Pairing: Frontman/Inho x FemVIP!Reader (y/n)
Summary: When her defiance crosses a line and another man dares to touch what he believes is his, Inho finally stops holding back. Jealousy turns lethal, and possession is claimed in blood.
Warnings: Dark themes, obsessive behavior, possessiveness, extreme jealousy, gun violence, murder, power imbalance, morally gray/black characters, psychological manipulation, intense and unsettling content.
Author's Note: Hey guys, I'm back after my exams. I'm still a little lazy but I'm really trying to be active again. Thanks for all your patience. Love y'all! Based on THIS request.
Taglist: Let me know if you want to get tagged. @salesmancarddd @marymun @astronomicalastro-blog1 @filthygalli @thehellhaveubeenloca @yosoylaprincesa2004 @watasinekoru @nightlark100 @drewstarkeysrightarm @doodle-with-rhy @lunaryoongie @ilovebyunghunlee @yxluana @sammie217 @sammat97 @alex-17s-world @mObi4girls @maah-sama @grylian @hecticspice @manager016 @mxriesss @christmascoles @nosebeers @carolinevoight @princesscherryblossom15 @frozen-waffle @eviesmoon @startled-cats @retiredpieceofshits @ft-winnow @weakh3rokdrama @bluechaoslizzy @frontwomann @cutecat2005 @starlightlunax @alex110370000 @wanna-plan-world-domination @akiyhara @natalie3657 @hornylittlesimp @lazybum0 @reneejkn @solarpotato @masked-protocol @lindsay00000 @v13fsg @missinkho
From the moment she stepped into the VIP lounge, the atmosphere shifted.
Y/n didn’t need to try. She never did.
Dressed in elegance that spoke of power rather than excess, she moved with a calm confidence that made men straighten unconsciously, their attention snapping to her like trained animals.
She was the youngest among the VIPs—young enough to raise eyebrows at first—but the way the room responded to her erased any doubt. Respect followed her like a shadow.
She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t vulgar.
And she certainly wasn’t desperate.
That alone made her dangerous.
Across the room, hidden behind his black mask, Inho watched her. He had been watching her since the very beginning.
Before the games even truly started, before the blood soaked into the sand, before the screams became routine—his eyes had found her. And they stayed there.
Something about her unsettled him.
She was seated among men twice her age, men who had bought their way into cruelty, men who laughed too loudly and drank too much. Yet somehow, she was the one in control.
When one of the VIPs leaned too close, voice thick with interest, y/n smiled—soft, polite—and redirected the conversation so smoothly it left him blinking, humiliated without realizing why.
Another tried a different approach. Compliments. Promises. A hand lingering a second too long.
Not flirtatious. Not inviting.
The kind of laugh that said you’re entertaining, nothing more.
Inho’s jaw tightened beneath the mask.
Every time one of them looked at her like that—like she was something to be consumed—his chest burned. An instinct older than logic rose in him, sharp and violent.
Take her away from their eyes.
He hated the way they watched her mouth when she spoke. Hated the way they leaned in when she laughed. Hated the way she remained untouched by their money, their power, their greed.
She didn’t drool over diamonds. She didn’t cling to status. She didn’t play the part they expected.
And that—that—made him obsessed.
“She’s different ” one of the VIPs muttered once, eyes following her as she stood to leave the table.
When another man offered her a drink, she declined with a smile that somehow felt like a closed door. When one suggested a private conversation, she deflected gracefully, turning the attention elsewhere without causing offense.
Each rejection was elegant. Each refusal, devastating.
Every flicker of jealousy pooled inside him, dark and bitter. He wanted to step between them, to remind them who truly owned this place, who decided who breathed and who didn’t.
Because to her, he was nothing more than a shadow.
A masked figure. A nameless authority.
And she never once looked at him the way she looked at them—not even out of politeness.
That hurt more than he cared to admit.
By the time the VIPs retired for the night, Inho’s restraint was gone.
He locked himself inside his private chamber, ripping the mask off and tossing it aside like it had personally offended him.
The room filled with smoke as he lit one cigarette after another, the sharp burn in his lungs doing nothing to calm the storm in his chest.
He poured himself a drink.
Then another. Then another.
Her laugh echoed in his mind. Her calm voice. The way she never once noticed him watching.
“She doesn’t even see me.” he muttered bitterly, fingers tightening around the glass.
He drank like he was trying to drown the jealousy. Smoked like he was trying to burn it out of himself.
Because no matter how much he drank, no matter how thick the smoke grew, one thought refused to leave him, she belongs here because he allowed it.
She is safe because he decided it.
And no one—no VIP, no amount of money, no filthy gaze—would touch her without his permission.
Even if she didn’t know it yet.
The VIP lounge glowed gold and red, laughter and violence mingling in the air as the next game unfolded on the massive screen.
Y/n sat comfortably on one of the plush couches, legs crossed, posture relaxed as if she weren’t watching people gamble their lives below. Her attention drifted between the screen and the conversations around her—until the weight of someone settling beside her shifted the cushions.
He leaned back casually, pretending interest in the game, gesturing toward the screen as if offering commentary.
“Risky move,” he said, voice smooth. “But I suppose danger makes things more exciting, doesn’t it?”
Y/n hummed, eyes still on the screen. “Sometimes. Other times it’s just unnecessary.”
He chuckled, clearly encouraged. Too encouraged.
Slowly, the commentary shifted. Compliments slipped in between observations. Cheesy pick-up lines masked as jokes, metaphors comparing her to strategy, to luck, to victory itself.
“You know,” he said with a grin, “if life were a game, I’d lose happily just to watch you win.”
Across the room, Inho sat rigid in his armchair.
The glass of whiskey rested heavy in his gloved hand, ice clinking softly as he tilted it—but he didn’t drink. His attention wasn’t on the screen. It was locked onto the couch. Onto the man leaning too close. Onto the way y/n’s smile flickered in response.
Every muscle in his body screamed at him to stand.
To walk over. To pull the man away. To end it.
He imagined it vividly—how easily he could do it. One order. One signal. The man would disappear before the next round began.
But he didn’t move. Because y/n was there.
Because fear didn’t belong anywhere near her.
So he swallowed it. The jealousy. The rage. Let it coil tighter in his chest, sharp and poisonous.
On the couch, the VIP leaned closer, voice lowering.
“If I were a betting man,” he murmured, “I’d say the real prize isn’t on the screen tonight.”
Y/n turned her head slightly, amused. “Careful,” she said lightly. “You might lose more than your money with lines like that.”
But Inho didn’t hear nothing.
Something inside him snapped.
The glass shattered in his grip with a sharp, violent crack.
Whiskey splashed onto the floor, shards scattering across the marble as red bloomed beneath the black glove—seeping through the fabric, dripping slowly onto the ground.
The room fell silent. All heads turned.
The VIP beside y/n stiffened, pulling back instinctively. Others murmured, some standing, some calling out for guards, voices overlapping in alarm.
Her brows knit together as her gaze landed on him—on the Frontman—standing amid broken glass and blood.
Confusion flickered across her face.
Behind the mask, Inho smiled.
A slow, dangerous smirk curved his lips—not because of the pain, not because of the attention but because she was finally looking at him.
“Enough.” he said calmly, his voice cutting through the chaos.
The room quieted instantly.
“I’m fine.” He flexed his hand once, blood trailing down his wrist. “I can take care of this myself.”
No one argued. They never did.
He turned, cloak swaying as he stepped away from the lounge, leaving the shattered glass behind. As the doors closed, his steps remained steady, controlled—until he reached the privacy of his chamber.
The moment the door shut, the calm cracked.
He yanked the glove off, blood dripping freely now, staining the floor as he stared at his injured hand with dark amusement.
“She flirted back.” he muttered, low and dangerous.
Not angry at her. Never at her.
Angry at the world for daring to think she was untouchable by him.
And somewhere deep inside, beneath the obsession and restraint, one thought echoed louder than the rest, now that she had seen him…there would be no going back.
The lounge felt louder after he left.
Y/n remained seated, fingers resting lightly against the arm of the couch, eyes unfocused as the game continued on the screen.
The laughter returned, forced and careless, but her mind stayed elsewhere—on the sharp crack of glass, the blood soaking through black gloves, the way the Frontman had stood there unfazed.
And the way he had looked… calm. Controlled. Dangerous.
Curiosity stirred. Then concern.
Before she could overthink it, she stood.
The guards barely questioned her as she moved through the corridors—being a VIP came with privileges, after all. She stopped in front of a heavy door, hesitating only a second before pushing it open.
Inside, the room was dim and quiet.
He sat on the leather couch, coat discarded, sleeves rolled up as he worked on his injured hand. The mask was gone.
Inho froze the moment the door closed behind her.
For a split second, something raw flashed across his face—surprise, tension—before he looked back down at the wound, jaw tightening.
“It’s fine,” y/n said gently, stepping closer. “I won’t tell.”
She removed her own mask and sat beside him, close enough that he could feel her warmth. Inho stiffened, eyes deliberately fixed on the bloodied gauze in his hand.
“Why are you here?” he asked, voice low, controlled. “You shouldn’t be.”
She reached for the first aid kit before he could stop her. “You’re hurt.”
“I said I can handle it myself.”
She took his hand carefully, fingers steady as she cleaned the wound. Inho inhaled sharply—not from pain, but from the intimacy of it. Her touch was calm, practiced, unafraid.
He tried not to look at her.
His eyes traced her face—the curve of her lashes, the focus in her expression, the quiet confidence she carried so effortlessly. Something in his chest twisted painfully.
“Stay away from them.” he said suddenly.
Y/n blinked, lifting her gaze to him. “What?”
Realizing what he’d said, Inho pulled his hand back slightly. “Nothing.” A pause. “Thank you. You can go now.”
Instead, she finished bandaging his hand, then looked at him fully. “No. You said something. What did you mean?”
He studied her for a moment, weighing something heavy in his mind. Then, calmly
“Stay away from the other VIPs.” he said. “Or you’ll regret what happens.”
Her brows furrowed. “Are you threatening me?” Her tone sharpened. “And who do you think you are to say that to me?”
Inho shook his head slowly. “It’s not a threat to you.” he replied evenly. “It’s a promise to them.”
She stared at him, unsettled. “And who are you, exactly?”
A faint smile touched his lips. “You’ll find out soon.”
He stood, reaching for his mask. As he turned to leave, her voice stopped him.
“Are you jealous of them?” she asked, irritation and curiosity mixing as she crossed her arms.
He glanced over his shoulder, eyes dark, amused—dangerously so.
“Jealousy,” he said softly, “is a very small word for what this is.”
He slipped the mask back on.
And then he was gone—leaving behind silence, tension, and a question y/n couldn’t shake no matter how hard she tried.
And yet his words refused to leave her.
Y/n told herself it meant nothing. A passing warning. An empty display of authority from a man hiding behind a mask. She was not someone who let threats—or strangers—crawl under her skin.
And still… every time a VIP leaned too close, every time a hand lingered on the back of her couch or a voice dipped into something too familiar, her body reacted before her mind could.
She would shift away, smooth and polite.
Laugh lightly, then stand.
Change the subject. Excuse herself. Create distance.
The men noticed. Confusion replaced confidence. Their advances dulled, unsuccessful in a way that left them frustrated and baffled.
Each retreat felt like surrender, and yet the memory of his voice—low, steady, certain—echoed in her head every time. It unsettled her how easily it guided her movements, how instinctively she obeyed without ever meaning to.
Across rooms. Behind mirrored glass. From shadowed balconies, Inho watched.
He watched her body language change. The way her shoulders stiffened when someone leaned in. The way her laughter became sharper, shorter, more distant.
A slow, dark satisfaction curled in his chest. She was doing exactly as he told her.
Not because she was weak.
Not because she was afraid.
But because something in her had listened.
He knew her well enough now to understand that she would never admit it—not to herself, and certainly not to him. She would call it coincidence. Courtesy. Boredom.
She was aware of him now.
Every step back she took from them felt like a step closer to him, whether she realized it or not. And that stubborn resistance of hers—so sharp, so proud—only made the slow surrender sweeter.
Inho leaned back in his chair, fingers tightening around his glass.
After all, she was already exactly where he wanted her to be even if she hadn’t dared to look at him again yet.
The VIP lounge was thick with low laughter, clinking glasses, and the distant screams echoing from the arena below.
Y/n sat composed on the velvet couch, legs crossed, posture flawless—every inch the calm, untouchable figure the VIPs had come to admire and obsess over.
Across from her, at a calculated distance, the Frontman sat in silence. Mask on. Back straight. Presence heavy.
Inho’s gaze never left her.
He watched the way her fingers tapped absently against her glass. The way her eyes flicked toward the screens but never quite focused. He knew that look now—restless, distracted. Thinking about him, even if she refused to admit it.
The moment shattered when a VIP dropped down beside her.
Inho’s jaw tightened beneath the mask.
The man leaned in with practiced familiarity, voice dripping with false concern.
“You’ve been quiet lately.” he said, eyes roaming shamelessly. “Not like you.”
Y/n smiled faintly and shook her head. “I’m fine.”
She felt it then—the weight of Inho’s stare.
She didn’t look at him, but she knew. Knew he was watching how close the man sat, how his knee brushed hers, how his voice dipped lower as he began to flirt.
She should have moved away.
She heard his warning in her head, clear as the day he spoke it.
She refused to let him think she obeyed him.
So she leaned in instead.
Her lips brushed near the VIP’s ear as she murmured something playful. She laughed softly at his ridiculous joke, fingers briefly touching his arm. The man lit up, encouraged—misreading everything.
Across the room, Inho’s hand curled into a fist.
The sound of his pulse roared louder than the games. Every laugh felt like a blade dragged slow across his chest. He imagined bullets. Red. The man’s head snapping back. Over and over.
He stayed seated. Barely.
She excused herself with a polite smile and left the lounge. The VIP hesitated only a moment before following her.
Inho rose immediately to follow them.
The hallway outside her quarters was quiet, dimly lit, heavy with anticipation.
By the time Inho reached her door, it was already open.
Inside, the VIP stood far too close, crowding her space. Y/n’s back was near the desk, her hands lifted—not inviting, defensive.
Her voice was firm now. “I said stop.”
The man scoffed. “You were flirting with me minutes ago.”
The door closed behind him with a soft, final click.
The VIP turned sharply. “Hey—this is personal. Get out.”
Inho didn’t even glance at him. His attention was locked on her.
Even through the mask, she felt it—sharp, consuming, furious.
“What did he do?” Inho asked quietly.
Y/n shook her head quickly. “Nothing. It’s fine. You can go.”
His voice dropped lower, darker. “Did he try to touch you?”
Before she could answer, the VIP laughed. “Yeah. I did. What are you gonna do about it?”
In one fluid motion, Inho drew his gun.
Y/n gasped. “No—wait—please, let’s talk about this—”
The VIP stumbled back, panic flashing across his face. “You can’t—this is insane—”
Inho spoke calmly, deadly calm.
Then he looked at the man. “You don’t touch what’s mine.”
The sound cracked through the room like thunder.
The VIP collapsed instantly, body hitting the floor with a dull, final thud.
Blood spread across the polished surface. Y/n screamed, hand flying to her mouth, knees threatening to give out.
Inho lowered the gun. He was breathing evenly.
He turned to her. She was shaking.
He crossed the room slowly, deliberately, until her back met the wall. One hand braced beside her head, trapping her in place without touching her.
His presence swallowed her whole.
“No one,” he said quietly, “will ever touch you.”
Her eyes were wide, terrified—and burning with something else she refused to name.
He leaned closer, his masked forehead nearly brushing hers.
“You wanted to call it jealousy?” His voice dipped into something intimate and unhinged. “Then yes.”
He tilted his head slightly, as if smiling beneath the mask. “I am jealous.”
His fingers brushed her wrist—not gently, not rough. Claiming.
The silence that followed was heavy, irrevocable.
Outside, the games continued.
Inside, something far more dangerous had already been decided.
