have scouts ridin’ ahead by now.”
Aera nodded, clutching her cloak tighter. “Where will we go?”
“North,” he said. “Through the forest. There’s a safe road near the old chapel. Fewer soldiers pass that way.”
The forest loomed ahead — vast, dark, endless.
Branches scraped her cloak as they entered the shadows, and the damp earth muffled their footsteps.
They walked for what felt like hours, the chill air biting through the fabric of her gown. Aera’s ankle began to throb again, and despite her silence, Chan noticed.
“Rest,” he said softly, stopping near a fallen log. “We’ll not go far if you push too hard.”
“I can still walk,” she insisted, though her voice wavered.
“Aye, and fall again, likely,” he said with faint amusement. “Sit.”
She obeyed reluctantly, lowering herself onto the log. Chan crouched in front of her, carefully examining her ankle beneath the cloak. His fingers brushed lightly against her skin, gentle but sure.
“It’s not broken,” he murmured. “But it’s angry.”
She smiled faintly. “Angry?”
He glanced up, lips twitching. “That’s what my master used to call it when I’d twist my foot. Said my bones were stubborn like their owner.”
A small laugh escaped her — soft, shaky, but real. “You speak strangely.”
“And you still speak like you’re recitin’ poetry,” he teased back, tying the bandage tighter. “We make a fine pair.”
The warmth in his tone made her chest ache in ways she couldn’t name.
By the time they resumed walking, dawn had broken. Sunlight filtered through the canopy, spilling gold across the path. The air smelled of moss and damp leaves.
Chan’s pace slowed when he noticed her limping again. “Here,” he said suddenly, stopping.
Before she could question him, he turned and knelt slightly, patting his shoulder. “Climb on.”
Her eyes widened. “I cannot—”
“You can,” he said firmly. “You’re light enough, and I’ll not have you faintin’ halfway up a hill.”
Aera hesitated, flustered. “It would be improper—”
Chan looked back at her, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Aera, half the kingdom’s soldiers are huntin’ you. You can keep your propriety once you’re safe.”
Her lips parted in disbelief, then curved into a reluctant smile. “You are impossibly insolent.”
He grinned. “Aye, that’s been said before. Now climb on.”
Muttering something under her breath, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders. The moment she did, her breath caught — his warmth, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint scent of smoke clinging to his shirt.
Chan adjusted his grip under her legs and began walking again, slow but steady. “You weigh less than a sack of flour,” he teased.
She smacked his shoulder lightly. “You should be more respectful.”
“I’ll work on that,” he chuckled.
By afternoon, the light began to fade again. Clouds gathered above, and thunder rolled distantly.
They found shelter beneath a wide oak tree, its roots half-buried in the damp soil. Chan built a small fire with flint and dry leaves, the orange glow flickering between them.
For a while, they sat in silence.
Aera watched the flames dance, her thoughts far away. “You should not have done this,” she said quietly. “They will call you a traitor for helping me.”
Chan looked at her through the firelight, his features soft but unwavering. “If helpin’ someone find freedom makes me a traitor,” he said, “then so be it.”
Her chest tightened. “You do not even know me.”
“I know enough,” he replied simply. “You’re kind. Braver than most folk I’ve met. And you don’t belong in a cage, no matter how golden.”
Aera’s breath trembled. “You speak as if you’ve known cages.”
His eyes flickered toward the flames. “Aye. Everyone’s got their own kind.”
The quiet stretched again — but it wasn’t heavy. It was full of understanding.
After a while, she reached into her cloak and pulled out a small piece of bread. “Here,” she said softly. “You’ve not eaten all day.”
He blinked. “You’ve been keepin’ that?”
She smiled faintly. “You think I would let the blacksmith starve after carrying me through a forest?”
He took the bread, their fingers brushing — fleeting but warm. “Thank you, my lady,” he said teasingly.
She rolled her eyes. “Aera.”
He smiled. “Aye, Aera.”
That night, long after Chan had fallen asleep beside the dying fire, Aera watched him quietly — his head tilted slightly, one arm draped over his chest, his breathing slow and steady.
Her gaze softened.
He’d risked everything for her — without asking who she truly was, without expecting reward.
You fool, she thought tenderly. You kind, selfless fool.
Outside, the first raindrops began to fall again, pattering softly against the leaves. She pulled her cloak tighter around him, her heart full and breaking all at once.
—
By the time they reached the heart of the forest, the rain had softened into mist. The air hung thick with the scent of pine and wet earth, and the trail beneath their feet turned to mud.
Chan led her carefully along the narrow path, his hand occasionally brushing her elbow to steady her. They had not spoken much since dawn — exhaustion had dulled even their teasing.
“We’re near,” he said finally, his voice low. “The hidden folk keep to this part of the forest. Rebels, mostly — those who’ve left the kingdom behind.”
Aera lifted her gaze. “Rebels?”
He nodded. “Men and women who’ve had enough of taxes, war, and kings who eat gold while their people starve.”
Her heart sank. My father’s laws. Her own family’s greed had driven these people here. She kept her eyes forward, the shame curling tight in her chest.
“Will they not harm us?” she asked softly.
“Not if they see I mean no ill. I’ve traded iron here once or twice before.”
He gave a sharp whistle, and moments later, movement rustled in the trees.
Figures emerged from the shadows — armed, cloaked, cautious. The largest man stepped forward, bow drawn but not yet released. “Who comes through the Old Pines unbidden?”
Chan lifted his hands. “A friend. Channie the blacksmith from Woodvale. I seek rest and shelter.”
The man’s eyes flicked toward Aera. “And her?”
Chan’s jaw tensed. “She’s with me. Injured. We’re hunted by the king’s men.”
The rebels exchanged wary looks, then nodded. “Follow close,” the leader said gruffly. “No trouble, no questions.”
The hidden village lay deep within the forest — small cottages half-covered in moss, smoke rising from narrow chimneys, children darting between ferns with bare feet. It felt alive and secret, like the world itself had tucked them away.
Aera stared, wide-eyed. “You… you never spoke of a place like this.”
Chan smiled faintly. “Most don’t believe it exists. Folk here live free — no crowns, no rules, no names unless you choose one.”
As they entered, people turned to stare — at her pale hands, her fine features, the way her posture remained impossibly graceful even through fatigue. She could feel their eyes tracing her every movement.
“Your friend looks a little too polished for the woods,” a woman muttered, passing by with a basket of herbs.
Chan gave a polite smile, though his brow furrowed slightly. “She’s seen little of this kind of life. Give her time.”
The woman raised an eyebrow but said no more.
Inside a small cabin near the edge of the camp, Chan helped Aera sit beside the hearth. The warmth spread quickly, chasing the chill from her bones.
“Stay here,” he said gently. “I’ll fetch water.”
When he left, Aera let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She looked around — the place was humble, clean, filled with carved trinkets and bits of metalwork.
Her eyes caught on a blade leaning against the wall — a dagger with intricate engravings. She lifted it, fingers brushing over the hilt.
“That one’s mine,” Chan’s voice said from behind her.
She turned sharply. He stood in the doorway, droplets of rain sliding down his hair.
“It’s beautiful,” she said softly. “You made this?”
He nodded. “Aye. Long before the war came close. When I still thought the world might grow kind again.”
Something in his tone made her heart ache. “You’ve fought before,” she murmured.
He hesitated, then sighed. “I’ve swung my share of blades. Didn’t like the man it made me.”
She looked up at him, eyes soft. “And yet you chose to forge them still.”
He smiled faintly. “Metal’s metal. Whether it builds or destroys depends on whose hands it finds.”
Their gazes met — steady, searching. The firelight painted his face in gold, and for the first time, she truly saw him not as a villager, not as a blacksmith, but as something far more noble.
Later that evening, a knock came at the cabin door.
A woman entered — cloaked in gray, eyes sharp as tempered steel. “We’ve word of soldiers near the eastern ridge,” she said curtly. “You’ll want to be gone by morning.”
Chan inclined his head. “We’re grateful, Mira.”
Her gaze shifted toward Aera, narrowing slightly. “And who’s this one? She speaks like parchment and crown halls, not the mud paths of merchants.”
Aera froze. Her lips parted, but before she could answer, Chan spoke — calm, smooth, and certain.
“She’s the daughter of a trader I once worked for,” he said, leaning against the wall with easy familiarity. “Learned her manners from nobles while sellin’ their jewels, no doubt. The tongue tends to keep its polish.”
Mira’s brows arched. “A merchant’s daughter, eh? That so?”
Aera forced a small nod, catching Chan’s glance — the faintest flicker of understanding passing between them. “Aye,” she said softly, her tone steady but quiet. “My father dealt in silks. I spent more years watchin’ courts than countin’ coins.”
Mira studied her for a moment longer before snorting. “Well, silks’ll do no good in the woods. Best learn to walk in mud, girl.”
“I shall try,” Aera replied, bowing her head slightly — too gracefully, though Chan’s faint smirk helped disguise it as teasing.
Mira turned to leave. “Keep low. Folk here don’t trust soft-spoken strangers.”
The door shut behind her.
Aera exhaled shakily. “You did not have to lie for me.”
Chan shrugged lightly, moving toward the fire. “Aye, I did. You near gave yourself away the moment she asked.”
“I had not expected to be questioned,” she murmured, cheeks flushed.
He glanced over his shoulder, a small grin tugging at his lips. “You speak like a poem, Princess. It’s a miracle they’ve not guessed already.”
“Chan—” she hissed under her breath, eyes darting to the door.
He chuckled quietly, voice dropping. “Easy. I only said it where the trees can’t tell.”
Aera frowned, though the corners of her mouth betrayed the faintest smile. “You take great pleasure in teasing me.”
“Only when you look at me like that after,” he said, the warmth in his tone softening the words.
She huffed, pretending not to notice the way her heart stuttered. “You are impossible.”
He laughed quietly. “Aye, so I’ve heard.”
As she settled near the fire again, Chan’s expression shifted — amusement fading into something gentler. He adjusted her cloak to keep her warm, his fingers brushing her arm lightly.
“Sleep, Aera,” he murmured. “I’ll keep watch.”
And when she finally drifted to sleep beside the hearth, he sat in silence, eyes tracing her calm face.
He’d known since the river — since that night he’d seen the golden crest sewn faintly into her torn hem. He’d known, and yet he hadn’t cared. She wasn’t a crown or a name to him anymore.
She was the girl who’d laughed by firelight, who’d called him insolent and smiled through fear.
And if the world demanded her return to a throne she no longer wanted—
then he’d stand between her and that world, sword in hand.
—
Thunder rolled low across the forest that night, a slow growl beneath the rain.
Aera stirred awake to the faint clang of metal — not Chan’s hammer this time, but the cold, sharp kind that promised danger. She sat up instantly, heart racing. “Chan?”
He was already by the door, dagger in hand, eyes dark and focused.
“Stay close to me,” he murmured. “Soldiers be near.”
Her stomach dropped. “The King’s men?”
He gave a grim nod. “They’ve found the rebels’ trail. And likely—ours.”
She swung her legs off the cot, wincing when her injured ankle touched the floor. “How far?”
“Too near.” He crossed to her swiftly, his expression softening for the briefest second before hardening again. “We’ve not much time, Your Highness.”
She flinched at the title — not out of fear, but the strange ache of hearing it from him.
“You should not say that aloud,” she whispered.
“Aye,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “But I’d not have you forget who you are, even now.”
Before she could reply, a shout pierced through the trees — soldiers barking orders, dogs barking louder. The torches’ glow danced through the cracks in the wooden walls.
Chan seized her hand. “Come.”
The night was a chaos of rain and firelight as they slipped out the back. Mira’s voice rang somewhere in the distance — “Scatter! Go north!” — before vanishing into the storm.
Chan’s hand never left hers as they ran through the slick mud, the forest closing around them like a living shadow.
Aera stumbled once, pain flaring in her ankle, and nearly fell — but Chan caught her, his arm firm around her waist. “Easy,” he breathed, pulling her close. “You’re not built for runnin’ through mud, my lady.”
Despite the chaos, her lips twitched. “Mockery ill suits a knight without a title.”
He gave a faint, breathless laugh. “Then perhaps I ought to earn one.”
Their eyes met briefly — just long enough for warmth to cut through the storm — before shouts erupted behind them. Arrows whistled through the air, one striking a tree where Aera’s head had been moments before.
Chan’s grip tightened. “Don’t look back,” he said sharply.
They ran until the torches dimmed into nothing but faint orange ghosts behind the trees. When they finally slowed, both gasping, the rain had softened to a steady hiss.
Chan guided her beneath a rocky overhang, lowering her gently onto a patch of moss.
Her ankle trembled, and she bit back a groan.
“Let me see it,” he said, kneeling.
“It is fine,” she protested.
He gave her a look — the kind that brooked no argument. “Your ankle’s as stubborn as its owner.”
Reluctantly, she lifted her gown’s hem just enough for him to see. His calloused hands brushed her skin as he examined the swelling, and though his touch was careful, her pulse quickened.
“You should not have come with me,” he said quietly, not looking up.
Aera’s gaze softened. “And you should not have stayed, knowing who I was.”
“I know,” he murmured, finally meeting her eyes. “But the thought of lettin’ you face that fate alone—”
He exhaled, shaking his head. “I could not.”
She swallowed, the rain’s rhythm filling the silence between them.
“You were not meant to bear my burden, Chan.”
He smiled faintly, but there was a sadness to it. “I know, Princess. Yet I chose to.”
Her breath caught — not at the word Princess, but at the way he said it. As though it was not a title, but a truth he had long since accepted.
“Tell me,” she whispered after a pause. “When did you learn of it?”
“Since the river,” he said simply. “Your speech, your hands, your fear of bein’ touched by dirt — I’d have to be blind not to see it.”
She blinked. “And you kept my secret?”
He huffed a quiet laugh. “If I’d said a word, you’d have gone cold as marble. I’d rather you trust me than bow to me.”
Her lips parted, but the emotion in her throat made words impossible.
“Do you regret it?” he asked softly.
“Regret what?”
“Leavin’ your crown behind.”
Her gaze drifted toward the rain-drenched trees. “Every hour I breathe as Aera and not as Her Royal Highness,” she said slowly, “feels like a mercy I do not deserve.”
Chan’s eyes lingered on her, unreadable — a mix of admiration, sorrow, and something deeper.
He reached out then, his fingers brushing a loose strand of hair from her cheek. “You’re shiverin’,” he murmured. “We should move again soon.”
“Always running,” she said faintly.
“Aye,” he smiled, “but never alone.”
Just then, a sharp snap echoed behind them — the crack of a branch. Both froze.
Chan moved first, pushing her gently behind him as he drew his dagger. His voice dropped to a whisper. “They’ve found us.”
Before Aera could answer, a torch’s light flickered through the trees.
“Go,” Chan hissed. “Downstream. Keep low.”
“I will not leave you!” she said fiercely. “You cannot fight a dozen soldiers alone!”
He turned to her, eyes burning. “I’ll not let them take you back.”
“Chan—”
But he silenced her with a look — one she’d seen only once before, when he’d stood between her and death at the riverbank.
“Trust me,” he said quietly.
“Always,” she whispered.
And before either could speak another word, an arrow sliced through the rain — forcing them both to dive for cover.
“Now!” he shouted, grabbing her hand. Together they broke from the rock’s shelter and sprinted through the darkness.
The trees thinned — the sound of water roaring just ahead.
A cliff edge. A river below, swollen and wild.
Aera stared at it in horror. “You cannot be serious—”
Chan turned to her, soaked and breathless, his smile reckless and alive. “Do you trust me?”
She hesitated for only a heartbeat — then, “Yes.”
His arm wrapped around her, strong and certain, and together they leapt.
Rain, wind, water — the world vanished in a blur of sound and motion.
When they surfaced, gasping and coughing, Chan pulled her close and guided her toward the muddy bank. They collapsed side by side, soaked to the bone and shaking with adrenaline.
For a long while, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing and the river’s roar.
Then Aera let out a laugh — soft, incredulous, breathless. “You are utterly mad,” she said.
Chan grinned, water dripping from his hair. “Aye. But alive, aren’t we?”
She turned toward him, their faces barely a breath apart. Her chest still heaved with the effort of surviving, yet she felt strangely calm.
“Alive,” she whispered.
And for a fleeting heartbeat — as the thunder rolled far above them — she wondered if this mad, defiant man might be the only freedom she’d ever truly known.
—
By twilight, the forest had quieted. The storm’s rage had left behind a hush — birds nesting again, the faint hum of crickets, and the distant trickle of water winding through moss and root.
They’d found brief refuge in the ruins of an old stone chapel, half-swallowed by ivy. Its roof had long caved in, leaving shards of stained glass glinting across the floor like scattered jewels.
Chan built a small fire between the crumbling pews, its glow painting his face in gold and shadow.
Aera sat nearby, ankle wrapped neatly in a strip of linen he’d torn from his sleeve. His hands — rough, scarred — moved with surprising gentleness as he adjusted the bandage.
“Tell me if it pains ya,” he murmured, not looking up.
“It does not,” she lied softly.
His lips twitched. “A poor liar, my lady.”
“Do not call me that,” she whispered.
Chan finally looked at her. His gaze lingered — not in mockery, not in teasing — but in something that made her chest tighten. “Then what should I call you?”
She hesitated. “Just Aera.”
He nodded slowly. “Aera, then.”
The name always sounded different when he said it — warmer, reverent, almost as if he’d known her by it long before she’d chosen it for herself.
For a while, silence wrapped around them like a fragile peace. The fire crackled softly. Aera’s eyes followed its light, tracing the warmth on his face — the line of his jaw, the soft curve of his mouth, the way the flame reflected in his eyes like a promise.
He noticed her stare, of course. “What is it?” he asked quietly.
She looked away at once. “Nothing.”
“Aye, that’s another lie.” His tone was gentle but teasing — the kind that always undid her.
Her voice came out low, trembling. “You risk everything for me. You should not.”
He sighed. “We’ve had this talk before.”
“Then hear it once more,” she said, eyes glistening. “You owe me naught, Chan. My name brings death to any who shelter it.”
He leaned closer, elbows resting on his knees. “And yet I find no regret in doin’ so.”
Her throat ached. “Why?”
His eyes softened — that same look again, the one that stripped every wall she built. “Because,” he said quietly, “you’re worth more than the crown that hunts you.”
Her breath hitched.
He meant it — every word.
She opened her mouth, but no sound came. Her heart beat hard against her ribs, every pulse louder than the next.
“Chan…” she whispered.
He reached for her hand — slow, hesitant. His fingers brushed hers, then stilled halfway, unsure if he was allowed to go further.
Aera looked at him, really looked — the soot on his cheek, the cut on his lip, the warmth in his eyes that never once demanded anything from her.
She realized, in that trembling heartbeat, that she loved him.
Not as a savior or protector — but as the man who had seen her as human before he ever saw her as royal.
Her fingers curled around his. “You should not care for me,” she whispered, voice breaking.
He smiled faintly, leaning closer. “Too late for that.”
Her breath caught. The air between them grew still — so close she could feel his warmth, smell the faint scent of smoke and rain clinging to his skin.
His hand lifted, brushing a wet strand of hair from her cheek. “You tremble,” he said softly.
“I—” she faltered, eyes flicking to his lips. “Perhaps… it is not from fear.”
His breath hitched, the faintest smile ghosting across his face.
He leaned in — just an inch more, their foreheads almost touching—
—and then the world shattered.
A shout rang out from beyond the chapel ruins.
“Over here! The fugitives!”
Chan’s head snapped toward the doorway. Soldiers burst through the archway, armor glinting in the firelight.
He rose in a flash, blade drawn. “Stay behind me!”
“Chan!” she cried as two men lunged forward.
He struck one aside, kicking another back — but there were too many. Boots thundered against the stone floor, hands grabbing at his shoulders, tearing him away from her.
Aera screamed as rough arms seized her from behind.
“Let him go!”
“Your Highness,” one soldier hissed, shoving her down. “The King will be pleased to see you alive.”
Chan struggled, blood streaking his lip, but his glare burned brighter than any torch. “Touch her again, and I’ll—”
A fist slammed into his gut, silencing him.
“Enough!” barked the captain. “Bind him.”
Ropes tightened around his wrists. Aera’s heart pounded as she was dragged toward the waiting horses outside, rain beginning to fall again — softer this time, cruelly gentle.
She turned once, searching for him. Chan was already being forced to his knees, his head bowed but his gaze locked on hers.
Even then — bruised, bleeding, bound — he managed a faint smile.
And in that fleeting second, before they were pulled apart, Aera understood:
This was not the end of their story.
It was the storm before the dawn.
—
The capital had never looked darker.
Once, Aera had known its streets as gold and marble — the scent of perfumed gardens and the echo of music drifting through grand courtyards.
Now, as the soldiers dragged her through the city gates, all she saw were shadows.
All she heard were whispers.
“’Tis the princess!”
“Returned from the dead—”
“—and with a traitor!”
Chan stumbled beside her, wrists bound, blood streaked across his jaw. The once-steady rhythm of his steps was faltering now, his body bearing the marks of every blow he had taken on the way here.
They stopped before the marble steps of the palace — towering and cruelly bright beneath the afternoon sun. The gates opened with a heavy groan, and for the first time in weeks, she stood once more before her father’s throne.
The King of Solen sat tall and severe, his silver crown gleaming coldly. To his right stood Lord Aldric, her betrothed — proud, smirking, his hand resting upon his jeweled sword.
“Your Majesty,” Aldric said with a mocking bow, “we have recovered your lost daughter — and the thief who stole her.”
The court erupted in murmurs.
Aera flinched at the word stole.
Chan said nothing. His eyes were on her, unwavering — not pleading, not afraid. Only steady.
The King’s gaze fell on him. “You are the one they call the blacksmith,” he said slowly, voice dripping with disdain. “The man who dared lay hands upon my daughter.”
Chan lifted his head, bruised but unbroken. “I laid hands upon no one, Your Majesty. I saved her life.”
Aldric let out a sharp laugh. “Saved her? You kidnapped her! You hid her like some low creature hiding stolen gold!”
“She was hunted,” Chan said through gritted teeth. “By your own men.”
“Enough!” the King thundered. His gaze turned to Aera. “Speak, child. Tell me he lies.”
Her lips parted, but no sound came.
How could she?
When the truth burned on her tongue like fire?
Aldric stepped closer, smugness curving his mouth. “Your Highness, you were frightened. He tricked you. Used your kindness against you. You owe him nothing.”
Chan’s eyes flickered toward her — the faintest spark of pain crossing them.
Aera took a trembling breath. “No,” she whispered.
The court quieted.
Aldric frowned. “What?”
Her voice rose — clear, steady despite the tremor beneath it. “No, he did not trick me. He did not harm me. He saved me when no one else dared.”
Gasps rippled through the hall. The King’s eyes narrowed. “Aera—”
“I loved him!” she cried, her voice breaking through the silence like thunder. “Do you hear me? I love him!”
The world seemed to still.
The courtiers froze.
Even the torches flickered as though in shock.
Aldric’s face twisted with rage. “You— what did you say?”
“I said I love him,” she repeated, chin high, tears trembling in her eyes. “And if loving him be treason, then let the crown take my life alongside his.”
The King rose slowly, fury and sorrow warring behind his eyes. “You defy your blood for this man?”
“I defy your blindness,” she said fiercely. “You rule a kingdom you do not see — one built on fear, not justice. He showed me the truth. He showed me what honor is.”
For the first time, silence filled the throne room. The courtiers — once whispering and mocking — looked between father and daughter with uncertainty.
The King’s voice, when it came, was quieter. “You speak boldly, Aera.”
“Perhaps for once, I speak honestly,” she replied.
Aldric snarled, drawing his sword. “Enough of this madness!” He turned on Chan. “If her heart has strayed to filth, I shall cleanse it with his blood!”
“Aldric, no!” Aera shouted.
But the sword was already swinging.
Chan, still bound, ducked the first strike, his chains clashing against the marble. The second swing sliced through the air — he caught it on the metal of his manacles, sparks flying.
“Untie him!” the King barked at the guards.
The nearest soldier hesitated, unsure — and Chan, seeing his chance, kicked Aldric backward, sending him sprawling.
The court erupted in chaos.
A guard rushed forward with a key, cutting Chan’s bonds. The moment his hands were free, he caught Aldric’s blade mid-swing and twisted it from his grasp.
“You should’ve stayed in your golden cage,” Chan hissed.
Aldric roared, charging again. Steel met steel in a shower of sparks. The duel was brutal — Aldric fast and trained, Chan raw but unrelenting, each strike filled with the strength of every wound, every injustice.
Aera stood frozen at first — until she saw Aldric’s dagger glint in the corner of his hand.
“Chan!” she screamed.
He turned just in time. The blade grazed his side, drawing blood — but before Aldric could strike again, Chan shoved him back with the full force of his arm, slamming him against the pillar.
Aera didn’t hesitate. She ran to the guards who still stood stunned by the chaos. “The gate!” she cried. “Open it — in the King’s name!”
The King didn’t stop her. He only watched — the old fire dimming in his eyes, replaced by something heavier.
“Go,” he said at last, voice rough. “Before I change my mind.”
Chan looked up from where he knelt beside Aldric’s unconscious body. “What—?”
“Go,” the King repeated. “And take her with you.”
Aera’s breath hitched.
For the briefest moment, father and daughter met eyes. His expression was no longer fury — but pride, worn and heavy. “You are your mother’s child after all,” he said quietly.
Then he turned away.
Chan grabbed Aera’s hand, pulling her toward the open gate. The night air rushed in, cool and free, banners whipping in the wind.
“Where to?” she gasped, running beside him.
He smiled faintly through his blood and bruises. “Anywhere but here.”
They raced down the palace steps, hearts pounding, the roar of chaos fading behind them.
And as the bells of Solen rang in alarm, the princess and the blacksmith disappeared into the night — not as captive and savior, but as equals.
—
It began with a whisper.
A whisper that rippled through the kingdom — through crowded taverns, across city squares, down every muddy road where peasants once bowed their heads and dared not speak the truth.
“The princess defied the crown.” “She loved a blacksmith more than gold.” “She stood against her father and lived.”
In the weeks that followed her confession, rebellion bloomed like spring after a long, cruel winter.
Men and women who had long suffered beneath the King’s laws rose together — not with weapons at first, but with words. Words that spread faster than flame.
And soon, the flame followed.
The palace gates no longer shone with gold. The banners of tyranny burned. And before the people of Solen, the King — weary and hollow-eyed — stepped down from his throne.
“I ruled with pride,” he said, voice breaking before his people, “and it cost me my daughter. Let the next age begin not with power… but peace.”
He laid the crown upon the marble.
Aera — no longer Princess Aera — stood beside him. Her gown was plain, her hair loose, the weight of her name lifted from her shoulders.
“I will not take it,” she said softly. “The crown has hurt enough hearts.”
And for the first time, her father bowed his head to her.
The world beyond the capital was gentler.
The roads wound through rolling hills and meadows, where wildflowers danced and rivers hummed softly through the valleys.
When she returned to the little village, it felt like coming home — though she had never belonged anywhere before.
Children ran barefoot past the smithy. The smell of fresh bread drifted from the baker’s hut nearby. And inside the forge, firelight painted gold across the walls.
Chan stood at the anvil again.
Sweat glistened against his skin as he worked — hammer striking iron, sparks leaping and falling like stars. The sound — clang, clang, clang — was the same rhythm that had filled the night when she first found him long ago.
Aera stood beside him now, apron tied over her dress, her hands steady though her palms still ached from learning the work.
“Not bad,” Chan murmured, glancing at her as she guided the metal into the coals.
“I had a good teacher,” she teased, smudges of ash streaking her cheek.
He smiled — the kind of smile that didn’t just reach his lips, but his eyes. “Careful. You’ll start showing me up.”
She rolled her eyes, taking the tongs and turning the glowing blade. It hummed faintly — the same quiet sound from that first sword he’d ever made before she entered his life.
Aera tilted her head. “That sound again.”
Chan looked up from the anvil, watching the blade’s faint pulse. “You remember?”
“How could I forget?” she said softly. “It sounded like hope.”
For a long moment, there was only the sound of the fire — alive and breathing.
Chan stepped closer, the glow from the forge casting a warm halo over them both. His voice lowered, gentle yet sure.
“You were never meant for the palace,” he said. “You were meant for freedom.”
Aera looked at him — really looked at him. The soot on his jaw, the scars on his hands, the quiet fire in his eyes that burned brighter than any crown.
And then she smiled.
“I think I was meant for you,” she whispered.
His breath hitched — and before words could catch up, he pulled her closer. The world fell away. The forge glowed around them — gold, fierce, eternal — as their lips met.
It wasn’t the desperate kiss of escape or defiance.
It was a promise.
A beginning.
The fire hummed softly — the same melody as that first sword, the same rhythm of the heart that never stopped fighting.
When they finally pulled apart, Aera rested her forehead against his. “So,” she murmured, “what do we call this one?”
Chan chuckled quietly. “Not a weapon.”
“No?”
He shook his head, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “A gift.”
She smiled, pressing the edge of the still-warm steel with her gloved thumb. “Then let it be a gift for a world reborn.”
Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the horizon in molten gold — and within the humble forge, the former princess and the blacksmith stood together, the flames of their freedom dancing between them.
The fire didn’t burn to destroy. It burned to remember.
And to begin again.
Genre: Enemies To Lovers| Drama Play| College AU| Fake Dating
Summary: Two college students who can’t stand each other are forced into a theater production that blurs the line between performance and reality.
Words: 3.4k
A/N: OMFGGGGG IT'S MY BIAS BIRTHDAY I FEEL LIKE IMMA BURST AHFJNJGSVUGIUVHN HAPPY BIRTHDAY SEUNGMINNNNN!!! YOU'RE HALF 52 NEXT YEAR MUAHAHA👹
Y/N had never meant for this to happen.
When she signed her name on the audition sheet outside the theater department, it was out of pure desperation. The flyer had practically screamed at her—“College Play: Big Roles, Bigger Credits!” She needed those credits. Badly. Her schedule was drowning, and if she didn’t pick up an extra elective this semester, she’d fall behind.
So she figured, Why not audition? No one took these things seriously anyway. Some upperclassmen put on their tragic monologues, the professors applauded, everyone got a participation grade, and that was that.
She hadn’t expected to actually… land the lead role.
And she definitely hadn’t expected to land it alongside the one person on campus she would willingly fight to the death with: Kim Seungmin.
It started with the auditions.
The room was hot, filled with folding chairs and nervous chatter. Students milled around clutching scripts like lifelines. Y/N scanned the room, and of course—because fate hated her—Seungmin was there. Sitting tall, arms crossed, his expression unreadable except for that little crease of disapproval he always wore when looking at her.
Their eyes met. His lips curled into a smirk.
“Oh, great,” Y/N muttered under her breath. “Robot boy made it.”
“Excuse me?” he called from across the room, his voice cutting like a knife.
“You heard me,” she shot back, louder this time. A couple of students glanced between them, already sensing the tension.
Seungmin rolled his eyes and went back to staring at his script like it was a holy text. His posture screamed “I’m better than all of you.”
Y/N wanted to throw her pen at his head.
When her name was called, she strode onto the stage with her chin high. I just need to pass this. No need to be impressive.But as soon as she opened her mouth, the words flowed smoother than she expected. Her voice carried across the stage, her emotions sharp and clear. She threw herself into the scene without holding back.
The director leaned forward in his chair. The assistant scribbled notes furiously.
When she finished, there was a long silence. Then the director clapped once, loud.
“Excellent. Excellent! You have fire, girl. Real stage presence.”
Y/N flushed, surprised at herself. Okay… maybe that wasn’t too bad.
Then came Seungmin.
He walked on stage without a shred of nerves, script tucked under his arm like he didn’t even need it. His delivery was crisp, confident, the words rolling out as if he’d written them himself. His tone had layers—cutting sarcasm, tender emotion, even vulnerability.
Y/N crossed her arms, hating that he was good. Not just good—too good.
When he finished, the director practically leapt to his feet.
“Marvelous! Just marvelous. You two—yes, you and the girl from before—stand together, let’s see some chemistry.”
Y/N’s stomach dropped. No. Please, anyone but him.
But there she was, standing next to Seungmin, script in hand, glaring at his smug profile.
The scene was romantic—of course it was. Something about star-crossed lovers meeting in secret. Y/N tried to pour every ounce of loathing she had into her lines, while Seungmin delivered his like he was born to play a tragic hero.
At one point, he looked at her with this piercing gaze that made her heartbeat stutter. She quickly recovered, lifting her chin and snapping her next line like it was a weapon.
When the scene ended, the director clapped so loudly Y/N nearly dropped her script.
“Perfect! Perfect, perfect! The raw energy! The tension! The audience will eat it up.”
Y/N blinked. “Wait—you mean—”
“Yes, yes, the both of you. You’ll play the leads. It’s decided!”
Seungmin smirked down at her, clearly enjoying her horror.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she muttered.
He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only she could hear.
“Guess you’ll be stuck with me, loudmouth.”
Her jaw clenched. “Better than being stuck with a robot.”
The director, oblivious to the venom dripping between them, spread his arms wide.
“Ah, look at that! Natural chemistry already. This play will be a masterpiece.”
Y/N wanted to scream.
By the time rehearsal schedules were handed out, she was already plotting a dozen different ways to survive. But one thing was clear: if she wanted those credits, she’d have to endure Kim Seungmin.
And if the glares he kept throwing her way were any sign, he was thinking the exact same thing.
Rehearsals started off exactly as Y/N expected: a disaster.
The moment she and Seungmin stepped on stage together, the air practically crackled with hostility. They hit every line, yes—but the tone was wrong. Instead of lovers fated by destiny, they sounded like two lawyers in a heated lawsuit.
“You’re the only one I could ever love,” Seungmin delivered one evening, voice smooth and eyes boring into hers.
Y/N snorted mid-line. She couldn’t help it. “Right, because you sound so convincing. Like a Siri voice update.”
Gasps rippled through the cast members watching from the wings.
The director slammed his script onto the floor. “Cut! CUT!”
Everyone froze.
He pinched the bridge of his nose like he was carrying the weight of the theater world. “You two… are going to kill me. You understand that, yes?”
Seungmin crossed his arms, unbothered. “We’re hitting the lines, aren’t we?”
“Lines, yes. Love, no,” the director groaned. “This isn’t Courtroom Drama 101. This is a romance! Where is the yearning? The fire? The—kiss-her-like-she’s-your-last-breath energy?”
The director’s head snapped up. “Don’t you dare tempt me, girl. You’re both far too talented to waste.”
Seungmin raised a brow, clearly pleased with himself. Y/N wanted to throw the nearest prop at his head.
The director began pacing, muttering like a mad scientist. Then he stopped abruptly, his eyes widening with revelation. “That’s it. I know exactly what you need.”
Y/N’s stomach dropped. “Oh no. What do you mean?”
He clapped his hands once. “You two must spend time together outside rehearsal. Dates. Walks. Coffee. Anything to make you see each other as… human beings instead of sworn enemies.”
“What?!” Y/N yelped.
“I’m not fake-dating her,” Seungmin said flatly, pointing at Y/N like she was a contagious disease.
“Good,” she shot back. “Because the idea of spending extra hours with you makes me want to hurl.”
The director’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You want this credit, don’t you?”
Silence.
Y/N’s shoulders sagged. She did want the credit. She needed it. Bad.
Seungmin glanced away, jaw tightening. He needed it too, clearly.
The director smirked like he already had them cornered. “Then it’s settled. You’ll go on dates—call it method acting, if you want. Get close, get comfortable. When you’re back on stage, you’ll burn with romance instead of hatred. Yes, yes, it will be perfect.”
“This is insane,” Y/N muttered.
“Insane, but effective,” the director said, already scribbling notes in his script. “Now, off with you. I expect to see genuine sparks by next week.”
They left rehearsal in stiff silence. The campus night air was cool, but Y/N felt hot with frustration.
Finally, she turned on him as they walked down the path. “You know this is ridiculous, right?”
Seungmin shoved his hands into his pockets. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled either.”
“Then quit.”
He glanced sideways at her, eyes sharp. “And let you get all the credit? Not a chance.”
Y/N groaned loudly, throwing her head back. “Ugh, why couldn’t I have been paired with literally anyone else?”
He smirked, infuriatingly calm. “Because none of them are on my level.”
Her jaw dropped. “Excuse me? You’re not even that good!”
“Director seemed to think otherwise,” he said smoothly, stepping ahead of her.
Y/N stomped after him, muttering under her breath. “Robot. Absolute robot.”
Behind them, the theater building loomed, faintly glowing with stage lights. Inside, their director was probably laughing maniacally at his own genius plan.
And as much as Y/N hated to admit it… if she wanted to pass this semester, she was now officially stuck fake-dating Kim Seungmin.
The first “date” was a nightmare.
Not the fun, quirky, rom-com kind of nightmare. The realistic, awkward, “why did I agree to this” nightmare.
They chose a café just off campus—neutral territory. Y/N showed up first, determined to look unfazed. She picked a small corner table, scrolled aimlessly through her phone, and rehearsed the list of reasons why this didn’t count as a real date.
Then Seungmin arrived. Right on time, of course. He slid into the seat across from her without even a hello, like this was some sort of business meeting.
“You’re late,” she said automatically, even though he wasn’t.
He gave her a flat look. “It’s 4:00 on the dot.”
“Exactly. You should’ve been here five minutes ago. It’s basic date etiquette.”
“This isn’t a date.”
“The director thinks it is.”
Seungmin sighed, flagged down the barista, and ordered the plainest thing on the menu: black coffee. No sugar, no milk, no fun.
Y/N blinked at him. “That’s it? Just… bean water?”
“It’s called coffee,” he replied, deadpan.
“Yeah, but it’s supposed to taste good. That’s like… robot fuel. Fitting, actually.”
He shot her a withering glare. “What did you order, then? A milkshake disguised as caffeine?”
“Caramel latte with extra whipped cream,” she said proudly, sipping it with an exaggerated hum of delight. “At least my drink has personality.”
“That explains a lot,” Seungmin muttered.
The second “date” was somehow worse.
They agreed to meet at the park, since the director suggested they do something “picturesque.” Y/N showed up in sneakers, ready for a walk. Seungmin showed up in a pressed button-down like he was headed to a business interview.
For twenty solid minutes, they walked in silence. Birds chirped. Children laughed. Somewhere, a dog barked. Y/N was losing her mind.
Finally, she cracked. “Do you… ever talk about anything that isn’t homework or lines?”
“I talk,” he said simply.
“Really? To who? Your reflection?”
He didn’t bite back this time. Instead, he surprised her by saying, “Baseball.”
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“I like baseball,” he said, a little firmer. “I watch games. I used to play in high school.”
She raised her brows. “You? Sports? No way.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” His voice sharpened, indignant for once.
“You just seem like the type who thinks running is undignified. You walk like you’re in a cologne commercial.”
For the first time all day, he actually laughed. A small, reluctant sound, but genuine. “You’re ridiculous.”
And then he started talking. Really talking. About teams, stats, the way he missed the thrill of being on the field. He wasn’t monotone or robotic—he was animated, passionate, even a little nerdy. His hands moved when he explained, eyes sparking in a way she’d never seen before.
It was… kind of cute.
“Wow,” Y/N interrupted at one point. “You really do have feelings. Look at you, all fired up.”
He glared, cheeks tinged pink. “Shut up.”
But he kept talking. And she didn’t interrupt again.
By the third “date,” something had shifted.
They ended up at a bookstore downtown—her idea this time. Y/N wandered between shelves, pulling out titles and teasing him for his painfully serious taste.
“No way you’re actually reading Philosophy of Logic for fun,” she said, holding the book like it was radioactive.
“It’s interesting,” he defended.
“It’s boring. Here.” She shoved a fantasy novel into his hands. “This one has dragons. Way cooler.”
He rolled his eyes but tucked the book under his arm anyway.
Later, while they sat on the shop’s worn leather couch, she caught him smiling faintly at a passage. Not mocking. Just… enjoying.
Y/N didn’t point it out. But she noticed.
Back in rehearsal that week, the difference was obvious.
When Seungmin delivered his lines, there was softness under the sharpness. When Y/N replied, there was warmth in her eyes that hadn’t been there before.
The director nearly wept with joy. “Yes! Finally! This is romance! Keep this up and we’ll bring the house down.”
Y/N caught Seungmin’s eye across the stage.
He smirked, just slightly.
And for the first time, she didn’t immediately want to smack it off his face.
It was supposed to be fake.
That was the line Y/N kept repeating in her head every time Seungmin brushed past her during rehearsal, every time his hand lingered too long on hers when they “practiced” stage blocking. Fake. Practice. For the play. That’s all.
So why did her chest feel so tight when he smiled—really smiled, not the sarcastic little smirk he usually wore?
The director praised them for their sudden improvement. “Finally! That’s the kind of tension I need! You two are glowing!”
Glowing. Y/N nearly choked at the word. Because it wasn’t acting, not entirely. Something underneath the rehearsed lines and practiced gestures was bleeding through, something she couldn’t shove back down.
And judging by the way Seungmin kept avoiding her eyes after scenes, she wasn’t the only one feeling it.
Seungmin lay awake that night, staring at the ceiling of his dorm. He hated this. Not the play—he was good at that, of course. Not even the fake dating—that he could stomach if it meant passing the class. What he hated was how real it was starting to feel.
Y/N’s laugh, loud and unrestrained, echoed in his ears even now. He’d always found it annoying, but lately it tugged at something deep in him, something warm and unwelcome.
This wasn’t part of the plan. He didn’t do messy feelings. He liked order, logic, neat little categories. Y/N was the opposite—chaotic, infuriating, unpredictable. She shouldn’t fit into his life, and yet…
His phone buzzed with a text from her. “Don’t be late to rehearsal tomorrow, Romeo. 🙄”
He stared at the screen longer than he should have before typing back a dry: “Wouldn’t dream of it, Juliet.”
His heart betrayed him with its pace.
They both felt the shift but pretended not to. In rehearsals, their banter slipped too easily into playfulness. During “dates,” they caught themselves enjoying each other’s company longer than necessary.
Every time their hands brushed, Y/N reminded herself, It’s fake.Every time she caught Seungmin looking at her when he thought she wouldn’t notice, his jaw tense, his gaze softer than he meant, he told himself, It’s acting. Nothing more.
But both of them were starting to lose the line between what was staged… and what was theirs.
The theater smelled faintly of paint and dust, velvet curtains hanging heavy in the air. Backstage was alive with chaos—costumes rustling, actors whispering last-minute lines, the director pacing like a general before battle.
Y/N’s stomach churned. She had done rehearsals a hundred times, knew her lines forward and backward. But today, every word felt heavier, sharper. Because today, it wasn’t just practice. Today, hundreds of eyes would be watching.
And Seungmin—he was watching too.
He stood across the greenroom in his costume, posture impossibly straight, expression unreadable. He was always unreadable, but Y/N could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers flexed at his sides.
The director clapped her hands. “This is it! Don’t hold back. Feel every word, every emotion. You’ve got this.”
Her words buzzed like static in Y/N’s ears. All she could think about was the kiss. The one scene they had carefully avoided in every rehearsal. The one moment she had both dreaded and secretly, shamefully anticipated.
The curtain rose.
The lights were blinding, the audience a blur of faces in the dark. Y/N slipped into her character, her voice carrying, her steps measured. Beside her, Seungmin was flawless—calm, magnetic, every line delivered with the kind of precision that made people hang on his words.
Their banter sparkled with unusual sharpness. The crowd laughed where they were supposed to, gasped when the story darkened. And yet, beneath the script, there was something else—something raw, unscripted. Every time Seungmin touched her hand, Y/N felt it burn. Every time she looked into his eyes, she forgot the next line for half a second.
And then, the moment arrived.
The kiss.
Y/N’s heart thundered as the scene unfolded exactly as written—confession, hesitation, step closer. Seungmin’s face inches from hers. She could feel the heat radiating off him, his breath mingling with hers.
This was supposed to be acting. They had promised each other once, almost jokingly, “We’ll save it for the real thing.”
Now the real thing was here.
Seungmin’s hand slid to her waist. Her own hand lifted to his chest without thinking, feeling his heartbeat hammer as wildly as hers. And then—
Their lips met.
It was supposed to be brief. Professional. Just long enough to satisfy the script. But the second their mouths touched, Y/N knew this was no stage direction.
It was real.
Her chest ached with the intensity of it. His lips were soft but sure, moving with a tenderness that didn’t belong to enemies or fake dates or scripted roles. For a moment, the stage melted away—the lights, the audience, the play itself vanished. There was only him, only them, only this.
When they finally pulled apart, the audience erupted in applause. The director beamed from the wings, mouthing “Perfect!”
But Seungmin’s hand lingered at her waist. Her hand still pressed against his chest, feeling the frantic thud beneath his costume. Their eyes locked, wide, searching, as if both were silently asking the same impossible question.
And then the curtain closed.
Backstage was a blur of congratulations and noise, but Y/N barely registered any of it. She could still feel the kiss on her lips, her skin buzzing like static electricity. Seungmin stayed close, unnervingly quiet, but his gaze kept finding hers across the room, sharp and unshakable.
When the crowd dispersed, when the costumes were half-hung and the director had left with a satisfied grin, they were still avoiding words. Only silence, thick and loaded.
Until Seungmin finally spoke.
“Meet me after class tomorrow. By the fountain.”
His voice was calm, but his eyes weren’t. They were burning.
And Y/N could only nod, her heart hammering in answer.
Campus gossip traveled faster than wildfire.
By Monday morning, the kiss scene had transformed into legend.
“Did you see the way they looked at each other?”“That wasn’t acting.”“Are they actually dating?”
Every hallway Y/N walked down felt heavier, whispers trailing behind her like shadows. She wanted to roll her eyes, deny it, laugh it off—except she couldn’t. Because if she said it was all fake, she’d be lying to herself too.
And she couldn’t stop thinking about the fountain.
All day, her stomach churned with nerves, fingers drumming on notebooks, professors’ voices fading in and out. By the time her last class ended, her legs carried her before her mind could catch up.
The fountain sparkled under the late afternoon sun, the spray catching streaks of light. And there he was. Seungmin. Hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff, but face… softer than she’d ever seen it.
He turned when he heard her footsteps. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them hummed, thick with everything they’d refused to say.
Finally, Seungmin broke the silence.
“That kiss…” His voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him—nervous, searching. “…it didn’t feel like acting.”
Y/N’s breath caught. She wanted to joke, to deflect, to call him a robot again just to make the tension crack. But she couldn’t. Not now.
“It wasn’t,” she admitted, her voice quiet but certain.
A beat passed. His jaw flexed, like he was fighting himself, then he stepped closer. “So what do we call this, then? Us?”
Y/N’s heart pounded so loud she was sure he could hear it. She reached for his hand, fingers trembling but firm as they laced through his.
“We stop pretending,” she whispered.
Seungmin exhaled, almost a laugh, almost a sigh of relief. His other hand lifted to her cheek, thumb brushing her skin gently—so different from the boy who once treated her like the loudest annoyance in his life.
And then he kissed her. Not for the audience, not for the play, not for credit or practice. Just for them.
It was slower this time, sweeter, but just as electric. A promise.
When they finally broke apart, Y/N grinned, breathless. “Guess the director was right. We did have chemistry.”
Seungmin rolled his eyes, but his smile betrayed him as he pressed his forehead to hers. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” she said softly. “And you like me anyway.”
The fountain splashed behind them, the campus buzzed somewhere in the distance, but in that moment, it was just them—finally, honestly, no scripts, no pretending.
in which… growing up without a father, came with its own challenges. but who cared when chan was there for you just like a father.
warnings: daddy issues, mentions of abuse and the care system, tears, some angst, a lot of fluff, chan is just like amazing as per, tiny arguments, mentions of enhypen ni-ki (i don’t see him the way i described but his age just works out for the story)
authors note: self indulgent fic tbh… this is kinda a oneshot but also multiple drabbles in story form.
meeting an eight year old trainee at the age of fifteen was a strange experience to chan.
you’d come into the JYPE building, anxious and pretty lonely. he’d heard the rumours that were circulating about you. how you’d been scouted on the street, but you were apparently a child from care.
so when he met you chan wasn’t really sure what to expect.
but as you introduce yourself timidly, something just clicked between the two of you. you were rather lonely in the company, never being trialed in a group, just trainee day in and out.
chan took you under his wing. wherever he was, you were. if he’d been invited somewhere, he was dragging you along, not wanting you to feel left out.
over the next four years, you grew closer. you told chan everything about your past. what had happened before the care system. your dad. the abuse you endured before being saved.
chan promised everything but that. he promised you the world and that he’d never leave you behind.
chan held you on those nights where you cried about him. how you wished things were different in your family. how you felt as though you never had family. but chan was there.
as soon as chan turned nineteen, he signed legal guardianship for you. it seemed strange to most people around them, a nineteen year old basically adopting a twelve year old. but it made so much sense to the pair of them.
as each member of stray kids rolled into the JYP trainee programme, they were also confused at first. but as the group slowly formed and came together, they could understand why you’d both chosen to do it. the bond you two had was like no other.
as it came to the stray kids survival show, member after member being eliminated. it was announced there would be one more final elimination. and for the first time you were up for it.
chan’s heart and face had dropped at the words. JYP had explained that he wasn’t sure on this whole ‘co-ed group’ idea, and also the age difference in the group, despite you only being a few years younger than jeongin.
as your name was spoken, you were officially eliminated. chan felt as though he’d been stabbed. the past five years of that parental bond they’d created, it felt as though it had been dragged through the mud.
chan had of course shed tears during felix and lee know’s elimination. but nothing could describe the emotions he felt in that moment.
the other members had come over, shared their love and support towards you, but then backed away. they knew chan deserved this time with you more than anyone.
“you remember what i promised you all those years ago, yeah?” you nodded, hot tears spilling down your cheeks, “i made you a promise that i wouldn’t leave without you. and i won’t do, i’ll get you back i swear,” chan cried, wrapping his arms around you.
of course he did.
as you all debuted chan really took a hold of that father figure role. it seemed that after moving out and into dorms on tour, or somewhere in the city, chan felt the need to become a proper protective father figure.
he’d set curfew for you. being only fifteen at the time of your debut, there were rules implemented for you, jeongin not so much, but because chan was practically in charge of you; what he said went.
chan was there for many of your firsts. when you turned sixteen, you’d met ni-ki from enhypen. the first boy you ever seriously liked. he was a similar age to you and you were sixteen year old girl with a massive heart.
it didn’t end well. you ended up heartbroken. you and ni-ki had been seeing each other on the down low, but at one point he had turned around and refused to see you anymore in that way.
of course to sixteen year old you, you felt as though the world was ending.
and chan was there for you. he did think you were a tiny bit silly being this upset over getting rejected. not in a mean way of course! but all these tears shed on a boy.
he held you though, like he always did. he told you that ni-ki was just some silly boy that didn’t deserve your time. and then he made jokes about how you’re not allowed to date until your eighty. the classic dad jokes, which only continued to get worse.
there were arguments of course. just like any father-daughter relationship. like that one time you snuck out and came back SO drunk.
you were a couple days shy of eighteen, but chan still of course saw you as that little nine year old girl.
chan had noticed that you were missing from your bed as he came to say goodnight. but stupidly enough, because you were so excited, you’d forgotten to shut your window which you’d climbed out of and also turn off your location.
he wasn’t going to come find you, unless you ended up somewhere that dodgy. you weren’t that stupid.
so when you walked into the dorm later that night, shoes in your hand as you quietly tried shutting your door.
but chan was already there. “why?” he asked, looking at you.
you were a mess. extremely drunk. “i have NO clue what your talking about!” you responded.
“y/n come on now. i’m not laughing, okay?” he was serious, his face was deadpan and his voice held no amusement, “why would you do that?”
you walked past him to your room, stumbling a tiny bit, but saying a quick hi to felix who sat on the sofa awkwardly.
chan walked in behind you but shut the door. “why didn’t you just tell me? you can’t be just sneaking out like that y/n! shit, you had me worried, i genuinely-”
you muttered it before you could even think, “why? it’s not like your my real dad,”
chan was slightly struck by your comment, he knew you didn’t mean it, a hundred percent. but you still said it and maybe that’s what hurt.
you quietly said ‘i’m gonna be sick’ before you pushed into your bathroom, crouching over the toilet.
chan sighed. if he didn’t feel the level of responsibility he did, he for sure would have left you there. but he followed you in, holding your hair and soothing your back in comfort.
you pulled away from the toilet as the nausea calmed. you were still drunk. and that’s when you and chan discovered you were an emotional drunk.
as immediately after you were crying about your dad. and chan hadn’t seen you this vulnerable before. but he still held you, despite all the sick. he comforted you and reassured you. chan reminded you he wasn’t going anywhere.
despite you being sixteen, chan still took your phone away from you the next day as if you were a child. and the boys teased you about it so hard.
seungmin mostly dropping comments and remarks such as ‘watch out he’ll put you on the naughty step next’. they did make you and chan both laugh, but you were still annoyed about having your phone confiscated.
one thing you HATED was when chan, and even the other members, became ‘freaky’ as you called them. they fan-serviced so hard sometimes and it made you cringe. especially for chan.
for example when you watched and listened to railway and red lights for the first time, you audibly and physically cringed in reaction.
of course chan sounded great and the song was definitely doing well, for obvious reasons. but you still couldn’t help the grimace on your face as you watched chan out-freak his old self.
the same at concerts. when him, or anyone, fan-serviced, you cringed and grimaced. their abs or biceps, it was just weird and there were so many fan cams of you pulling faces as they flexed, against chan especially.
fans found it hilarious as they knew the relationship between you two was purely father-daughter based. so seeing your reactions to the way chan acted in front of fans was so funny for everyone.
at your eighteenth live celebration, chan cried. he tried to hide it, stood next to you as you spoke to stay. but fans easily caught onto his tears.
when you finally graduated you believed that no one could make it. well, that’s what chan and the rest had told you. something to with scheduling and ‘JYP being a fucking idiot as per usual’ quoted by seungmin.
but as you walked on stage and accepted your degree, a loud cheer erupted from the crowd, followed by other voices.
you turned and saw the eight of them stood up, chan stood on a chair, with a proud look on his face as he hollered and clapped.
you smiled and allowed a few tears to fall. he showed up. time after time.
he never missed appointments at the doctors, or important school milestones, or important meetings with the entertainment.
he showed up all the time. unlike another man who should have done it all. but he didn’t.
and who knows, if your father did his job, you might not have met chan. you might not have found your true family.
Genre: Romance| Fantasy(slight)| Soulmates AU
Summary: Two strangers keep crossing paths in ways that feel far too impossible to be chance.
Words: 3.4k
A/N: HAPPY BIRTHDAY FELIXXXXX HOORAYYYYY!!!!!! I MADE BROWNIES FOR TODAY YEEHAWWW
The man was old enough that his hands trembled when he held out the tray, the bracelets glinting under the weak morning sunlight. His voice was rough but oddly steady when he said, “Magic, miss. These are magic. They find who you’re meant for.”
Y/N blinked down at the jumble of beads and charms, lined up like a mismatched army of cheap souvenirs. She knew better. There was no way something sold for five dollars on the corner of her street could actually hold “magic.” But still… her chest felt tight, nerves prickling like static. It was her first day at the new job, the one she’d stayed up worrying about all night. The sky was too bright, her stomach too empty, and she kept hearing her own thoughts echoing: Don’t mess this up. Don’t make a fool of yourself.
Her fingers hovered, then closed around a bracelet with a small silver heart charm. Except it wasn’t a heart — not really. Just half of one. A clean cut down the middle, the kind that needed someone else’s piece to be whole.
“Figures,” she muttered under her breath, shoving a crumpled bill into the old man’s palm.
She turned the charm over in her fingers, uneasy. A half-heart on the morning her nerves were already splitting apart? Of course. She glanced back, ready to question him about the missing half — but the street corner was empty. The stall, the tray, the old man himself… gone.
Her jaw tightened. Perfect. My day can’t even start normal. First I get no sleep, now I buy broken jewelry from some vanishing grandpa. What’s next, spilling foundation on an idol? She exhaled sharply, tugged her sleeve down to cover the bracelet, and started walking.
Across the city, Felix leaned closer to the same trembling hands offering him a choice. His hoodie was pulled low over his head, but his freckles were still dusted across his cheeks, obvious even without makeup. The tray shimmered before him.
“Magic,” the old man whispered again, as if the word alone might convince anyone.
Felix’s lips curved. He didn’t believe in things like destiny — at least not usually — but he’d always liked the idea of charms, of little pieces of hope you could hold onto when things felt heavy. He picked up a thin band, the silver half-heart dangling gently against his palm.
He laughed softly to himself. Half a heart? Then someone out there has the other half, yeah? That’s kind of sweet.
Without hesitation, he pressed the money into the man’s hand, slipping the bracelet over his wrist. The beads were cool against his skin, grounding. Today was going to be long — another show, another performance, cameras everywhere — but maybe this tiny piece of “magic” was exactly the kind of comfort he liked to carry.
The backstage area of Inkigayo was a storm. Staff darted around with clipboards, cords tangled across the floor like snakes, and the buzz of chatter rising louder than the sound of hairdryers. Y/N clutched her makeup kit close to her side, trying not to let her knees knock together as she followed her supervisor.
“And here,” the woman was saying briskly, pointing toward a set of eight chairs lined up against the wall, “you’ll be assigned to Stray Kids. Specifically Felix. He’s got freckles to cover but make sure you don’t erase them completely. Fans like them showing through.”
Y/N nodded quickly, though her throat was too tight to answer. Stray Kids. Not just any group — Stray Kids. And Felix? First day and I’m in charge of the one everyone adores. Brilliant.
Her palms were slick, and she kept flexing her fingers to dry them as the members filed in, one after another. They were louder than she expected, voices bouncing off the walls — teasing, laughing, calling for stylists. Then he walked in, blond hair shining even under the dull bulbs of the dressing room.
Felix.
He dropped into the chair assigned to him with a cheerful “G’day,” and his accent curled around the syllables like sunshine. His eyes caught on her immediately, sharp but soft at the edges, narrowing just slightly in curiosity.
“You’re new, right?” he asked, tilting his head.
Her breath caught. She hadn’t even opened a brush yet, and already he’d noticed. She forced a smile, ducking her head as if the floor tiles were the most fascinating thing in the room. “Y-yeah. First day.”
The words were small, but they made him smile wider, freckles shifting with the curve of his cheeks. “Then welcome. You’ll do great.”
Something in his tone — kind, casual, completely genuine — pulled at the knot in her chest. She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been wound until right now.
She reached for her foundation brush, hands finally steadying, and leaned close. His skin was warm under her touch, the faintest brush of her knuckles against his jawline as she worked. The scent of clean soap clung to him, mixed with the faint sharpness of hair spray.
For just a second, she swore she felt a spark under her fingertips. Not static, not nerves. Something else. She shook it off quickly, tucking her sleeves lower so they wouldn’t slip and show the strange bracelet.
Felix, meanwhile, sat relaxed under her hands, watching her carefully in the mirror. He didn’t mention it — but he noticed the way her sleeve shifted, just barely, showing a flash of silver before it disappeared again. A shape that looked an awful lot like his own half-heart charm.
His lips parted slightly, curiosity sparking. He didn’t say anything yet. Not now. But something told him… maybe the old man’s promise hadn’t been as silly as it seemed.
-
Y/N hadn’t planned on seeing him again so soon. In fact, after surviving her first assignment without messing up his eyeliner, she’d convinced herself that was the peak of her week. Do Felix’s makeup once, keep her head down, and maybe she’d settle into the rhythm of the job without drawing any attention.
Except the bracelet had other plans.
The first time, it was the break room. She’d slipped in to refill her water bottle, expecting the quiet hum of the vending machine, only to freeze at the sight of blond hair bent over the counter. Felix was balancing a paper cup of ramen in one hand and waving a packet of seasoning with the other, brow furrowed in concentration.
“Oh—hi,” he said, eyes lighting up when he saw her.
Her throat tightened. Out of every person in the building, why him again? She offered a small nod, filling her bottle quickly, but before she could retreat, he grinned and held up the ramen.
“First meal of champions. Want to share?”
Her laugh slipped out, nervous but genuine. “I think you need it more than I do.”
He chuckled, the sound warm and unguarded. And just like that, her nerves melted a little more.
The second time, it was the elevator. She jabbed the button with her thumb, late for a meeting, silently begging the old thing to move faster. When the doors finally slid open, there he was again — standing inside, earbuds dangling around his neck, scrolling his phone.
Their eyes met, both of them blinking in mild surprise.
“Oh. Hey,” Felix said, tilting his head. “You again.”
Her chest tightened. “Guess so.”
She stepped in, and the doors shut with a groan, trapping them in a small square of silence. Too small, maybe. The kind of space where she could hear the faint rhythm of his breathing, smell the lingering citrus of his shampoo. Her sleeve brushed against his arm when the elevator jolted to a stop between floors, and she flinched back instinctively.
“Sorry!”
He shook his head quickly, freckles shifting with the curve of his smile. “It’s fine. Just… cozy in here, huh?”
Her cheeks burned, but she couldn’t help it — she laughed.
And then, the third time, it was the practice room hallway. She had no reason to be walking down there, not really, but an errand had sent her through, arms full of makeup palettes. He emerged from the opposite door just as she passed, the timing so perfect she nearly dropped everything.
He steadied the stack in her hands with ease, fingers brushing hers for half a second. Warm. Solid.
“You should be careful,” he said lightly. “Wouldn’t want the magic to wear off.”
She blinked, confused. “Magic?”
He nodded toward her kit, grin mischievous. “Your hands. You make everyone look like stars. Must be magic.”
She stared at him, caught between wanting to roll her eyes and wanting to melt into the floor. Instead, she muttered, “You’re ridiculous,” and walked faster, ignoring how her bracelet felt heavier than usual against her wrist.
But while she tried to laugh it off as coincidence, others weren’t so quick to.
“Have you noticed?” one of the senior artists whispered over coffee the next day. “She’s always around Felix lately.”
Another snorted. “Please. She’s brand new and already chatting like they’re best friends. Doesn’t she know better? People will start talking.”
Y/N caught fragments of their voices, sharp enough to sting. She buried herself in foundation brushes, trying not to react. But it was impossible not to feel their eyes on her, or the twist in her stomach when someone muttered, “Some people get lucky too fast.”
Lucky. If only they knew.
Because she didn’t feel lucky at all. She just felt… pulled.
And every time Felix’s laugh carried across a room, every time she caught him glancing at her like he already knew her, she couldn’t shake the thought: This can’t just be coincidence. Can it?
-
It started small.
A clip uploaded by a fan cam account, shaky but clear enough to catch the detail: Felix laughing in the Inkigayo hallway, his hand brushing against a girl’s wrist as she scrambled to steady her makeup kit. Her face wasn’t clear, but her hair, her clothes, the staff badge swinging from her neck—clear enough for people who knew how to look.
Then another: a grainy shot from the elevator lobby. Felix stepping out, smiling at someone behind the staff line, a quick “see you later” slipping out before the camera cut.
Individually, they were harmless. Coincidences. Blips in a sea of content. But stitched together by the fandom’s relentless eyes, the narrative grew sharp.
“Who is she?” “Is Felix dating a staff member?” “They’re together too much. Look at the way he looks at her.”
Comments piled under posts, threads on forums ballooned overnight, and hashtags trended by morning.
Y/N scrolled through it once—just once—and her stomach flipped. Screenshots, speculations, people circling her in blurry backgrounds. The words cut deeper than she expected: unprofessional, clout chaser, ruining his career.
Her phone slipped from her hand, hitting the couch with a soft thud. She buried her face in her palms, her breath coming quick and uneven.
This is bad. This is really bad.
She hadn’t done anything—she knew that. But it didn’t matter. What mattered was how it looked, and how fast things spread when it came to idols.
The next day at work, she avoided him.
When Felix walked into the dressing room with his usual bright “Morning!” she kept her eyes glued to her brushes. She worked faster, quieter, barely speaking more than a few clipped instructions. His brows furrowed in the mirror, but he didn’t press.
In the break room, she slipped out the second she saw blond hair at the vending machine. In the hallway, she ducked into side doors, heart pounding whenever footsteps echoed too close behind her.
But the worst was the elevator.
The doors slid open and there he was again, smiling when he noticed her. “Hey. Long day, huh?”
She froze, then stepped back. “I’ll wait for the next one.”
The smile faded. Confusion flashed across his face, but before he could say anything, the doors closed, shutting her out.
Her chest ached, but she forced herself to breathe. It’s for him. It has to be. If I stay away, maybe the rumors will stop. Maybe it won’t ruin anything for him.
She tugged her sleeve down, hiding the half-heart bracelet as if it were the enemy. But no matter how tight she pulled the fabric, she couldn’t block the steady weight pressing against her wrist.
And she swore—when she walked away that day—it felt heavier than ever.
-
The announcement came quietly, hidden in a short meeting that barely lasted ten minutes.
“Due to recent online activity,” the manager said, shuffling through papers as if the words weren’t razor sharp, “we’re reassigning certain staff to different sections. Y/N, you’ll no longer be working with Stray Kids. Starting tomorrow, you’ll report to the trainee division.”
Y/N’s breath caught, but she didn’t argue. Couldn’t. Around her, people shifted in their seats, some smirking behind their cups of coffee, others casting her quick, sympathetic glances. She only nodded once, muttered a small “yes,” and gripped the strap of her kit until her knuckles ached.
Just like that, the invisible wall became permanent.
Days blurred into weeks. Y/N traded idol dressing rooms for nervous teenagers, her brushes painting shaky smiles on faces that hadn’t yet touched a stage. It was quieter here, safer. But the silence felt heavy.
Felix’s laugh was gone from her mornings. His questions, his small jokes, his warmth—all cut off, like someone had flipped a switch. She told herself it was better this way. Better for him, better for his career, better for her own sanity.
But every night, when she tugged off her sleeve, the half-heart charm caught the light, mocking her. Still unfinished. Still waiting.
Meanwhile, in another part of the building, Felix sat hunched on the couch of the practice room, sweat dripping down his temple after another run-through. The others laughed around him, the sound of sneakers squeaking on the polished floor, but he wasn’t listening.
His eyes were fixed on his wrist.
The bracelet.
He turned it slowly, watching the silver charm spin between his fingers. Half a heart. He remembered the moment he’d bought it—the way the old man had smiled knowingly, the warmth that had spread through his chest when he’d slipped it on. He’d thought it was silly back then. Just a trinket.
But then…
He closed his eyes, memory pulling him back. The first day he’d sat in the makeup chair, the nervous girl with soft hands brushing color over his skin. The tiny glimpse of silver sliding out from under her sleeve before she tugged it back. He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, only that it looked familiar.
Now, the image refused to leave him.
It was the same.
The same beads. The same shine. The same half-heart.
His chest tightened, something clicking into place with terrifying certainty. She has it. She’s the other half.
He swallowed hard, pulse racing. The thought was wild, impossible—and yet, it felt truer than anything else. Because he’d felt it too, hadn’t he? That strange pull, the way coincidences kept stacking until it no longer felt like chance. The ache in his chest ever since she’d disappeared from his orbit, as if a piece of him had been dragged away.
His thumb traced the curve of the charm, and for the first time, Felix let the idea bloom fully in his mind.
She’s my soulmate.
And he wasn’t about to let her slip away.
-
Felix’s schedule was relentless. Music shows, dance rehearsals, interviews, recordings. His calendar blurred into blocks of neon reminders, each hour swallowed by work. But no matter how busy his body was, his mind was elsewhere.
Every break, every quiet second between songs, his fingers found the bracelet. He rolled the beads over his skin until they left faint indentations, the silver half-heart catching in the stage lights. It was always there, waiting.
So is she.
He tried to catch her—he really did. The first night, he rushed to the trainee wing after practice, only to be told she’d clocked out hours ago. Another day, he searched the cafeteria, weaving past crowded tables, but all he found were whispers of her: “She just left.”
It went on like that for a week. The building was a maze, and she always seemed one step ahead, vanishing just before he arrived. He almost laughed at the irony. The bracelet that had pulled them together now mocked him with distance.
But he refused to give up.
The breakthrough came late one evening. Practice had run over, the halls almost empty when he finally slipped out, his hoodie clinging with sweat. His legs ached, but his heart jolted when he spotted a familiar figure by the vending machines, balancing her kit on one hip as she pressed coins into the slot.
Y/N.
His breath caught, and before he could second-guess, his voice carried down the hallway. “Y/N!”
She froze, the can of iced coffee half-dispensed. Slowly, she turned, eyes widening. “Felix?”
He jogged over, chest heaving. “Finally… I found you.”
She shook her head, panic flickering in her expression. “You shouldn’t— You’re not supposed to—”
“I don’t care.” His words were breathless but firm. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “We need to talk.”
Her grip tightened on the coffee, knuckles pale. “There’s nothing to talk about. Whatever you think—whatever you’re doing—it’s too dangerous. People already think—”
“It’s not about rumors.” His eyes searched hers, desperate. “It’s about this.”
He lifted his wrist. The bracelet glinted under the fluorescent lights, the half-heart charm swaying. Her gaze flickered to it, then down to her own sleeve where a matching shape pressed faintly against the fabric.
Her stomach dropped.
Felix noticed. “I saw it. That first day, when you did my makeup. You had it too, didn’t you?”
She stepped back, shaking her head. “It’s just jewelry. Cheap jewelry from some old man on the street. Don’t make it something it’s not.”
Her words were sharp, but her voice trembled. She turned, ready to leave—but his hand darted out, catching her wrist.
The contact was gentle, careful, but firm enough to stop her.
“Wait.”
His other hand lifted, guiding her sleeve up. Slowly, he brought their wrists together, the two halves of the heart inching closer until—
Click.
The charms locked seamlessly, no gap between them. And then, to their shock, the metal began to glow.
A soft golden light spilled from the joined heart, spreading in threads across the beads like veins of fire. It was warm—radiant—but not burning. The glow wrapped around their wrists, pulsing once, twice, in time with their heartbeats before settling into a steady shimmer.
Y/N gasped, stumbling back, but Felix’s grip steadied her. His eyes were wide, reflecting the light like stars.
“See?” His voice was rough, filled with awe. “It’s real. It’s us.”
Her throat closed, a thousand thoughts crashing through her head. The warmth seeped deeper, curling in her chest, filling the hollow ache she hadn’t realized she carried. She wanted to deny it, to shove it away—but her body betrayed her. She felt it. The connection. The tether.
“I—” Her voice cracked. “I can’t. Felix, I can’t. The rumors, the company—your career—”
“I don’t care about any of that,” he cut in, his words fierce but steady. “Do you know what it felt like when you were gone? When I couldn’t see you? It wasn’t just missing someone—it hurt. Here.” He pressed his free hand to his chest. “Like something was tearing every time you walked away.”
Her eyes blurred, tears threatening. Because she knew. She’d felt it too. The dull ache, the emptiness that grew sharper every day apart.
“I thought it was just me,” she whispered.
He shook his head, thumb brushing gently against her wrist where their bracelets joined. “It’s both of us. We’re meant to be. Soulmates, remember?” His lips curved faintly, almost shy despite the conviction in his words. “Doesn’t that mean we’re stronger than rumors?”
Her chest ached with the weight of fear, but also with the light of something bigger—something undeniable. The glow between their wrists pulsed again, like it was answering for her.
And for the first time, she didn’t pull away.
Felix’s shoulders dropped with relief, a soft smile breaking through. “Then… stay. With me.”
She met his gaze, the golden light still binding them, and finally let the walls she’d built crumble.
“Okay.”
The glow faded into a quiet shimmer, leaving only the warmth of his hand still wrapped around hers. Y/N stared at the matching halves now whole, her heart racing in disbelief and wonder. For the first time since that strange day with the old man, she didn’t feel afraid of what this meant—because Felix was smiling at her like she was the only person in the world. And maybe, just maybe, she really was.
Genre: Mafia| Heist| Dark Romance
Summary: A city of shadows, a crew of thieves, and two broken souls trusts each other when survival demanded it.
Words: 3k
Trigger warning: Mention of blood, trauma.
A/N: I know I'm like super late, but happy birthday HAN JISUNGGGGGG!!! (I had to go somewhere so I couldn't post T T)
The Night Club was enemy ground dressed up in glitter. Lights spilled down in sickly neon, bass thumped like a heartbeat trying too hard, and the smell—sweat, smoke, alcohol—was almost enough to mask the stink of desperation. Almost.
Han hated places like this. Too many people pressed too close, too many chances for a hand to brush his, for someone to look too long. But the worst part wasn’t the bodies or the noise. It was the lies. Clubs were built on them—smiles painted too wide, deals cut too quick, promises that would bleed out in the alley by morning.
But Chan had sent him here anyway.
The problem was territory. The Iron Fangs—rivals, all bark and a little too much bite—had been sniffing around their routes, trying to tax businesses that already paid the crew. Fifth Street was lucrative, a lifeline for Chan’s network. If the Fangs got control, it wasn’t just lost coin. It was lost respect. Respect was the spine of the city. Without it, you broke.
So Han came, because when the Ghost walked into a deal, no one forgot it.
At least, no one who walked back out.
He scanned the room once and saw it all: the Fang leader lounging in a corner booth, rings glinting under the lights; his men circling the room, hands twitching toward weapons they weren’t supposed to carry; the bartender pretending not to listen while tilting his head a little too close. Han read the map of the night in seconds, every alleyway of betrayal sketched out in his mind.
That’s when he flicked his gaze to the guard at the side entrance. Too sharp-eyed, too still. Han didn’t like him. He didn’t like leaving loose ends.
He didn’t turn to Y/N—didn’t need to—but his words were quiet, sharp as glass.
“Back door. He doesn’t breathe by the time I’m done here.”
It wasn’t a request. It was trust.
And Y/N felt the weight of it like a blade pressed against her ribs.
Han trusted no one. Everyone knew that. He wore gloves like armor, kept space between himself and the world, carved silence where others used words. The only reason she was here was because Chan had shoved her into Han’s orbit, written her name on a contract like she was just another weapon. A thief who fit their needs. A shadow sharp enough to keep up with him.
But this wasn’t routine. This was Han telling her he was counting on her. That if she failed, the whole thing collapsed.
She hated the flicker of doubt in her chest. She was skilled, trained, perfect in motion, but perfection was brittle when you knew someone was watching—when you knew someone believed you wouldn’t crack.
Y/N pulled her hood tighter, slipping through the crush of dancers toward the side door. Every step felt heavier.
Han, meanwhile, slid into the booth across from the Fang leader without waiting to be invited. His gloved hands rested lazily on the table, but his eyes—sharp, precise—made the man shift in his seat.
“You send your boss’s ghost to bargain?” the leader sneered, scar running from jaw to ear like he’d lost one too many fights. “Where’s Chan? Afraid to get his hands dirty?”
Han tilted his head, expression blank. His voice, when it came, was calm—mocking in the way calm could cut deeper than rage.
“You’re sitting in borrowed territory, drinking borrowed liquor, running borrowed men.” His lips curved, not a smile, more a scalpel. “Remind me. What exactly is yours?”
The Fang leader’s smirk faltered.
Han leaned back like he had all the time in the world, but beneath the table his mind worked like gears in constant motion. He knew Y/N would handle the guard, but he couldn’t help it—his thoughts brushed toward the side door, toward the quiet figure he’d sent into the dark. He hated that flicker of unease. He hated needing anyone.
But Y/N wasn’t just another blade. She was his blade. And tonight, she had to cut clean.
- -
The Fang leader kept running his mouth, but his voice wavered at the edges, confidence thinning each time Han didn’t flinch.
“This club belongs to us now,” he declared, slamming his palm on the table. “The businesses around here—they’ll pay us. Not Chan. Not his crew. And when you’re crawling back to him with your tail between your legs—”
The barrel of his pistol rose, aimed straight at Han’s chest.
Han didn’t move. Didn’t blink. His gloved fingers tapped once against the table, bored, like he was waiting for the man to run out of breath. When he finally spoke, his voice was smooth and sharp, a blade dipped in velvet.
“34 Riverside Lane.”
The Fang leader froze.
Han tilted his head, eyes catching the dim glow of the chandelier above. “Top-floor apartment. Yellow curtains, two cracks in the balcony railing.” His tone was clinical, detached, but there was a curl of mockery in the corner of his mouth. “Your secret girlfriend has good taste, I’ll give her that. Pretty thing, too. Skin like porcelain, hair soft as silk.”
The rival’s jaw tightened.
Han leaned forward slightly, voice dropping lower, quieter, crueler. “Imagine what a mess she’ll make when my men set the curtains on fire. Imagine the sound of her screaming while the building burns. Now—what exactly were you saying about taking my harbor?”
The Fang leader’s mask cracked. His bravado shattered into rage. He slammed the gun harder against Han’s chest, though his hand shook.
“Fine! Fine!” he barked, voice sharp with panic. “You win this one.”
He grabbed Han by the collar, face twisted with desperation. “You touch her, and I swear—” His pupils were blown wide, fear bleeding into fury. He shoved Han back, breathing hard, then turned as if to storm away.
But desperation makes men reckless.
The flash of steel came quick—a knife drawn from his belt, arm snapping back as he lunged toward Han’s throat.
Han didn’t move. He didn’t have to.
Because Y/N was already there.
Her hood shadowed her face, but her hands were smeared with the evidence of the guard outside. Silent. Swift. Efficient. She caught the Fang leader mid-lunge, twisted his arm, and forced his own blade against the meat of his thigh.
The man gasped, sweat slick on his skin.
Han’s gaze flicked to her. Pride gleamed there, quiet and unspoken, but strong enough to hum in the air between them. He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.
Y/N pressed the knife harder. The Fang leader’s groan cut through the club’s pounding bass.
Han brushed his collar off where the man’s dirty hand had clutched him, gloved fingers slow and deliberate. “Pathetic,” he muttered, barely audible, before rising from the booth.
He didn’t spare the Fang leader another glance. This wasn’t Han’s mess anymore—it was Y/N’s. She’d finish it clean. She always did.
The streets of Fifth Harbor were quieter than the club, the salt-tinted air rolling in from the docks. Han walked with his usual pace—measured, unhurried—as if the shadows themselves shifted aside to let him pass.
He knew she was behind him.
Y/N’s presence was different than anyone else’s. Others left noise in their wake—footsteps, breathing, the scrape of steel. She left nothing. Moving like a cat, silent, impossible to trace. If he hadn’t already memorized her rhythm, he might have thought himself alone.
“Spit it out,” Han said suddenly, his voice cutting through the quiet. “Whatever’s rotting in your mouth.”
Her hood tilted, but her words came steady. “You didn’t send anyone to that damn apartment.”
Han slowed. Turned his head slightly, enough to catch her eyes through shadow. “Why would I?”
“You were bluffing,” she pressed, her tone tight, accusatory but quiet. “She was never in danger.”
He stopped in his tracks, fully facing her now. The streetlamp caught half his face in pale light, the other swallowed in dark. His eyes burned into hers.
“Darling,” he said softly, almost fondly, though the word cut sharp. “This is mafia. We lie to survive.”
For a heartbeat, silence stretched between them. Y/N’s chest rose, breath shallow, but she held his gaze.
Han finally broke it, pulling his gloves tighter against his wrists like sealing off the moment. “Go. There’s a man who keeps sniffing around my block. Claims I owe him something. Take care of it.”
He turned away, his figure melting into the harbor’s night.
And Y/N moved, swift and soundless, like she’d never been there at all.
The main quarters of the crew weren’t loud like the club. They thrummed with quieter menace—men playing cards, smoke curling from lit cigarettes, steel glinting in dim corners. Han moved through it all without pause, ghosts didn’t bow to shadows.
Chan was waiting.
He leaned back in his chair, hands clasped loosely, calm as ever. Dangerous, yes, but in the kind of way that didn’t need to announce itself. His eyes tracked Han the way a predator tracks prey—not because he meant to kill him, but because he could.
Han stopped in front of him, gloves still immaculate, voice even as he began recounting the club. Business. Straightforward. But underneath the words was something else, a tension Chan caught immediately.
“You look determined,” Chan drawled, studying him with an edge of amusement. “You want something. Spit it out, Ghost.”
Han’s jaw flexed. For a moment he seemed ready to swallow it down, bury it with the rest. But then, slowly, his words came.
“I’m done wasting time on petty scraps. I want more. Something with weight. Something that matters.”
Chan’s smile was small, sharp. “Greedy, aren’t you?”
Han didn’t deny it. Greed wasn’t shameful, not here. Greed was survival with teeth.
Chan leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I knew you’d ask eventually. And it just so happens…” His voice dropped lower, slower. “There’s work. Not just work—the work. Something that could make you millions if you’re sharp enough to pull it off.”
Han’s eyes narrowed, hunger flickering in their depths.
Across the harbor, Y/N had her own mess to clean.
The man cornered her in a side alley, shouting about how Han owed him, waving crumpled scraps of paper like proof. His words dripped with desperation.
“You tell him! He promised me a deal—money, product, I don’t care, he owes me!”
Y/N’s patience wore thin. She slipped her brass knuckles over her fingers, the metal gleaming faintly in the lamplight.
The first punch cracked across his jaw. He staggered back, clutching his face, eyes wide with fear.
“Han doesn’t owe anyone,” Y/N said coldly, her hood shadowing her face.
When he stammered another word, she pulled the hood back. Pale skin, red lips, eyes colder than the steel in her hand. The sight shut him up quicker than her fist.
“You keep pushing, and I’ll bury you under this harbor myself. Understand?”
He nodded, trembling. She shoved him aside and turned away, disgust curling her lip.
Back at the quarters, Y/N slipped in unseen, her footsteps whisper-light. No one ever knew when she was there—except Han. But even he didn’t notice her now. Or at least she thought.
Because he was leaning forward, listening to Chan.
“A job in the city,” Chan said, his tone steady, deliberate. “Not many are trusted with that kind of work. Only the best. Only professionals.”
A city job. The words sat heavy. Rare. Dangerous. Lucrative.
Y/N lingered in the shadows, every word slipping into her ears. A deal. A new work. Something massive.
Her chest tightened. Why hadn’t Han told her? He always did. She was his second pair of eyes, his shadow, the one who knew everything.
And yet—this, she was hearing for the first time, hidden in the dark.
Han’s lips curled faintly, the faintest ghost of a smile.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
- -
Han was already moving down the hall when Y/N slipped from the shadows. He didn’t even glance back, just spoke like he’d expected her to appear.
“How’d the boy go?”
His tone was casual, flat. But the ease of it cut sharper than any question. Han was the only one who could read her that way, the only one who knew her patterns like he’d written them himself.
Y/N swallowed. “He won’t be showing his face again.”
A quiet hum of approval left his throat. Nothing more. Han never wasted words.
He pushed open the door to his block’s office, the small space drenched in lamplight and the faint scent of smoke. Without ceremony, he stripped his gloves off, one finger at a time, then tugged his shirt over his head.
Y/N froze, breath catching before she could help it. Heat rushed straight to her cheeks. She wasn’t naive—she’d seen men half-dressed before—but Han was different. Everything he did carried weight, even wiping sweat from his skin.
He dampened a cloth and dragged it across his chest, his arms, down the ridges of muscle carved sharp by years of work. The lamplight caught droplets of water sliding down his skin.
Y/N’s mouth went dry. Her eyes betrayed her, dragging across the lines of his torso, the curve of his shoulders.
Han glanced at her once, unreadable, before pulling on a clean shirt. He paused halfway, leaving it open as his fingers stilled on the buttons.
“The deal,” she managed, her voice tight. “What is it?”
Han finally looked at her—steady, sharp. “A job. Not scraps, not petty territory fights. A heist. In the city.”
Her heart jolted. The city wasn’t for amateurs. It was for legends.
Han finished buttoning the shirt, slow, deliberate, then reached for his leather gloves. He tugged them on, one hand, then the other. Every movement precise, ritualistic, sealing himself back into armor.
His gaze lingered on her. “I want you on it.”
The words hung heavy between them. An invitation. A demand. A rare breach in the wall he always kept between them.
Y/N’s pulse thundered in her ears.
Han didn’t wait for her answer. He fastened the last strap, then turned toward the door.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, already moving into the corridor that led to his room. His shadow stretched long across the floor, swallowing the lamplight until he disappeared.
Y/N stood frozen in place, heat still rising in her face, his words replaying again and again.
I want you on it.
- -
The cruise glittered like a floating palace, chandeliers casting a warm golden glow across velvet carpets and polished marble floors. Laughter mingled with the low hum of violins, the sound of money in its purest form.
Han looked the part—his black suit tailored sharp, his leather gloves sleek against crystal glass as he swirled the red wine in hand. He leaned slightly toward a wealthy man in a cream tuxedo, his voice low, conversational, every word dipped in casual charm. The way his gloved fingers traced the stem of the glass, the subtle tap of his ring against the rim—none of it wasted. He blended so well it was easy to forget he wasn’t supposed to be here.
Beside him, Y/N was magnetic in her own way. The slit of her dress cut high enough to draw eyes, the silk clinging in just the right places. She didn’t have to try—attention followed her like shadow. A soft smile played at her lips as she brushed past a pair of guards near the gallery entrance, her perfume catching the air like a hook.
One guard stiffened when she leaned close, whispering something about being lost. The way his eyes dropped, too quick to hide, said enough. Her hand brushed his arm like an accident, the other palming the access card clipped beneath his jacket. He didn’t notice. He was too busy staring at the curve of her mouth when she laughed.
Her laugh cut short, almost silent—two light taps at the earpiece hidden beneath her hair. Han caught it mid-conversation. He excused himself smoothly, sliding the glass onto a passing tray without breaking stride. By the time he reached the guarded door, the lock was already soft green from her override.
As he passed the wealthy man, his gloved hand brushed the man’s shoulder in farewell. When his hand lowered, the ring was already gone.
Inside the narrow corridor, Y/N appeared again, slipping into step with him as if she had always been there. She handed the stolen access card into his palm without a word, the faintest curl of pride tugging at her lips. The guard she’d left was slumped against the wall now, cup in hand, drink far too strong.
They reached the steel door, its slick surface humming faintly with security locks. Y/N pressed her back to the wall, watching him. Han slid the stolen ring onto his finger, fitting it like it belonged there. His eyes flicked to the necklace he’d studied earlier—the chain patterned with dots and dashes. Morse code.
Each tap of his gloved finger against the scanner matched the sequence: short, long, short. The lock released with a muted hiss.
But neither moved.
Y/N snapped open a small powder compact from her clutch, its mirror flashing briefly under the lights. She tilted her hand and blew gently. A shimmer of pale dust spread across the air. Red beams came alive, lines weaving a deadly web from floor to ceiling.
Her eyes darted to Han. His expression didn’t falter.
They slipped through together, movements precise, their bodies twisting and ducking in a rhythm that looked rehearsed though it wasn’t. One tilt of her hip, one sidestep of his shoulder—their shadows slid across the beams but never touched. Her dress brushed his sleeve when she leaned down low, her breath sharp against his jaw before she darted forward again.
At the end of the gauntlet, the prize gleamed.
The jewel sat in a pedestal of glass, its deep sapphire facets catching the light in cold brilliance. But the glass hummed faintly with a sensor’s edge—touch it wrong, even breathe on it too heavily, and alarms would scream through the entire ship.
Han’s eyes narrowed. He tilted his head, just enough for her to catch his meaning. The plan was dangerous, reckless—but then, so was he.
Y/N adjusted the strap of her dress, fingers brushing the hidden switch beneath. A single press, and somewhere on the CCTV grid, the footage froze. To anyone watching, the vault still looked empty.
Her hand found his wrist, brief and warm, grounding them both in that heartbeat before chaos.
He lifted his gun, the dark metal gleaming under the faint emergency light. His other hand steadied the jewel case, glove resting against glass that would scream the second it shifted.
Her lips parted as she readied herself.
Han gave her a single nod.
Trust wasn’t spoken. It was given.
He squeezed the trigger.
- -
The gunshot cracked louder than the music above. The jewel’s glass splintered as Y/N slipped the sapphire into her waterproof pouch, movements sharp despite the chaos.
Another shot rang out.
Her body jolted, her hand flying to her arm. Blood seeped through her dress like a dark bloom.
Han’s aim should have been flawless. But his glove snagged on the ridge of the trigger guard, an unforgivable mistake. He ripped the leather off with a growl, flinging it to the ground, and shot the guard clean through the chest.
Silence pressed in, thick and suffocating. For a second he couldn’t breathe. Y/N’s eyes had gone glassy, her weight tipping forward.
No. Not her.
His chest clenched, and memory swallowed him whole—his brother, blood sticky against his bare skin, the weight of him slipping from Han’s arms, the sound of his breath leaving for the last time. He had sworn never to touch again, never to feel blood warm against his hands. Never.
And yet—
He caught her before she fell.
Her weight slumped against him, her skin fever-warm under his bare palm, blood slick against his shirt. For the first time in years, his fear of touch shattered under something stronger: the need to keep her alive.
He didn’t hesitate.
The ocean roared below, waves colliding against the cruise’s hull. He braced, adjusted her over his back, and leapt.
The water swallowed them whole.
Salt stung his open skin, his chest burning with each stroke as he kicked through the black waves. Y/N clung weakly to his shoulders, her breath ragged against his neck. Every groan she made cut sharper than any wound of his own.
He forced the panic down, forced his arms and legs to keep moving. His mind whispered his brother’s name, whispered failure, whispered death—but he drowned it out with every stroke. Not her. Not this time.
When they finally dragged onto the rocky shore, the moonlight revealed the wound in her arm, red streaming down to her wrist. Han ripped off his shirt, the fabric tearing in his fists. He pressed it against her arm, wrapping tight, his bare hands slick with her blood.
He didn’t notice the trembling anymore. Didn’t care that he was touching her skin, his nightmare for years. His whole focus narrowed to her—her eyes fluttering, her lips pale but still moving.
“Han…” she whispered, weak but alive.
He pressed harder. “Save your breath.” His voice cracked, the calm mask fractured, something raw bleeding through.
The night was cold, the ocean wind sharp, both of them dripping wet, but his body ran hot with adrenaline. He cursed under his breath when the makeshift bandage soaked too quickly, then tightened it anyway.
For the first time in years, he prayed.
Y/N’s breathing steadied by degrees, each rise of her chest easing the crushing grip around his ribs. She leaned her head against his shoulder, her hood long gone, strands of wet hair clinging to her face.
He looked down at his bare hands on her skin. Once, that would’ve sent him spiraling, clawing for his gloves. Now it was proof—proof she was alive, proof he wasn’t too late this time.
The shore stretched empty, only the sound of waves crashing and their uneven breaths breaking the silence. For once, he let himself breathe with her.
When she finally opened her eyes, her voice was hoarse. “You carried me.”
He almost laughed—sharp, bitter, unbelieving. “Don’t sound so surprised.”
Her lips curved faintly. “Without gloves.”
His throat tightened. He glanced away, squeezing her hand gently in his. His skin against hers—warm, real, fragile. Something he thought he’d never risk again.
“Don’t read too much into it,” he said, but the tremor in his voice betrayed him.
They sat there until the bleeding slowed, until her breathing evened, until the sapphire’s pouch glinted faintly against the shore between them.
At last, she reached for his hand. Slowly. Carefully. And he didn’t pull away.
The city lights flickered across the horizon, distant but waiting. The job wasn’t done. Their world wasn’t safe. And yet, on that shore, dripping wet and raw, they held hands without gloves—a promise more binding than words.
Han didn’t call it love. He never would. But when he looked at her, he knew this was something he could never walk away from.
Their paths would split in the morning. But tonight, he let himself hope.
Genre: Horror| Psychological Thriller| Disappearance.
Summary: Stray Kids travel to a quiet countryside village to film a fun and lighthearted episode of SKZ Code. Everything seems perfect — laughter, games, and beautiful scenery — until suddenly, Felix vanishes in the middle of a game. What begins as a carefree shoot quickly turns into a tense search, as the remaining members uncover unsettling clues that suggest Felix’s disappearance might not be an accident after all...
Part 5 of 11 chapters
Part 4
He picked up the smell first—rich, meaty, nearly sweet. Han's stomach growled on its own, reminding him how little he'd eaten since they split up. His eyes scanned the streets, but the entire village seemed too quiet, the village too still.
That was when he saw it.
A small, humble cottage on the edge of the village. Windows glowed with soft, golden light inside. A tendril of smoke rose from the chimney, and the scent of cooking wafted too freely to ignore.
"Felix?" Han stepped cautiously forward to the door. His camera kept rolling, the gentle red light flashing. He had to keep filming. For the others. For Felix.
The door creaked open as he nudged it. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of cooking—something comforting, like stew or roasted meat. It made his mouth water despite the unease gnawing at his stomach.
And there, at the stove, stood Felix.
Felix.
“Hyung!” he called, his voice cheery, almost too cheery. “I was wondering when you’d get here! Dinner’s almost ready.”
Han's heart raced. It was Felix, sure enough, but his movements were oddly controlled, almost mechanical. The pot stirring. The smile that didn't reach his eyes.
But it smelled amazing.
"Felix, where are you—what is going on?" Han demanded, stepping into the room, still cautious. The pot on the stove churned, something dark and viscous bubbling to the surface, steam curling up in unnatural shapes.
Felix looked over his shoulder, smiling widely. "I've been waiting for you. I didn't want to be alone again. Not after what happened last time."
Last time?
Han shook his head, dismissing the thought. "I'm glad you're okay. But we've been looking everywhere for you—what's happened? Where's everyone else?"
Felix didn’t answer. Instead, he turned to the counter, picking up a plate of steaming food, rich and dark, the aroma so overpowering that Han’s mouth watered. His stomach clenched.
“You should eat,” Felix said softly, offering the plate with a tender smile. “You’ll feel better. You’ve been running on empty.”
Han hesitated. He could feel something pulling at him, telling him to bite, to slack off, to trust Felix. But something was not right.
The food on the plate wriggled.
Han blinked. It moved.
The meat pulsed. The edges of the vegetables quivered, the leaves shivering as if they were alive. A low, muffled breathing sound came from the plate.
Han took a step back, his heart pounding. "What is this?"
"Don't leave me alone once more," the clone pleaded, voice cracking, becoming strained, desperate. Felix's grin remained on his face, but his eyes had a desperate look in them. "You don't know what you do when you leave. When you all forget me."
"Felix, what—"
Before he was able to move, the clone moved, faster than he had expected, grabbing his arm and pulling him across the room, to the table. The plate was pushed against his chest, the food still wriggling, squirming.
"N—!" Han shouted, trying to struggle free, but Felix was stronger than he should be. His grip was too strong, his words spoken in a low, tight growl.
"Go on and eat," Felix commanded, "Don't leave me behind again. Please."
Han's pulse thudded in his ears. His hands trembled as he fought to struggle loose. But the food—it was alive, struggling against him, beating to the same beat as his heart, the smell filling his head.
With a raw, desperate yell, Han struggled loose, staggering back, nearly falling over his own feet. He struck the wall, gasping for air.
Felix just stood there, the smile never once leaving his lips, as the plate on the counter rattled and then toppled, spilling on the floor. The meat rolled off the plate and slid, like something alive. Something that it shouldn't.
Han stormed out of the house, stumbling into the cold of the night air, gulping for oxygen. The house closed behind him, the door banging, Felix's voice calling after him, low and entreating.
